That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields Read Online Free PDF Page B

on a film. The premise and script of the series are really sharp, and I was flattered that he cast me, felt/feel a pressure to do well, etc. He was going to introduce my character later on, but at the last minute he decided to put me in the teaser. I knew nothing about my character, and when I went for my makeup test, the costume designer said the only thing she knew was I was supposed to be very sexy—the first time anyone has cast me in a role like this.
    I received the script for the teaser two days before shooting, and my lines didn’t give me any more information about who I was. On the day of the shoot, I thought surely the director would let me know more about the role, but he was very busy running around, so I didn’t dare ask him. Finally, I asked him in a sort of jokey way, “So, Thomas, ya know, any information about what I’m doing here?” He said, “Well, basically, let’s just say you’re the sex kitten of the show. Do all your lines with that in mind. Everything should have an erotic undertone to it.” Gulp.
    I was supposed to say the first line staring directly into the camera, which for me is always the most difficult thing to do. I like to work off of people and forget about myself. I saw my reflection and didn’t like the makeup job—bags under my eyes and a giant mosquito bite above my left eyebrow, which I immediately asked the makeup artist to cover up. She’d done what most makeup artists do: the minimal thing, making my tiny eyes disappear into my face. Eyes are everything; if the audience can’t see them, you have no power, and I felt ugly. I could tell the DP was having difficulty lighting my face to get that sex-kitten look and I had to feel confident regardless.
    To me, a sex kitten is a model, an Angelina Jolie. I felt short and squatty, my quads massive. One absurd Thanksgiving when I was nineteen, Jesse and Carl were invited to our house on Vashon Island. I hadn’t seen them or talked to them since I was about eleven. My dad thought it was a good idea to get the darling boys back in the house after an eight-year absence, for a family reunion. I thought it was especially wonderful to catch up with them since Jesse had just made his TV debut on Oprah Winfrey , claiming to be a recovered rapist. He took me aside and apologized for abusing me, then he and my parents went to bed, leaving me up with Carl, who’d brought along his chef’s knife collection, as youdo. He began to study my body with that look I was supposed to give the camera, telling me the reason brothers are always jealous of their sisters’ boyfriends is because they really just want to fuck their sisters. And he wanted to smell me and lick me and make me come. After all, I owed it to him, as my dad had abandoned him and he’d been living on the streets for years. I was sitting in a chair and he knelt down in front of me, grabbing my calves, massaging them and saying, “Ahhh. Too bad you got the Matthews legs.” The big, ugly, unfeminine legs is what he was saying: You’re lucky I even find you attractive. This is what I’m fighting in my head, trying to push away, as the camera rolls and the director calls, “Action!” Carl’s look is nasty, wrong, and I’m supposed to give the exact same look now, but I feel everyone can read what’s going through my head. I’m exposed—vulnerable, scared. I feel my face trembling.
    I managed to battle my way through the first close-ups and the director said, “We got it. I know it feels really mechanical, but you’ll see: it’s just going to be quick flashes, and with editing it’ll work just fine.” The whole thing has become a farce. They took a risk by giving me this role, and now they can see I’m definitely not a sex kitten. They’re definitely going to cut me out of the series. (I’m waiting for an email from the director saying he’s going