Jennifer and Emma

The excitement that came with being given the green light to appear naked at the Oscars was spinning through me as I walked on stage to chop it up with Stephen before his studio audience.

I found it hard to even concentrate on what I was supposed to be there for, promoting my movie, when the weight of what Jennifer Todd had told me was still circulating through my thoughts. I was just a week away from getting naked in front of all of these people. Stephen, the hundreds of people in his studio audience, and the millions watching at home.

How could I talk about anything else? Nothing else really mattered. Politics? Psh. Movies? How quaint. No, my imminent exposure before the world was the most important subject in the world to me right now

Fortunately, Stephen poured us a few glasses of Rum and after burping on live TV, I felt a little more relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed. In the middle of conversation, I unbuckled my heel straps and let my heels drop to the floor so I could sit barefoot on the sofa. Stephen responded by taking off his own shoes and throwing them to the side.

It wasn’t a truly conscious decision of mine, I don’t think. I believe I was still halfway thinking about taking off all of my clothes and just settled on removing shoes to appease my subconscious. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

In either event, we giggled, kicked back to relax, had more rum, and talked about nothing I would remember in the morning before the segment ended and I went back to my apartment. I could have went back to Darren’s, but we weren’t officially back together, and I didn’t want him to go back there to confuse things even more.

Shortly after the intense session of ‘convincing’ that we’d shared earlier that day, I actually convinced Darren to come with me to Sunday’s ceremony. He didn’t want to at first but I honestly didn’t know if I could handle appearing naked by myself. When I went skydiving, I needed someone there to boost me up and hold my hand and let me yell at them and punch them. I would have never gotten into the plane without someone to experience my fear and anxiety with me.

“I need you there to push me out of the car and make sure I don’t run away,” I’d told him. While exaggerating what I needed from him, the substance of my request was true. Just seeing his face and hearing his encouragement would help give me the strength to go through with it all, from stepping out of the limo to staying the path on hundreds and hundreds of feet of carpet.

Since I couldn’t tell my friends about what I was doing, Darren was all I really had to help me get through this. Once he saw how serious I was about needing him, he accepted the invitation to be my date. And if it all went to hell, he would become my punching bag. Fair, since this was all his fault anyway, right?

When I got back to my pad, I immediately took off my clothes, turned on some soft music and sat by the fireplace with a glass of wine to cap off the night. The high of the day was wearing off and I was starting to feel the exhaustion that came after experiencing a rush of emotions. I was still pleasantly buzzed with arousal, but I fought the urge to masturbate. I settled on just softly stimulating my breast. As I sipped my wine, drifting closer to sleep while rubbing my nipples, I got a facetime call from Emma Stone.

Although I had to be up early for another flight across the country, Emma was one person I always made time for. She had been there for me more times than I could count and I would always be there to give her the same shoulder to cry on, and ear to listen.

It was crazy how much we had in common.

We were both Hollywood actresses that won Oscars in our 20’s. We were currently the two highest paid actresses in Hollywood. And we were both involved romantically with directors. But beyond the on the surface similarities, me and Emma just clicked. She got me. I got her. We could relate to many of the same issues in our line of work, from the trouble of relationships, to the demand of our schedules, and could depend on each other to get through it together.

It could have went left the first time we met, since we were pit against each other during an audition for the Judd Apatow film Superbad. It was a particularly rough time of my life. I was out in L.A. by myself, struggling to land a role, while my parents were stressing about supporting me financially.

The casting call for the raunchy stoner comedy called for a casually cool chick under age 24 to be the love interest of one of the male leads. At that point in my life, it was pretty much my dream role. I showed up to the audition desperate to outshine every other aspiring actress there but I met my match in Emma.

We were so similar back then, too.

We were both leggy, natural blondes with baritone voices and raspy laughs. I was an 8th grade dropout living on my own in Hollywood. She was a 9th grade dropout doing the same thing. We cursed like sailors, carried cigarettes around to look older than the teens that we were, and had the same dry wit, and sarcastic sense of humor.

I didn’t know all of that at the time. All I knew when I first saw her chewing gum and playing on her phone was that she was really pretty with her blonde hair wrapped in a ponytail. And all I remembered was hoping like hell that the bitch couldn’t act.

“You nervous?” I’d asked her as we sat in the waiting room. “I always play games on my phone when I’m nervous.” Partially true, but my number one remedy for distracting me from my anxiety was running my mouth. That was the real reason I’d spoken to her. And maybe, if I could, I would be able to throw her off her game. All was fair in love and war, and I needed this role more than she did.

She had looked up from her flip phone, looking a bit annoyed. She could probably tell I was sizing her up. “I’m more anxious than nervous,” she said, looking back down at her phone. “Hopefully they hurry up because I have another audition at one. You?”

“Oh I don’t have any other auditions today.”

“No, I was asking if you are nervous,” she said, still looking down at her phone and mashing away.

“A little bit. Or maybe it’s just hunger, I can’t tell. I didn’t eat anything today.”

She looked up briefly from her game before reaching into her purse and offering me her half eaten sandwich. “It’s tuna on a bagel.”

“Oh no,” I had laughed. “I can’t take your food.”

“Fuck that, you shouldn’t do auditions on an empty stomach. Here.”

There was something about the way she offered me her sandwich without hesitation that made me trust her, even though she was a complete stranger. And I no longer wanted to throw her off her game. If anything, I wanted to network with her and or soak up any valuable wisdom she had.

“I’m Emily by the way,” she’d said. “Or stage name, Emma Stone.”

“Jennifer Lawrence, no stage name yet but maybe I should go Jenny Law,” I’d smiled. As I ate the sandwich I asked “so Emma Stone, how many auditions do you usually have a week?”

