Why I Grabbed Taylor's Ass

Why I Grabbed Taylor’s Ass

               I was a moderately successful DJ.  A truly gorgeous pop singer was scheduled to appear on my weekend radio show for an interview and an acoustic performance.  We wanted to portray, as a radio station, a sense of intimacy to our viewers.  The men (and women) upstairs wanted us to facilitate a process by which we would allow our audience to get to know the artist through her responses, her voice and words.  She was as advertised: glamorous, thoughtful.  Not quite the voice of a generation, but a truly magnificent woman.

               She was incredibly simple-minded, however.  I recall listening to her just go on and on about what it means to be a young woman in modern society.  I remember wondering what it must be like to be prettier, more established, richer, and more successful than most other women in the world.  I wondered if it was possible for her to have any perspective at all on what it was like to be the average woman in Western society.  That question struck me especially hard while she played her horrible teeny-bopper anthems.

               “What a cunt,” I almost said right into the microphone after she finished her first song.  Of course I pussed out and composed myself.  Company policy and all.  I’m a professional.  I can contain my inner dialogue.  I’m a radio host.  This is what I do for a living.  I’m a moderately successful DJ!  Or was - before her, before the incident.  I said nothing while other people in the studio including her band and her manager started clapping.

               Finally, I spoke into the microphone, “That was incredible.  Truly fantastic.”

               “Thank you,” she said in a high, soft timbre.

               “No, Ma’am,” I said and laughed.  “Thank you.  This has been such a pleasure.”

               “Oh, yes,” she said and smiled.  She was textbook perfect in terms of her level of gorgeous.  She was the girl all young American girls wanted to look like.  That smile was really something.

               “Please,” I said, begged, “please play us another song.”

               “Of course,” she said.  Her voice was almost a whisper.  It made me wonder if she was high on coke or something.  Then I thought maybe I was just projecting.

               The band interrupted my critical psychological examination of my inner-self and began to play a slow ballad.  I really could use a bump, but I was being paid to stay put, right there in my chair.  I thought about spinning around in it.  I tapped my foot.  It was out of time to the music and I quit tapping upon realizing that.  The music was just so slow.  She started to sing.

It wasn’t my paycheck that was the true issue, however.  I could give a shit about losing a couple minutes of pay.  But of course for such an important interview, I might have been suspended (probably with pay, but still!  It would have come with a warning and you only get one or two of those in radio if you’re lucky) had I just up and booked it for the men’s restroom.  There would be a few bumps of coke in the bathroom, hopefully with a couple of hot secretaries after the interview.  I had to be patient.  I stayed put.

               The singing was okay.  The lyrics were horrible, but that’s par for the course in pop music.  She really was a beautiful woman.  Nobody could take that away from her.  The way she would sometimes smile to herself, and then look around, almost out into the world with wonder and amazement - she was a true joy.  There’s no such thing as the fountain of youth, but there is that dream of extended adolescence we all are so bitter about not having enough of.  It’s what we want for our kids.  And we want our kids to marry other people’s kids who are in just as privileged of a situation.  In modern society, I thought, my guest was the definition of female perfection, the top of the ladder in terms of the right combination of wealth, status and youth.  Maybe she didn’t have much talent – that was debatable, but she had enough of everything to get by as being what society, corrupt as it might be, would define as the pinnacle of excellence.  It didn’t matter whether she was musically talented or not she was so successful.  What a paradox, what a marvel.  She was so very beautiful in her simple elegance.

               She was the kind of girl who in one context, in one station in life, could be a National Treasure of sorts.  And in another station in life, for example: had she been uglier, she may have just been an unfortunate woman lost in the scuffle: just another unmemorable person.

               The second song ended.  The guitarist, a total dipshit, recommended she sing a third song.  I just stared at him with my mouth hanging open.  Part of me wanted to withhold anger from my glare and I wasn’t sure how much of my feelings came through in the look.  He just looked back at me with a good-natured expression.  Fucking chimp knew like six chords.

               Her voice cracked during the third song.  I tapped my index finger on my laptop keyboard.  Her manager clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm when it ended.  I guess he wanted to cover up the lackluster performance.  Who knows?  Maybe I was the only one in the room who thought the last song had mediocre execution.  I shook my head involuntarily while the manager clapped.  I needed a bump really, really bad.

               The director cut to commercial – the show was ending.  Everyone was all smiles.  The girl gave me a warm gaze.  I took a sip of water.  I was coming down hard.  I needed a bump.  The thought of a bump made me think about what this girl’s ass might look like.  But not once throughout the day, the pre-interview introductions, never did I ever get a chance to look.  I was just never behind her.

               I waited for everyone to decompress, say a few words, that sort of thing.  Finally, when I could get a word in edge wise, I hurried everyone out of the broadcasting booth and into the hallway.  Everyone started to shake hands.  The talking continued.

               “Let’s get that group photo,” I suggested.  I hoped no one noticed me trying to ease the process along.  All I could think about was porcelain.  Porcelain and powder.

               “Of course!” the manager said.

               Some intern produced a camera and everyone huddled together.  Of course with the band and the manager and her family members and the whole crew, we all struggled to fit in the frame.  And as we struggled to compress ourselves into a dense little ball, I suddenly found myself directly behind the girl.  There it was – her ass.  I felt a strange mix of emotions.  Probably because I was surprised at how unmoved I was by it, how unremarkable her butt was.  This girl had nothing going on.

               Jesus, I thought.  If a girl like this can climb to the top of the ladder of American capitalism, the music industry, then what kind of world am I living in?

               She shifted her body a little, and her butt moved toward me an inch of so.  It wasn’t her butt, though.  It was the rigid, wooden board that was her flat backside.  I felt like I was on a pirate ship, like I was being told to walk the plank.  I didn’t know how much more I could stand.

               Jesus, I thought to myself again.  If she so much as backed into me, she could accuse me of sexual assault.

               I felt a wave of heat wash over me.  I was so tired.  Goddamn this stupid, trashy, little pop icon.  I hated her.  I hated her non-existent butt.  How could I be accused of sexual assault for grabbing something that doesn’t exist?

               I watched as my hand tried to grab her butt.  I squeezed but nothing was there.  I tried to feel it, but she was all bone and no fun.

               Later, after they ruined my career, I had a lot of time to sit around and wonder if it was worth it.  Eventually I decided that no, overall it wasn’t.  But from a comedic standpoint, you have to admit, it’s kind of funny to look back at and laugh about.  I was fired for trying to squeeze the girl’s ass, not actually grabbing it.  It’s like when people pray to God.  They’re not praying to God, they’re talking to themselves.  I didn’t grab the girl’s ass.  She doesn’t have one.