Winning a Date with Cindy Swanson
Shaindel Beers

Samantha had been entering contests all night—at least that was what she had planned to do as long as her internet connection held up—enter contests and send for free samples of things—new lipstick colors, new conditioning shampoos, sample-size packets of spice mix, laxatives, coupons for free haircuts, buy-one-get-one-free entrees at local restaurants, at restaurants in places she might travel to soon.  She didn’t particularly know why she sometimes did this.  She did know getting things for free gave her a sense of power.  Even when she knew she wasn’t going to use them.  Even when she knew she would go on yet another seasonal cleaning spree and pull all of the drawers in her apartment out of their tracks and dump everything into the garbage.  But there was a certain satisfaction in knowing that she’d have these things—just in case—and it was always a pleasant surprise to receive a package in the mail, sort of like Christmas, on a budget.  At least, that was what her inner voice told her every time she clicked the “submit” button on nights like this.

She didn’t know, either, what made her start skimming through the porn sites after she had landed on contests and offers of that ilk—free issue of this skin magazine, free sample of penis growth enhancer, free information on “giving it to her the way she wanted it.”  She felt guilty about the tingle that was starting, the warmth that was spreading throughout her body, the fact that she knew if she didn’t masturbate and come at least three times that she’d never get to sleep tonight—not after she’d seen all of those breasts—even the obviously fake FFs she told herself she, as a feminist, should be disgusted by.  She had just slipped the fingertips of her left hand under the elastic waistband of her Starry Night pajamas and started navigating the mouse with her right when the banner ad at the top of the page caught her eye.  “WIN A DATE WITH CINDY SWANSON” flashed in royal blue block letters, next to a picture of Cindy in a Catholic school girl uniform.

As soon as she’d seen the name of the contest, Samantha knew she had to enter—regardless of the chances, regardless of the fact that the contest was meant, without a doubt, for men who knew Cindy only from her latest movies—the ones where she was naked within thirty seconds, her trademark porcelain skin glowing on the screen, while her petal pink lips mouthed trite dialogue, or begged to be penetrated by the member of a beefy, gorilla-looking man.  But Samantha remembered Cindy from before that—and that’s why she gingerly removed her hand from her stomach and started feverishly typing her contact information into the small, white boxes on her screen.

She entered her email address, mailing address, and daytime phone number, murmuring her secret mantra to herself, “You’ll never win unless you try.”  She knew she didn’t have a chance of winning.  The disclaimer at the bottom of the web page was the same as the disclaimers at the bottoms of all of the other web pages—“Chances of winning depend on the number of entrants.  We reserve the right to share the information you have provided with companies and organizations of a similar nature…” and on and on.  She was sure this disclaimer somehow explained her monthly subscription to Beef, but she’d been too shy to call and ask to be removed from the mailing list and instead dropped each issue into the recycling bin outside her downstairs neighbors’ door like clockwork the first Wednesday of each month.    

She couldn’t believe it when she’d gotten the phone call notifying her that her name had been selected.  Her first instinct had been to hang up on the caller who seemed flabbergasted that Sam A. Foster was Samantha A. Foster and had asked for “Mr. Foster” three times before finally telling her the nature of the call.  Yet here she was, three months later, getting ready for her date with Cindy.  Of course she knew it wasn’t a real date.  She remembered the girl from her high school who had spent all of prom night in the bathroom crying because the soap opera star she had “won a date with” stayed on his cell phone all night complaining about “these lame-ass high school kids” and “the fucking middle of nowhere.”  But it was more than Samantha ever could have dreamed of—a fourteen person stretch limo for the night, a meal at a five-star restaurant, VIP passes to the three hottest clubs in the city, and a night at an exclusive hotel which she wouldn’t know the name or location of until the limo dropped them there.  She’d been too nervous to eat all day, her hands were shaking too much for her to fasten the clasp on the choker she had picked out the week before, and every time she’d taken a drink during the past week, she’d had panicked thoughts of spilling a glass of merlot all over Cindy.  She’d already knocked over the soap dispenser and the mouthwash while putting down the hairdryer and reaching for her tube of mascara to apply one, final coat.

