I love going to industry parties. Or rather, I love forgetting what it means to be me, going to one of these parties. As someone who used to work in film & TV, I love being that asshole who turned her back on the bright lights of Hollywood to follow a different dream.
It was a We-All-Went-to-Film-School soiree. I am someone’s date. Everyone stands around talking about work. You overhear snippets like “Paramount Studios” and “yeah, I act, but I’m really a director.” I try to crack jokes about wine and flasks, but they hold their ground. I have no urge to play The One-Up game by mentioning my childhood Paramount romps or recent media appearances, so I figure, meh, why not find… other common ground.
I just wait for the, “So what do you do?” to which I reply, “I’m a sex educator.” This usually results in one of two reactions. The first reaction is that they get really excited and start asking questions. This usually leads to them talking wildly about their exploits, or quietly crying while they tell me a sad, sad story.
The other reaction is that they go dark inside, immediately regressing to some past humiliating sexual experience and outwardly pretending not to have heard me.
I like to make bets about what it’ll be before the word “sex” leaves my mouth. I hope for the first, for it can become quite engaging, but I know better. When the second reaction occurs, I just stand there and let that awkward silence wash over me. Swish. Swish.
Tonight, I got the second reaction. It’s okay, though. I was the asshole at the let’s-be-famous party not swaggering. Next time I’ll stick with my Betty White story and other tales of intrigue.
On second thought, I’m an asshole either way. Next time I’m staying home.