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.
