That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields by David Shields, Samantha Matthews Page B
Authors: David Shields, Samantha Matthews
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and had already lived in France for a year or two, traveled around, posed naked for pictures (which she showed me), and brought back this French photographer, François, as her husband. She was nineteen. He was hugeâstocky and tallâand had a shaved head except for one tiny purple ponytail on top. They were so cool. She used to stare at me in this adoringly innocent way, loved my shiny red lips, told me I looked like a â70s model. To this day, I thank her.
One night, she and another boyfriend (François had gone back to France) and I were sitting around on her bed. This boyfriend was looking at the differences between our bodies as if he were about to draw us both, like the beginning of an adult movie. I was a bit on theRubensesque side at that time and she was a waif. He liked my curves, liked her boyish body, and touched our legs simultaneously, stroking them. Because we were all âartistsâ and young, this was okay in that moment.
It wasnât okay a second later when she left to use the bathroom; he took a nosedive into my neck and I shoved him off. I actually had defenses: I had an instinct that kicked in and said no instead of freezing and conceding. The ânormalâ thing would have been to do what he wanted, to make him feel all the things he wasnât: attractive, desired, sexy. It would be normal to say âyesâ because ânoâ could turn to violence. My half sister Rebecca had trained me how to respond to an âaggressiveâ male. When she was raped by a guy, she told him how much she loved what he was doing to her, saying how good it felt. Sheâd practiced that technique over and over with Carl until one day she couldnât handle it anymore, moved out, and got her own place at sixteen. I guess it didnât work out so well, but, anyway, the fight is what they want. Itâs the no . Apparently, this reverse psychology works like a charm when trying to get a rapist to stop raping you.
One night, Medea came to a party at my house. We sat on my roof outside the kitchen, smoking cigarettes, and she told me, âI got dressed up for you.â I wasbeautiful in those words. Everything she said seemed like it came out of a six-year-oldâs mouth. You know how you laugh when little kids say something âgrownupâ? Thatâs how I felt every time she spoke. She didnât understand why people laughed at her. Nor do six-year-olds. We talked about how neither of us had ever had sex with a woman, giggled, and made out next to the stereo system. We lost our girl virginities together. I didnât once feel like saying no that night. There was no baddy in the room. No threat. No danger. Her pussy wasnât âperfectâ (whatever that means), and that imperfection became even more perfect for me. She didnât know it wasnât, or maybe thought it was, or simply didnât care. That was liberating for me. I came and didnât tell her. I loved every minute of it and loved myself and my sex a little more after that.
We saw each other the next Monday or Tuesday, whatever day it was in our Women in Theater class. I felt a twinge of jealousy, thinking someone else could have her and she might turn her adoration away from me, but she was mine.
Iâm comfortable when I know Iâm doing what makes the other person happy. I like to be directed; I used to get offon that (not in a sexual way) with directors. Maybe it was that if I could do exactly what they imagined, it gave me power. I could see a look in their eyesâa recognition that Iâd understood exactly what they were saying; there was a look almost of disbelief that I could get it so quickly, which was a sort of intimacy in itself. They felt understood, and I was helping them externalize/realize their ideas. Perfect intimacy-junkie scenario, really.
I like that I left a dinner party to talk more into my phoneâ¦
My half sisters, Rebecca and Louise, were my
One night, she and another boyfriend (François had gone back to France) and I were sitting around on her bed. This boyfriend was looking at the differences between our bodies as if he were about to draw us both, like the beginning of an adult movie. I was a bit on theRubensesque side at that time and she was a waif. He liked my curves, liked her boyish body, and touched our legs simultaneously, stroking them. Because we were all âartistsâ and young, this was okay in that moment.
It wasnât okay a second later when she left to use the bathroom; he took a nosedive into my neck and I shoved him off. I actually had defenses: I had an instinct that kicked in and said no instead of freezing and conceding. The ânormalâ thing would have been to do what he wanted, to make him feel all the things he wasnât: attractive, desired, sexy. It would be normal to say âyesâ because ânoâ could turn to violence. My half sister Rebecca had trained me how to respond to an âaggressiveâ male. When she was raped by a guy, she told him how much she loved what he was doing to her, saying how good it felt. Sheâd practiced that technique over and over with Carl until one day she couldnât handle it anymore, moved out, and got her own place at sixteen. I guess it didnât work out so well, but, anyway, the fight is what they want. Itâs the no . Apparently, this reverse psychology works like a charm when trying to get a rapist to stop raping you.
One night, Medea came to a party at my house. We sat on my roof outside the kitchen, smoking cigarettes, and she told me, âI got dressed up for you.â I wasbeautiful in those words. Everything she said seemed like it came out of a six-year-oldâs mouth. You know how you laugh when little kids say something âgrownupâ? Thatâs how I felt every time she spoke. She didnât understand why people laughed at her. Nor do six-year-olds. We talked about how neither of us had ever had sex with a woman, giggled, and made out next to the stereo system. We lost our girl virginities together. I didnât once feel like saying no that night. There was no baddy in the room. No threat. No danger. Her pussy wasnât âperfectâ (whatever that means), and that imperfection became even more perfect for me. She didnât know it wasnât, or maybe thought it was, or simply didnât care. That was liberating for me. I came and didnât tell her. I loved every minute of it and loved myself and my sex a little more after that.
We saw each other the next Monday or Tuesday, whatever day it was in our Women in Theater class. I felt a twinge of jealousy, thinking someone else could have her and she might turn her adoration away from me, but she was mine.
Iâm comfortable when I know Iâm doing what makes the other person happy. I like to be directed; I used to get offon that (not in a sexual way) with directors. Maybe it was that if I could do exactly what they imagined, it gave me power. I could see a look in their eyesâa recognition that Iâd understood exactly what they were saying; there was a look almost of disbelief that I could get it so quickly, which was a sort of intimacy in itself. They felt understood, and I was helping them externalize/realize their ideas. Perfect intimacy-junkie scenario, really.
I like that I left a dinner party to talk more into my phoneâ¦
My half sisters, Rebecca and Louise, were my
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