Free That Thing You Do With Your Mouth: The Sexual Autobiography of Samantha Matthews as Told to David Shields by David Shields, Samantha Matthews

and damaged. I remember noting the differences in labia, “fat ones” and “skinny ones.” Mine were skinny. Fat were better. They were more childlike and innocent.
    Around the time my mother taught me how babies were made, I was given a worksheet in my kindergarten class in which we had to number several series of three pictures: an egg, a chick, and a hen; then a seed, a little sprout, and a tree. Etc. Upon completing the worksheet,we were to stand on the carpet. Everyone finished the exercise in thirty seconds—even the dumb kid, John, with the big bald head. They were all high-fiving him and laughing about how it was the easiest exercise ever. I sat there, sweating, and finally just handed in the paper blank. The teacher yelled at me to get back to my table and finish the exercise. All heads turned; mortified, I randomly numbered all of the pictures without knowing any answers and never spoke again in class.
    Later that day, I accidentally walked into the bathroom while the dumb kid, John, was pooping on the toilet. He looked at me as if I were an aggressor, as if I’d come in there to check out his willy, which I hadn’t. I swear I hadn’t. I wanted to die. Throughout my university studies, I never spoke, unless forced to; I was the dumb kid.
    I don’t feel the same need my mother did to know absolutely everything about what happened every moment the kids were away. Most of the time I ask briefly how their day went and let them tell me, or not. They often tell me they just don’t feel like talking about it.
    Ava seems overly concerned about appearing sexy, pointing out girls in her class who “are”—at eight—andshe won’t wear skirts unless they’re green or blue. Anything pink or purple she feels draws attention to her. It’s like she’s already aware of female objectification. Did I somehow pass that fear of being looked at down to her without even knowing it? At the same time, when we were on the plane coming back from the States, she brushed my hair very carefully, tucked one side behind my ear, tilted my head at a specific angle, and then said, “Now, Mommy, stay like that, and let aaaaall the boys stare at you.” She seemed to take pleasure in thinking the boys would stare at me. Lately, she studies the men on the street studying me and imitates the way they stare me up and down, then asks me if I noticed what they did. She’s simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by this female-hunting male. Ava and I went together to a frozen-yogurt place, and after we sat there in silence for a while, I asked her, “What is this feeling you have that dressing in a feminine way somehow makes you sexy?” She said, “I just don’t like it… I don’t know… Well, I have a secret, but I’ll never be able to tell you.” Immediately, alarms went off and I thought, Okay, that’s it—here we go—she’s been abused; I’ve been waiting for her to tell me and now I’m going to get her to tell me what happened. I did what my mother did with me: told her she could talk about anything with me, I’d never judgeher or love her any differently, and perhaps I could help her/understand her better if she shared what she felt was such a secret. Maybe she’d actually enjoy sharing her secret (intimacy junkie intimacy junkie). Finally she told me she wanted to be wild: to look dirty and have torn, stained clothes, messy hair (later that evening she identified the exact sublime look in Pirates of the Caribbean ). She also said she’d like to be an orphan but felt bad about wanting that because she still wants me to be her mommy. She had all these stories about orphan kids in her head and wanted to make a movie with all her friends—not write it, just make it. (Lately, she’s been writing stories with related themes). So wild was the answer. Not abuse. My projection.
    (Remember, David, we