Casting Call (A Metaphor)

**WARNING: This post is not what you're used to. Read on and bear with the blacktress, or wait for the next post, which will hopefully be funny. **

So, I've been alluding to a certain young gentleman in a few of my October and September posts. And, as is usual for the blacktress -- and, as the hit song goes -- another one bites the dust.

I take these things harder than one probably should. I agonize in ways that, although can be HI-larious (where's my book deal?!), they can also drive me cray. And, I think I've finally figured out why I freak out. This information is nothing new, but as it goes with Sojo, I need to write out the TRUTH for it to set me free.

I am great on first dates. First dates are, for me, similar to an audition. I walk in effortlessly, taking a shot in the dark, and that energy and devil-may-care attitude is appealing. I play with my lines, I swallow my direction whole and give it back, because...well, why not? This person doesn't know what I've got, has nothing to compare my behavior to, and we're just gonna have fun for a couple minutes. Sometimes it doesn't stick, and I don't get the part. But that's usually okay, because I never knew more than those 3 or 4 pages of dialogue I had to audition with.

But then there are the callbacks. The second, third, fourth--and, if i'm lucky, fifth--dates, where I'm getting to know more about what I'm up against. Where I start to imagine myself in the role, see the possibilities, and get excited.

And I become terrified. The stakes are 40 stories high because I actually have a shot. It means he sees something in me that is better than the majority. So the sweat begins. The pacing, the worrying, the babbling. My lines no longer flow, because I've got one eye on the director, checking his response before I continue. Statements previously made with ease now end in question marks.

"I really like Ani Difranco? [Unless that intimidates you, in which case, I won't bring up music at all, and deflect to your interests.]" Things I know in my heart to be true, I become afraid to say, because in the past, it's been the "wrong direction for that character."

Don't get me wrong. My sense of self is strong. I know who I am, and sometimes I'm a hot-ass R. Kelly-style mess, and other times I'm RuPaul fabulous. I cannot change my core, and I don't aim to when I put myself out there. I just see myself as malleable, able to win over all sorts of people--depending on the order in which I choose to show you my range.

Because, when you're in a callback--when you're really being considered--the difference between scoring the role and not getting a phone call comes down to the minutiae. It's not that you don't fit--it's that you don't slide in effortlessly.

It could come down to your height. Or the way the camera captures you. Or the tiniest tick or gesture that, when magnified, suddenly becomes grating. Or it could be the way you turn a phrase that reminds the director of someone they hated, and now, no matter what, there's that association. Or it could simply be the color of your hair. And, although you could dye it (you'd still be yourself, it'd still be your skill), they don't really need you to when the girl two seats down is a natural. And although you've got the goods, they don't quite see you in their big picture.

Remember that this is a metaphor--forming relationships isn't this simple, and the status differences inherent in a director-desperate actor relationship are not always the way the get-to-know-you phase is constructed. And, as most people know, half the battle of "getting to production" is the deep desire to create something in the first place. It's the desire to put up with the difficulties.

So I know these are broad stream-of-consciousness strokes that don't get at the details. But I find the end emotion is similar because, when you consciously date, you present yourself. You package yourself in the most attractive way. You are a product, and you're trying to prove that product's worth. The frustration for both actors and lovers comes from knowing that you've got the goods, that you are good, and yet you don't have your shot yet. So do you keep on getting up and out there, knowing that all you can do is your best? How do you keep bringing your best stuff when you know that most times your best won't be good enough?

Or do you just stay in the bubble of acting classes and rehearsals, talking it out with friends and doing exercises that strengthen both your skills and your resolve?

I don't know.

So, I guess I don't really have a point. Just a different kind of post.

If You Like Twilight, You'll Love DUSK

Since I’ve given up on men, I’ve started reading the Twilight books to get my fix of the good stuff-- I am all about the sexual tension and abstinence message. In fact, Twilight has inspired me to write a book of my own. I want to share a draft of the first chapter with you now, if you don't mind.

Here’s a bit of a backstory: It’s about a girl—stay with me—and she’s in love with this boy, but he’s not a boy, he’s a vampire. And he’s actually obsessed with the scent of her blood, and it drives him into a sexual frenzy, but he can’t have it or she’ll die. It’s a huge metaphor for blue balls. This is called…

DUSK

Beaut walked into her house in Spoons, Alaska, and the slamming of the door behind her was almost too much too bear. Although Gregory had just dropped her off 10 minutes ago, it felt like an eternity had already gone by.

Eternity.

That’s all Beaut was asking for. She couldn’t understand why Gregory wouldn’t just bone bite her just once, so she could become like him.

“Beaut, you okay?” Beaut realized she had been standing in front of the door with her eyes closed, lightly swaying, and almost touching her budding breasts. Her father Matt’s gruff, depression-tinged voice snapped her out of her thoughts of Gregory. Matt was a security guard at the local iHop, but everyone in the town came to enforce the law. At the moment he was holding a machete, which he’d been sharpening in the garage before he heard Beaut come in.

“Yeah, Dad, sorry.” She walked into the kitchen and set her bag on the table, turning immediately to the refrigerator. Hopefully he couldn’t see her bright red face.

Her red face.

