bed and started dancing around like maniacs.
Dana did a great Madonna imitation. She knew most of the routines pretty much by heart, except for the really complicated parts, and didn't seem embarrassed about running her hands up and down her body.
“Don't worry,” she told me. “I won't do the masturbation scene.”
The first time I saw
Truth or Dare
was in a movie theater, and I was totally hypnotized by Madonna. She was all I remembered: Madonna at her mother's grave, Madonna putting that bottle in her mouth, Madonna sad and lonely in a beautiful hotel room. It was like she gave off this exclusive brightness, blinding you to anyone and anything that wasn't her.
On the smaller screen she was less dazzling, more like a human being. I found myself paying closer attention to the other people in the movie—the dancers, the chubby makeup girl, the childhood friend who asks Madonna to be her baby's godmother. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a member of her family, howhard it would be to keep your spirits up, to wake up in the morning and actually believe you have a life worth living.
One of her brothers worked for her, and one had just gotten out of rehab. Her father seemed both awed and frightened by who she was and what she did in front of thousands of people. The father's wife didn't like Madonna very much. It must have been strange for her, marrying a completely ordinary man whose daughter turns out to be the most famous person in the world.
I thought about my own father, and how satisfying it would be to bring him and Mrs. Stiller to one of my concerts, then invite them back to my dressing room afterward so they could get a close-up glimpse of what a huge star I was. I also thought about Paul, how I'd spent so much time resenting him for being so handsome and clueless and successful, when he was really just another nobody. Madonna wouldn't have given him the time of day.
“I can't believe she does this with her dad in the audience,” Dana marveled. “It's so weird.”
Madonna was writhing on the bed, pretending to give herself an orgasm. My breath quickened as I watched, my blood beginning to hum. Dana and I were a couple of inches apart. We didn't look at each other or move a muscle. We just sat wide-eyed, staring straight ahead until it was over.
MR. M.
SHERRY SMILED at me as we pulled away from the curb.
“Well,” she said. “Here we are.”
“Yup,” I replied. “Here we are.”
The humid smell of her shampoo wafted through the car like a mysterious tropical breeze. I breathed deeply, taking as much of it as I could into my lungs.
“It's been a long time since I've been out with a man,” she told me.
“Don't worry. I'll behave myself.”
She laughed merrily.
“I know,” she said. “That's what worries me.”
TAMMY WARREN
THE TAPE WAS rewinding when Lance and Jason pushed open the door and asked if we wanted to play spin the bottle.
“No way,” said Dana. “There aren't enough of us.”
“Sure there are,” said Jason.
“Forget it,” said Dana. “I'm not kissing you.”
“You don't have to,” he assured her. “I can kiss Tammy. And both of you can kiss Lance.”
Lance snickered. “And you two can kiss each other.”
I had the weirdest feeling then, like it might really happen. Dana stood there, shaking her head.
“You guys are pathetic,” she said.
MR. M.
SHERRY BOUGHT a toaster. I behaved myself. Both of us seemed relieved as we slipped back into the car, as if we'd passed some sort of test.
“Thanks,” she told me. “I appreciate the company.”
“No problem.”
“You guys are great friends. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
If we'd made it home on that note, everything would have been okay. But fate conspired against us. We happened to catch a red light just outside the Benedict Motel, one of those hourly-rate places that exist solely to provide a haven for illicit sex. Nine o'clock on Thursday night and the parking lot
Dana did a great Madonna imitation. She knew most of the routines pretty much by heart, except for the really complicated parts, and didn't seem embarrassed about running her hands up and down her body.
“Don't worry,” she told me. “I won't do the masturbation scene.”
The first time I saw
Truth or Dare
was in a movie theater, and I was totally hypnotized by Madonna. She was all I remembered: Madonna at her mother's grave, Madonna putting that bottle in her mouth, Madonna sad and lonely in a beautiful hotel room. It was like she gave off this exclusive brightness, blinding you to anyone and anything that wasn't her.
On the smaller screen she was less dazzling, more like a human being. I found myself paying closer attention to the other people in the movie—the dancers, the chubby makeup girl, the childhood friend who asks Madonna to be her baby's godmother. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a member of her family, howhard it would be to keep your spirits up, to wake up in the morning and actually believe you have a life worth living.
One of her brothers worked for her, and one had just gotten out of rehab. Her father seemed both awed and frightened by who she was and what she did in front of thousands of people. The father's wife didn't like Madonna very much. It must have been strange for her, marrying a completely ordinary man whose daughter turns out to be the most famous person in the world.
I thought about my own father, and how satisfying it would be to bring him and Mrs. Stiller to one of my concerts, then invite them back to my dressing room afterward so they could get a close-up glimpse of what a huge star I was. I also thought about Paul, how I'd spent so much time resenting him for being so handsome and clueless and successful, when he was really just another nobody. Madonna wouldn't have given him the time of day.
“I can't believe she does this with her dad in the audience,” Dana marveled. “It's so weird.”
Madonna was writhing on the bed, pretending to give herself an orgasm. My breath quickened as I watched, my blood beginning to hum. Dana and I were a couple of inches apart. We didn't look at each other or move a muscle. We just sat wide-eyed, staring straight ahead until it was over.
MR. M.
SHERRY SMILED at me as we pulled away from the curb.
“Well,” she said. “Here we are.”
“Yup,” I replied. “Here we are.”
The humid smell of her shampoo wafted through the car like a mysterious tropical breeze. I breathed deeply, taking as much of it as I could into my lungs.
“It's been a long time since I've been out with a man,” she told me.
“Don't worry. I'll behave myself.”
She laughed merrily.
“I know,” she said. “That's what worries me.”
TAMMY WARREN
THE TAPE WAS rewinding when Lance and Jason pushed open the door and asked if we wanted to play spin the bottle.
“No way,” said Dana. “There aren't enough of us.”
“Sure there are,” said Jason.
“Forget it,” said Dana. “I'm not kissing you.”
“You don't have to,” he assured her. “I can kiss Tammy. And both of you can kiss Lance.”
Lance snickered. “And you two can kiss each other.”
I had the weirdest feeling then, like it might really happen. Dana stood there, shaking her head.
“You guys are pathetic,” she said.
MR. M.
SHERRY BOUGHT a toaster. I behaved myself. Both of us seemed relieved as we slipped back into the car, as if we'd passed some sort of test.
“Thanks,” she told me. “I appreciate the company.”
“No problem.”
“You guys are great friends. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
If we'd made it home on that note, everything would have been okay. But fate conspired against us. We happened to catch a red light just outside the Benedict Motel, one of those hourly-rate places that exist solely to provide a haven for illicit sex. Nine o'clock on Thursday night and the parking lot
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