Last week, I performed at an event at my college called Femme (Think The Vagina Monologues, only without the problematic identity issues and written and performed by students). Everyone killed it; the monologues covered an impressive range of topics and tones and the performers spoke with confidence and poise. I was so proud to share the stage with the other performers and to not have ruined it for everyone by getting up there and mumbling through my piece (For what it’s worth, I’ve been told I did well, and am eternally grateful for the confidence boost).
For those of you that missed it, I wish I could use this blog to transport you to the performance so you could get the full effect, or at least reprint all of the monologues. Barring time-travel and copyright permission, I’ll have to settle with sharing a transcript of my monologue. Like most of the world’s best and worst literature, it’s based on a true story.
Now imagine me taking the stage, stepping up to a microphone wearing all black and a pink boa (the Femme uniform). I hold up my printed monologue and read:
I saw your suitemates sitting at a table when I walked into the restaurant. I felt my chest tighten as the hostess led me through the room, felt a fat, cold drop of nervous sweat roll down my armpit as I squeezed between the closely packed tables to reach my seat. I held my breath as I passed them, and hid my face behind a menu once I sat down.
Had they seen me? I stole a glance over the list of appetizers. I had the overwhelming desire to disappear. I prayed for the ground to open up beneath me and suck me in.
I didn’t want to be recognized. I couldn’t be recognized. Because if they recognized me, they would recall the last time they’d seen my face, when I was in your suite. They would I why I was there. There would know… that we had sex.
Shh! Not so loud, someone might hear you!
Now I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like I’m your mistress, and to be recognized would be to uncover some secret affair. And it’s not like one of them walked in and saw us doing something weird, or illegal. It was pretty straightforward sex, now that I think about it. And it isn’t like we kept your suitemates up that night, I mean, we didn’t get so much as an annoyed knock on the wall.
But if they knew, if they were aware that I, an adult woman, of sound mind and body, had agreed to have sex with you! Can you imagine? Two people taking advantage of thousands of years of contraceptive technology to have sex without planning on having a baby? Or on getting married, no less? Without even the decency to make it Facebook official? Imagine what people would think when they found out we didn’t set aside our work, our classes, and our precious free time in order to start dating so we could take care of our biological desires properly!
While I sat sweating in my booth, making eye contact with only the break sticks, your suitemates paid their bill and left. Thank God they didn’t see me.
It would have been horrifying. It would have been a scandal. People wouldn’t look at me the same way again. It’s a shame, isn’t it?
So that’s it; those are more or less the words I used when I performed. Hopefully, you enjoyed them. Otherwise, I guess you had to be there.