Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Back when my hair was a natural blond, I changed my name from Esther; something my mother (God rest her soul) never forgave. The studios insisted I use something more glamorous, more Hollywood. Whatever that means.
It wasn’t long before my new name was on everyone’s lips. Not just whispered with reverence, as reported in the society columns, but chanted in a breathy staccato while my knees were nudged apart.
Eyes, nose, chin, boobs. All upgraded to appease the masses. And the knee nudgers. Even under close scrutiny—and people get close, let me tell you—you can’t see the scars. My plastic surgeon is a god.
It was all worth it. Even with all the bullshit, it was worth it. I have three Oscars. What do I care if I had to fuck a few producers to get the right part? Between you and me, that was my best acting.
…god you feel good… harder…yeah, just like that…yes! you’re gonna make me…
I should have got a fucking Oscar for that.