That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields (8 page)

MATTHEW
: Only you.

LISA
: Matthew—

MATTHEW
: That's what happens, Lis; there's always one who wakes up first.

LISA
: I have to go.

It's a Friday night. Have been chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. Roc is at a sleepover and Ava is in bed.
I'm alone for a mere four hours if I'm lucky. William is out for the night, late, I hope, and I've been calculating how much I drink. One glass an hour. That seems sensible, right? It's been three hours now. I'm keeping a journal of my drinking, per suggestion of my therapist, to see if my drinking is only circumstantial or indeed pathological. On a good, manic day, it's circumstantial; on a down-spiraling day, it's pathological.

I'm wondering if William is going to come home tonight (most definitely drunk and having drunk three times as much as I have), look at the empty wine bottle (some of which he consumed) in the recycling bin, and give me grief tomorrow morning. He's like the controlling dad I never had, which really irritates me. Hence the adolescent rebellion on my part.

I'm a satellite hovering around the house, clicking photos of my three planets, mediating constant screaming matches between Roc and Ava, trying to keep William's temper down, placating him. (I read somewhere, probably through someone's Facebook link to the equivalent of a
Seventeen
magazine article, that one of the things you should do to keep a relationship alive is buy things at the grocery store they really like—it's the little things—so I try to keep his skim milk stocked, buy him peanuts for his hunger mood swings, though not
always as he has high cholesterol, have a supply of those little anchovy-marinated pickles. He doesn't notice the flow of milk but gave me a little knowing smile the other day about the pickles. Endearingly tender all of this, isn't it?) And then I'm shushing the kids, “William's working, William's hungry and moody, William can't be distracted…” Eggshells eggshells eggshells—all this tiptoeing around is torturously familiar. William has the back of the house and the kids have their half. My space is the hallway, where I pace back and forth. Over the last few years I've been drinking much more heavily than I ever have in my life. Very, very healthy. Why is William in a mood when I'm buying him his pickles and keeping myself and the kids out of his way? I'm determined to figure out what I can do to alleviate his pain. I'm wired to seek out and love, to my own detriment, the damaged, the wounded, the ones with very little if any empathy. Oh god, I was just about to sneak out for the last cigarette of the night, but Ava's sneezing now. A wander down the hall is imminent. Alone time is over.

The problem with being in a monogamous relationship, especially once you've entered middle age, is that not only
will you not be with anyone new but you won't be new with anyone, either. I don't just mean new to the person that you would theoretically be with; I mean new to yourself. Being with a new person can be an exploration of yourself; it makes you new to you. It seems to me one of the difficulties with marriage—and one of the reasons I'm not sure I want to ever get married again, to William or anyone else—is the way couples stop talking to each other the way they once did. Either because you don't want to enter into a certain conversation or because it's too much effort, so you end up being a couple that talks, but not really about anything too close to the bone, and all you get is a kind of distance. It's like being in a long-distance relationship, in which you're forging a separate life (maybe even a bit of a separate identity), but without the physical distance. That's why I think some marriages can make more sense after an infidelity, because that emotional shock acts as a kind of circuit breaker. Loss and fear of loss are put back into the equation. In a sense, the marriage becomes new again because it's suddenly unknowable.

If a wife avoids speaking honestly with her husband about her doubts, desires, etc., is it because she doesn't want him to hear what she has to say, or she doesn't want to hear what he may have to say? And why avoid that conversation? I mean, what else are you avoiding
if you're avoiding that conversation? The thing is, marriage—any relationship—is just really complicated, for men and for women, and everyone seems to pay lip service to that reality without actually believing it. Or something.

What do I know? What's your take?

Hello.

Hi.

(Hesitant, sexy, put-on voice) I put these on for you.

(Formal and timid) Take those panties off.

Why don't you take them off?

At age five I was obsessed with seeing other girls' genitals. I still am. Mine are all wrong and damaged. I remember noting the differences in labia, “fat ones” and “skinny ones.” Mine were skinny. Fat were better. They were more childlike and innocent.

Around the time my mother taught me how babies were made, I was given a worksheet in my kindergarten class in which we had to number several series of three pictures: an egg, a chick, and a hen; then a seed, a little sprout, and a tree. Etc. Upon completing the worksheet,
we were to stand on the carpet. Everyone finished the exercise in thirty seconds—even the dumb kid, John, with the big bald head. They were all high-fiving him and laughing about how it was the easiest exercise ever. I sat there, sweating, and finally just handed in the paper blank. The teacher yelled at me to get back to my table and finish the exercise. All heads turned; mortified, I randomly numbered all of the pictures without knowing any answers and never spoke again in class.

Later that day, I accidentally walked into the bathroom while the dumb kid, John, was pooping on the toilet. He looked at me as if I were an aggressor, as if I'd come in there to check out his willy, which I hadn't. I swear I hadn't. I wanted to die. Throughout my university studies, I never spoke, unless forced to; I was the dumb kid.

I don't feel the same need my mother did to know absolutely everything about what happened every moment the kids were away. Most of the time I ask briefly how their day went and let them tell me, or not. They often tell me they just don't feel like talking about it.