As she did yet another “last check” in the mirror, she was surprisingly pleased with the way she looked.  She knew how to use clothing and make-up to her “best advantage” the way her mother had taught her.  The V-neck of the stretch-lace top enhanced her cleavage and showed off her narrow waist, and the flowing peasant sleeves made her look taller and more graceful.  She knew the skirt was probably longer than what most of the girls would be wearing at the clubs, but she’d undone the zipper on the side to a little higher than mid-thigh, and thought that the glimpse of leg it gave was sexier than if she’d been wearing a micro-mini.  She cringed at the thought of what her mother would say when she found out Samantha was using these skills on a date with a porn star, which she had won from datewithapornstar.com—especially considering the porn star in question was Cindy Swanson.

While she got ready, she wondered if Cindy would notice all of the work she had gone to—the many shopping trips that had culminated in finding the right outfit, the perfect lipstick—mystic rouge—to match the perfect blouse.  Regardless of how nervous she was, tonight was going to be a pivotal night.  She took a deep breath and mouthed a prayer that she would be able to hold her own in conversation with Cindy.  She was determined not to come off as a star-struck idiot the way people on E! did all the time.
When the door buzzer went off, she pushed the button next to the door, enabling the buzz-ee to speak “Miss Foster?”

“Yes?” her heartbeat hummed.

“Miss Swanson’s driver is here.”

“I’ll be right down.”  Final check in the mirror, kitchen light flipped on for the ailing ferns in the window, and choker thrown into her purse because she still couldn’t get it fastened.

When Cindy shook her hand and smiled at her, it was like a shock traveled from her fingers up to her shoulder, but she calmed as soon as she saw Cindy’s shoulders rise and lower in a deep, calming breath.  Of course, Samantha had always felt that Cindy must be a real person, separate from the image splayed in men’s magazines and on posters, but she’d never been confident enough to imagine who that person might be.  Part of her had been afraid that Cindy was going to be aloof and grimace at her humble three-story walk-up.  Instead, she’d smiled as soon as Samantha had climbed into the limo, “This is going to be so much fun—just a girls’ night on the town.”  They laughed as if they’d been friends for years, the nervousness seeming to peel away.

As they edged away from the curb, Cindy leaned forward, “Cute neighborhood.” Her hand fluttered against the window, motioning at Samantha’s disappearing building, and they both leaned down to admire the sun drifting behind the skyline.

Samantha realized she was no longer shaking and took the choker out of her purse. 
“Let me,” Cindy slid over next to her, and Samantha lifted her hair.  Cindy’s fingers worked the clasp and she leaned closer, “There.”  She brushed Samantha’s neck with the moist insides of her lips, then laughed at Samantha’s shocked face.  “It’s okay,” she smiled, squeezing Samantha’s hand.  “If you want to know the truth,” Cindy whispered, conspiratorially, “I even wore less make-up than usual tonight.  I hate the way guys expect me always to look like I do in the movies, you know?  I mean, I wore enough for the promotional pics, but not the French whore look,” she finished with a wink.

“So, tell me about you.”

Samantha’s mind froze.  She realized that she hadn’t rehearsed her side of the first date conversation.  She started babbling the way she had told herself not to—grad school, work, how much she hated answering phones and making flight reservations for the CEO of her company, how much it pissed her off that she made more money than her mother who’d been a schoolteacher for thirty-five years.

Samantha was surprised when Cindy shook her head and patted her knee, “You’re lucky, though.  You’re free in a way I’m not.  I might have money, but someone would have to be crazy to give me a job teaching French somewhere.  At least until I’m fifty and unrecognizable.  That’s what I always wanted to do . . . teach French.”  

Their conversation continued inside Le Lièvre Noir.  “So why did you enter the contest?  I mean—,” Cindy stammered for the first time that night and jabbed a fork into her ballotine de poulet.

Samantha dabbed her lips with a napkin, testing the “color stay” properties of mystic rouge, “That one movie you did…”

“No—wait, lemme’ guess…not the one where I’m a secretary—Inside-her Trading?  You didn’t identify with my character or something?”  Cindy’s face contorted for a second, and she took a sip of water as if washing down a bitter taste.

“No…your first movie—Secrets et Mensonges.