Embarrassment was the only time Beaut’s pale skin got any color. Well, unless she was with Gregory. One look into his liquid topaz eyes and her face instantly flushed like a toilet—a toilet full of emotion. All of her lips swelled, and she wanted nothing more than to be close to him. But she knew her greatest desire—and Gregory’s, too—could be the very end of them.

You see, Gregory was a vampire. A 347-year-old vampire who didn’t look a day over 18. In fact, he was gorgeous in every sense of the word. His smooth Caucasian skin was colder than the Alaskan winter, but when he stepped into the sunlight, he shone like an Atlantic City stripper dipped in body glitter. Beaut could recall the first day she met Gregory. They were sitting in biology, studying human reproduction, and he refused to look at her. He was shaking slightly, and Beaut thought that maybe the diagrams had him aroused. She tried to ignore it, and smiled, but he just looked away. When class ended, he stormed out—but she could still see the protrusion through his denim cutoffs.

Just then, the phone rang, calling Beaut back to reality. She sprang up to answer it, hoping it was Gregory.

“Hello?” she panted desperately, like a crack addict hoping her dealer had the goods….of sex.

“Hey, Beaut, what’s up?” It was Noah, Beaut’s friend who lived in the trailer park a few miles down. Noah was Beaut’s only friend, and her heart welled up when she heard his voice. She could almost feel his burning hot satiny copper skin and his liquid onyx eyes on her as he spoke.

She walked into the living room, trying to avoid her dad’s gaze. It made him too happy when he knew Noah and Beaut were hanging out, and Beaut couldn’t explain why it was never going to happen.

You see, Noah was a werewolf. And there existed a decades-old feud between the werewolves and vampires—you know, like in the movie “Underworld.” Although it was scary, to her he was the same old tall, lanky, russet-colored Noah, and she loved him.

But not as much as she loved Gregory. Of this she was certain. After their chat Beaut got to work making dinner for her father, who was now sitting on a bearskin rug in the living room, wearing a loincloth. As she gutted the fish he’d caught the day before, the soft, wet insides of the fish mimicked her own softness and wetness, and her thoughts floated again to Gregory.

It was almost 6pm, and she knew Gregory would come to her room after she went to bed. Until then, she would have to keep her mind occupied with dinner, homework, and re-caulking the windows.

Beaut went to bed a little after 10. She was tired, but unable to close her eyes. She changed into the pink nightie she’d purchased at Victoria’s Secret a few weeks before, but hid under the covers. She wanted to tempt Gregory, but not too much. She closed her eyes and found herself drifting off to dreamland despite herself.

That night Beaut dreamed she was in the forest with Gregory. They’d gotten there quickly, her riding on his back. As they came to a clearing he slowed and lowered her to the ground. As she climbed down, they both noticed a wet spot on his back, where her vagina legs had been wrapped around him.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

Gregory grinned, the crooked smile Beaut loved. The fire from his liquid topaz eyes smoldered, lighting the embers that, before him, had died in the campfire of her heart. Even though she knew it would be trouble, she couldn’t help but want s’more.

“It’s okay,” he said.

He put his arms around her waist, and Beaut felt a giant throbbing surge of emotions. In one swift, confident movement, he lowered her to the ground and before she could catch her breath, her top was off, revealing her My Little Pony bra.

Gregory lowered his face to her neck, and Beaut instinctively lifted her hips. She could feel his breath on her neck as he took in her scent. He continued to move southward, and Beaut didn’t stop him. He reached her crotchal region love garden, and suddenly, Gregory turned angry. He looked up at her, his eyes turning red with fury.

“Beaut, why didn’t you tell me?!” He jumped up and walked away.

“I’m…I’m sorry…I forgot. I thought I was just spotting.”

Beaut had forgotten she had her period, and didn’t warn Gregory. It was always hard for him to be around her during her time of the month. As if the cramps, bloating, and fatigue in those 5 days weren’t enough for Beaut to deal with, she had to be separated from the only thing that mattered to her.

“Gregory, come back!!” Beaut yelled as she scrambled to get dressed. She couldn’t see him anywhere. She began to panic, and being the helpless twit she was, sat and sobbed, praying that Gregory would return.

Just then, Beaut woke up to feel an icy hand on her neck.

“Beaut, wake up,” Gregory said softly. She was shaking in bed, and he was worried. She opened her eyes slowly, making sure she was no longer dreaming. She smiled weakly. “Are you okay?” Gregory asked, concerned. Beaut sighed.

“I can’t even have all of you in my dreams,” Beaut answered, sitting upright.

Gregory saw her pink nightie and looked away, shyly. Beaut also became sheepish.

“You know if there was any way, I would—“ Gregory began.

“There is a way!” Beaut interrupted him.

“I can’t do that to you,” Gregory’s voice, which normally sounded like hot butter melting on a stack of iHop pancakes, became hard. “I want you to live. To have a soul. To not look like you’re going to a boy band concert every time you step out into the sunlight.”

Just then, Beaut kissed him, hoping her lips could change his mind.

They couldn’t.

So that's what happening folks. What do you think? It's currently slated for a Winter 2009 release.

AUTHOR'S NOTE, 10/19/09: Here's chapter 2!