Ava seems overly concerned about appearing sexy, pointing out girls in her class who “are”—at eight—and
she won't wear skirts unless they're green or blue. Anything pink or purple she feels draws attention to her. It's like she's already aware of female objectification. Did I somehow pass that fear of being looked at down to her without even knowing it? At the same time, when we were on the plane coming back from the States, she brushed my hair very carefully, tucked one side behind my ear, tilted my head at a specific angle, and then said, “Now, Mommy, stay like that, and let aaaaall the boys
stare
at you.” She seemed to take pleasure in thinking the boys would stare at me. Lately, she studies the men on the street studying me and imitates the way they stare me up and down, then asks me if I noticed what they did. She's simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by this female-hunting male. Ava and I went together to a frozen-yogurt place, and after we sat there in silence for a while, I asked her, “What is this feeling you have that dressing in a feminine way somehow makes you sexy?” She said, “I just don't like it… I don't know… Well, I have a secret, but I'll never be able to tell you.” Immediately, alarms went off and I thought,
Okay, that's it—here we go—she's been abused; I've been waiting for her to tell me and now I'm going to get her to tell me what happened.
I did what my mother did with me: told her she could talk about anything with me, I'd never judge
her or love her any differently, and perhaps I could help her/understand her better if she shared what she felt was such a secret. Maybe she'd actually enjoy sharing her secret (intimacy junkie intimacy junkie). Finally she told me she wanted to be wild: to look dirty and have torn, stained clothes, messy hair (later that evening she identified the exact sublime look in
Pirates of the Caribbean
). She also said she'd like to be an orphan but felt bad about wanting that because she still wants me to be her mommy. She had all these stories about orphan kids in her head and wanted to make a movie with all her friends—not write it, just make it. (Lately, she's been writing stories with related themes). So
wild
was the answer. Not abuse. My projection.

(Remember, David, we agreed we'd redact what I went on to say here about Ava—which pains me, as it completes the female family-cycle puzzle. As her mother, though, I have to protect her. It's not my story to tell; it's hers.)

She speaks openly about how the boys at her school like her and want her to be their girlfriend, and is extremely affectionate. Meanwhile, Roc, when there's a movie on and there's an embrace, or a loving glance between two people (not even a kiss), he hides under the pillow as if someone were being violently murdered. He doesn't want to be kissed or kiss anyone.

It wasn't until very recently that Ava even wanted to have girlfriends. She wanted to play only with boys, impress them, be one of them. She told me she doesn't want to grow breasts, doesn't want her period, and doesn't want to have a baby, because the idea of giving birth is terrifying. She tended to go for all the rough boys in her class. One second, they were friendly; and the next, saying cruel things to her, hitting her, and daily she'd be in tears. Walking to school one morning when she was seven, she asked me, “Mommy, how do you find the person you are going to marry? What happens if you fall in love with someone and they're mean to you all the time?” I told her this time was for practicing, to be able to identify those people who treated you that way so you wouldn't make that mistake when you were older; soon, her radar would be so strong she'd see those hurtful ones immediately and wouldn't even want to be friends with those types of people. That seems to have worked, as she's no longer friends with the bullies and has a group of lovely little girls as friends.

She tells me she wants so badly to be loved by Roc; she loves him so much and he doesn't love her. She's constantly waiting for the opportunity to catch him by surprise and give him a cuddle, because he never wants to cuddle her. She's jealous when he hugs me. This seems to be the pattern she was creating with all the bully boys:
trying desperately to get them to love her, even though they rejected her.

Shrink to a guy I know: “Tell me what images you masturbate to, and I'll tell you who you are.”

The look in the eyes when a person comes is that place between life and death. A long, momentary surrender to a soul-trapping ghost—taking the person away, sucking them into a pleasure vacuum, echoing crows cawing. In Spanish they say,
Me voy, me voy
. “I'm going, I'm going.” Which seems more accurate than “I'm coming, I'm coming.” No you're not. You're leaving. Leaving together. Being able to make someone go to that place of surrender feels powerful to me. I feel bad for thinking that.

With women, I was viewed mainly as a femme. In my one serious lesbian relationship—with Jessica (and I'm going to have to pull a veil over that as well;
lo siento
…)—there were no roles per se; each of us was equally dominant and submissive. Initially, I've been quite aggressive in all of my sexual relationships with men and women. I always
start off dominating, taking control; then, if the relationship continues, that role disappears and I become the submissive. My sense of humor goes, too. I'm unable to be a clown around people I'm in love with—don't want to turn them off—but a huge part of me is a clown, which I wish I had shown more of to you in our exchanges.

The creator of the TV-series-in-the-making (for which I did that teaser) is actually meeting with Lionsgate, which means they'll surely recast it. I'll send you the link so you can check out how comfortable I was (wasn't) in the “making of” video about being the sex kitten. The edit is classic. They cut me off just as I clown-face apologize for being cast as what should be sexy.

Lindsay Lohan's circular self-destruction: She really needs to be working—that's when she feels the best—but she has to fuck it up by staying out till 5 a.m. with Lady Gaga and then have her doctor come by and say she has an ear infection and will be out for the day. I don't have her resources, I can't cover up the way she does (although it's completely transparent), but I've also gone into work in abominable states the next morning, out of pride:
You did it; you deal with it.
Being a mother has definitely reined me in. (This last line is Good Samantha, hoping you don't think I'm LL.) I'm sure if I had her money, I'd do everything she does.

I suddenly see myself as a ridiculous, attention-seeking, unstable alcoholic. Surely everyone can label me. They do: “Trouble.” Would I prefer “Head-together Sam”?
She's controlled. She's moderate. She's even-keeled. She's nice, but not someone you'd call to have a good time.
I don't know.

I remember being about eight or so—in the car on the way to church—and having a screaming meltdown. I was really angry about something (probably my mother's embarrassing, drunken behavior the night before) and sobbing. My dad screeched the car to a halt and shouted, “That's enough! You're going to stop crying, goddamnit! And when we get out of the car, you're going to put a smile on your face!” Moments later, I got out of the car and posed outside the church for a family photo with a smile on my face, as though nothing had happened. We were perfect and happy.