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The Last Time I Wore a Micro-Mini Skirt
Or Notes from a Hollywood Glamour Girl

By Lauren Tom

"I'm Jeff. Paul tells me wonderful things about you. Let's go to my office."

"Great! Should I bring my water?" What a dumb question. Why am I so nervous?

"Sure, you can bring your water."

"Great!" Stop saying "Great."

"Right this way."


His office boasts a view of Century City and beyond. Jeff gestures for me to take a seat on a navy blue couch spotlighted by a rectangle of sunlight pouring through the window. As I sit down I realize that the fabric on the couch feels cool and smooth against my bare legs. Is this satin? Who upholsters his couch in satin? I cross my legs and feel like a showgirl in a regional production of Chicago.

"Nice couch!" I say.

"Oh you like it? It's brand new, and cost a fortune but..." he trails off, taking a seat on a brown leather club chair across from me. I place my bottle of Evian on the coffee table.

"So where do you come from, Lauren?"

"Oh! You mean heritage wise? Or like, what state am I from?"

He smiles. "I meant what part of the country?"

"Oh! I'm Chinese," I giggle, clearly not listening. "From Illinois," I add.

"I'm from Illinois too. What part?"

"Highland Park! Do you know it?"

"Quite well, I have relatives in Evanston."

"Oh! That's great! I went to Northwestern." I sound like such a moron he probably doesn't believe that. "Did you go there too?"

I don't remember his answer. I am too distracted by an odd sensation occurring in my underpants. Oh my God, I'm leaking. Something is coming out. What the hell? What is all this fluid? Am I wetting myself? It couldn't be my period, it's not the right time. And then a faint chlorine-like smell drifts up my nostrils. My eyes grow wide.

"Oh that's great!" I giggle. Does he smell it too?

I've got to get out of here. Looking around the room I notice a computer on his desk. "Is that a computer?"

"Yeah," he says glancing over at it.

"Gosh, you know, I am so—can I see it?"

Looking puzzled he replies, "Uh…sure" as he stands and walks to the desk.

I spring up. My skirt is sticking to my underwear. With a sense of dread, I turn and look down at the couch.

There it is. As if Dali, painting in white goo, had laid down a melting butterfly. A gigantic Rorschach shaped cum stain. I watch, paralyzed, as it seeps further into the brand new, expensive, navy blue satin couch. Then, like a dog shaking water out of its ears, I snap out of it and run to the desk trying to block Jeff's line of vision with my body.

"This is a great computer, isn't it? I just bought the same one. But I'm so computer illiterate. Could you show me how to turn it on?" I bite my lip. I'm trapped in this body that keeps saying stupid things.

He glances over toward the couch. I snap my fingers in front of his face and move my hips as if to say "hey look at me, look how cute I am, see me smile…" It's not working. He's looking at me like I'm on crack. I wish I was. Someone take me out right now. A 9mm right between the eyes. He trains his gaze on mine, reaches around to the back of his computer and pushes a small button.

I shout, "Oh! That's how you do it! Duh," I say slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. "You know, you're going to think this is so weird, but would you mind if we re-scheduled this meeting? I'm suddenly feeling a little woozy."

"Of course." He stands up and walks around the desk. "Can I get you anything? Would you like your water?" he asks making a move towards the coffee table.

"No!" I protest, putting up my hand and backing up towards the couch. "I think I just have to go. I'm so sorry!"

I'm hyperventilating as I dash for the door. Don't look back. Never look back.

The ride home is long. This is back in the day before I own a cell phone so all I can do is marinate in my own thoughts: This is the end of the line, you nincompoop. Forget Nicole Kidman, hell, forget Ralph Macchio, you're going to be lucky to book an industrial, you won't even work a car convention, you're going to end up back in Highland Park living with your mother because you left a gigantic wad of your fiancé's spuzzle on a Fox executive's brand new navy blue satin couch.

I never did hear from Jeff about any future projects.

But I did learn a very valuable lesson: That in Hollywood, there is no logic. You can wear your lucky micro mini skirt, meet the "right" people, say all the wrong things, and still not become a superstar.

But hey, that's life. Gism happens.

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