“Oh…”  Her face softened into an expression of a feeling Samantha wished she could keep for herself. “If only more people had admired that film.  I thought it was brave of Florian to do it.  He never worked in the U.S. again.  I mean, he’s made many more films, but it did something to him that everyone in the States thought it was a soft porn, not a real film.”  She made finger quotes in the air and nodded vigorously as she said real, something that had always annoyed Samantha in meetings at work, but which was oddly fitting here and now.  Cindy’s air quote lingered, gracefully turning into a motion for their waiter, and she ordered them a lemon Crème Brule.  “We’ve got to talk more about this later.  I have to admit, I didn’t know anyone even realized that was me in that movie.”

Samantha smiled and nodded and felt Cindy’s leg brush hers under the table.  “Are you really into this clubbing thing?  I mean, I have to go to make an appearance and sign autographs, but . . . is it something you’re really into?”

Cindy beamed when Samantha confessed that clubbing sounded like the least interesting part of the evening.  “Ahh—you passed the test.  Most dates think that the leg rub means to agree to whatever I say next.”  Cindy took a delicate scoop of Crème Brule and offered it to her.  “I’m glad we’ll have more time to talk at the hotel.  It’ll be nice to have some down-time for once.  The club scene usually turns into my ‘date’ showing me off to all his buddies.  Somehow I feel more like a piece of meat there than in front of the camera.”  She air quoted again on the word date.  This time the gesture flowed into her tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.  Samantha decided that she would give the air quote more respect as a worthy gesture after this evening.

Even though she’d tried to concentrate on Cindy’s words, she felt her insides tighten at the thought of the hotel, but tried to quell it.  She’d always despised lesbians who were as controlled by sex as men were and didn’t want to think of herself as one of them.  She’d resolved not to be one herself when she had clicked the “submit” button for the last time back in January.

The promotional appearances at the clubs were more chaotic than she’d imagined.  There was a line mostly made up of men snaked three-quarters around each club.  Many of the men had flowers and presents for Cindy and were paying her promoter wads of cash to get their pictures taken with her and for her to autograph magazine spreads, DVD jackets, and even a few guitars.

Amidst the flashbulbs, some voices called out “Who’s your girlfriend?”

Cindy squeezed her hand, “Trust me.  You’ll love this.”  Cindy turned toward the voice, “She’s my new protégé, an up-and-coming starlet.”  She laughed at the word coming, acting coy, as if she hadn’t realized the pun until it had escaped her lips.

Someone called out, “Five hundred for a picture of you kissing.”

Before Samantha knew what was happening, Cindy tilted her head back so that her mouth fell slightly open and brushed her hair back from her face.  “Wouldn’t want that to get in the way of the shot,” she whispered so close that her lips touched Samantha’s when they pushed out the w's.  Samantha felt her insides melt, but Cindy pulled away when the flashes subsided.

She signed autographs for about an hour at each club, then they slipped back to the limo to go to the hotel.  Cindy leaned forward and kissed her behind the one-way glass of the limo, and pushed something into her hand.  Samantha didn’t count it, but she knew it had to be at least five hundred dollars in twenties.  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” Cindy smiled.

During the ride, Cindy held her hand, but she didn’t speak until they were in their room.  She slid off her shoes and sat on the bed, and Samantha followed suit.  “So, what about Secrets et Mensonges spoke to you?”

Samantha had never been able to talk to anyone about the movie before.  Her mother had called it “trash” and couldn’t believe that she’d taken her daughter to see it.  She had always been a lifetime member of the Friday Night Film Society, which brought foreign and art films to their small town, and it had been their special Friday-night mother-daughter activity as soon as Samantha had turned sixteen.  For days afterward, her mother had felt the need to deprogram her daughter from what she’d seen on the screen and ranted and raved about it, finally writing numerous letters to the editors of local newspapers—along with dozens of other residents, until the Friday Night Film Society closed down.  Apparently the same phenomenon had happened all across the country.

In the movie, Cindy had played an American girl sent to a French boarding school, where she had fallen deeply in love with her best friend, Evaline.  When the nuns at the boarding school caught them taking a shower together, they were sent to live in separate dorms.  After their second offense, during which they were caught in flagrante delicto, Cindy’s character, Lee-Anne, was sent back to her family in Connecticut.  When she refused to repent for her offense, they had her committed to a mental institution which resorted to torturous aversion treatments.  At the end of the movie, Lee-Anne had become a masochist who cut herself whenever she felt sexually aroused and Evaline had hanged herself in her parents’ shower.  The last frame of the movie was a shot of Evaline’s body swaying to-and-fro with water still dripping down the length of it, and then the camera closed in on a ray of light refracting through a droplet hanging off of her nipple before the screen went to black and the final credits began rolling.   

Samantha had never had so many words in her mouth struggling to come out at the same time.  She lay down on her back and pretended to stare at the ceiling through her eyelids. “It just helped me to see—” the words she’d just had were quickly fleeing her mind and she couldn’t find anything to say.

Cindy smiled, “You don’t even have to say anything else.  It helped me to see, too.  And then, when it was so viciously attacked—all over the U.S.”  She pushed her hair back from her face and covered her eyes, “The reviewers and critics who didn’t have a problem with the lesbian theme had a problem with suicide being the resolution of a movie featuring two teenage girls, and some went the opposite way and thought that it was ‘cheap’ to use ‘naked nubile bodies’ to re-package Romeo and Juliet as a lesbian love story.”  She realized she was making air-quotes again and dropped her fingers into Samantha’s hair.

“And then, when the press found out that Amelia DeStelle was only seventeen at the beginning of filming!  While she was seventeen, we only shot things like the cafeteria, the classrooms, the buildings.  It might not have been completely right by American standards, but she already had a lover in his thirties!  I’m sure thousands of French girls do!”

Cindy collapsed on the bed next to her and fanned her flaxen hair out on the pillow.  Samantha moved closer to see if she was crying and Cindy pulled her face into the crook of her neck and kissed her softly.  “All this time, I thought that that movie didn’t matter to anyone.  I was only nineteen and studying French literature at the Université de Provence Aix-Marseille when I got the part, and I thought it was going to be a most exciting thing in my life.  I didn’t know it would turn into an international scandal.”

“Secrets et Mensonges changed the world for me.  I thought I was the only one.” Cindy sat up like she had been stabbed from beneath the mattress.  There were tears running down her face.

“I realized that I’d been in love with my best friend, Ashley, all through school.  And the day after I saw Secrets et Mensonges, I decided to go for it.”

She started twining Samantha’s hair around her finger.  “Tell me about it—what happened?”

“Ashley and I were just hanging out, listening to music in her room.  She had the entire basement of her parents’ house to herself, so we always hung out at her place.  And I just looked at her and kissed her, really kissed her.”

Cindy “mmm”ed at her to go on.

“At first she was in shock, but I know she liked it because she softened into it and started kissing me back; then she pulled away and told me to go home.”

“Oh…”

“She called me later that night and told me that things had changed.  She couldn’t be friends with me.  It wasn’t that she didn’t feel the same way.  She did.  But she didn’t know how to feel that way in our little town—so we just weren’t going to be friends anymore.”

“I’m really sorry.  How long had you been friends?”

“Since kindergarten.”

Cindy drew in a sharp breath.  “I feel awful.  Like it’s my fault you lost your best friend.”

“No.  Don’t.  I just learned a lot about friendship and honesty—really early.  That some people will never be themselves, because it takes more courage than they have.”
Cindy’s face softened into a wounded half smile, “So, did I offer any more lessons today?”

“I told myself if I won this contest, I was going to come out to my mother.  It was something like a one in ten-thousand chance, but it looks like it’s fate at this point.”
Cindy trailed a finger down the dome of Samantha’s forehead to her nose, “And I thought your entering the contest took guts.”  She fumbled with the stationery on the nightstand and scribbled a note.  “Here’s my number.  Call if you need a pep talk.  I’m no expert, but it always helps to have someone.”

They lay on the bed for a few minutes, not sure what to say or do, until Cindy propped herself up on her elbows over Samantha.  “I’m going to go take a shower.  Be back soon, Sweets.”  She kissed Samantha on the forehead—a gentle, natural kiss.  One that would make her feel complete for the rest of her life even if nothing else of consequence ever happened to her.

The muffled patter of water against the shower door began to lull her to sleep, and the steam swirling through the room gave her a feeling of floating above herself on the bed.  She inhaled the heavy air and smiled, knowing for the first time in her life, if she looked down, she would like what she saw.

***

Shaindel Beers is an Instructor of English at Blue Mountain Community College in Pendleton, Oregon. Her fiction, poetry, and social commentary have appeared in numerous journals, and she is the Poetry Editor of Contrary, which can be found at www.contrarymagazine.com .