“Usually three to five. Been a little more lately with pilot season. Trying to up that to ten a week while the iron is hot.”

“Doing pretty good with two auditions before lunch. Speaking of which, this is really good,” I had said. “You have any good credits?”

“Few tv shows. Nothing noteworthy or leading. You?”

“Do commercials count as noteworthy?” I had asked with a chuckle as I finished the sandwich and licked my fingers. “But seriously. I just moved out here a few months ago. I haven’t had any luck so far.”

“It’s how it goes out here. Gotta get used to hearing no but can’t let it get you down or you’re done.”

“Yeah. I’m just hoping I won’t have to hear no too many more times before I get a yes. Even if it’s yes to something small. Something where I can afford to eat gourmet meals like tuna on bagels.”

“Where are you from? I can hear a little accent.”

“Louisville, Kentucky. I’m a total redneck.”

“Plenty of roles for southern girls. I’m from Arizona and I suck at doing accents. If I ever have to do a southern accent for a role I already know I’m done.”

“I lived in New York for awhile and I cannot imitate what I heard out there. If I have to do a New York, or a Boston accent, I’m just walking out,” I’d countered.

“You’re a cute as hell redneck though. I can already see you killing it for this role based on the casting call.”

“Cute? I have like a million moles and I’m awkwardly tall. You’re hot. The casting call wants a hot chick and that is totally you.”

“Please. I have huge drug addict eyes and freckles that I’m covering with makeup right now. I have a ten year olds body. That’s not hot. That’s girl next door at best. Your moles are cute and you have meat on your bones.”

“Calling me fat, huh?”

“Shut up. I saw when you walked in that you have boobs and butt. Something I don’t have at all. Trust me. Directors are going to love you.”

“Maybe porn directors. I already met one outside of the headshot studio over by that Ihop,” I’d said. “But fuck, if I don’t get this role, I think I might give him a call to ask if that role for highschool cum dumpster sluts part 6 is still available for me.”

A crazy sex joke was my go to way to gauge how compatible another person and I were. When I saw her crack a smile, I took that as a good sign. She ended up setting her phone aside and reaching into her purse, digging around before she pulled out a card and handed it over to me. “Was it this guy?”

I shrieked with laughter when I saw it, and pulled out an identical card from my purse. “No fucking way.”

“What a sleazeball,” she’d said. “He stopped me a few days ago when I was going to the Ihop and gave me his card.”

“Guess the asshole stakes out that spot to scout his ‘talent’.”

Our conversation couldn’t have lasted any longer than ten minutes, but by the time I was called in for my reading, I felt as if I knew Emma. Really, really knew her. We’d bonded over our shared circumstance as failing actresses and bonded over our perceived imperfections that were keeping us from getting work.

We could have been bitter bitches towards each other, but when Emma told me “good luck Jenny Law,” I actually believed she meant it.

After my audition, I waited outside for her to finish her reading. She looked a bit surprised but I told her that I wanted to pay her back for the tuna sandwich by inviting her over to my apartment for lunch. “You sure you’re not trying to bum your way into my audition?” she’d grinned.

“Well, that too. I might be a redneck but I’m not stupid.”

We rode the bus to her next audition, laughing together like old friends and made it back to my apartment by 2:30 and spent the rest of the day eating instant ramen and leftover pizza, while sharing stories with each other. That also led into her revealing some of the fears she had about not being good enough. “Maybe that’s why I haven’t thrown away the card from that porno guy. Maybe I’ll need him eventually.”

It was around four weeks later when I found out from my agent that Emma had gotten the role in that movie. Her first role in a film. Her ticket towards a life as a movie star. I called her as soon as I found. “Oh my God, I’m so happy for you Emma. You really deserved it.”

“Thanks Jennifer. I really appreciate you for congratulating me. It means a lot. You’re going to get something soon.”

When nearly two years went by without her hope for my future coming to fruition, I became the one venting my fears and frustration and thoughts about giving up. And even though Emma was busy working on movies and TV shows, she always made time to hear me out and encourage me to keep fighting.

When I told her I was probably going to have to move back to Kentucky because my parents could no longer afford my rent, she told me I could stay in her place if I wanted, even though she was staying with a boyfriend. “Don’t give up, sweety. I really believe in you. Something is going to come. Just please don’t give up.”

Not even my parents had believed in me so strongly when all seemed lost. Emma was really the only one that never lost faith. I would never forget how Emma had been there.

With her calling me this late, I figured she must have wanted to vent about something. But the upbeat tone of her voice and cheery smile on her face defeated that thought when I accepted the facetime call.

“Hey babe,” she said. “You in bed?”

“Unwinding,” I said as my dog jumped in my lap and started licking for my face and looking toward the sound of the voice coming from the phone. I moved my head back and giggled. “Someone wants to say hey.” I held the phone up to the dog. “Say hey to aunt Emma, Peppi.”

“How about I say hey in person?” Emma said.

“What? Where are you?”

“New York,” she smirked.

“Whaaat? What you here for?” I asked. She was supposed to be filming in England.

“To bother you,” she said.

“You’re perfect for that role,” I grinned. “Anything happen with filming?”

“A bunch of bullshit with the studio,” she rolled her eyes. “I don’t even feel like talking about it right now but it allowed me to fly back for the rest of the week.”

I nodded my head, knowing exactly how schedules could get switched around like that without notice. I took a closer look at her image in the phone and noticed she was sitting inside a car. “Where are you now?”

“Outside your complex.”

“You fucking stalker,” I teased. “Hold up and I’ll let downstairs know you’re here.”

“You sure?” she narrowed her eyes. “Looks like you’re naked by the fireplace with baby making music in the background. You don’t have company over? ”

“No I don’t have company,” I spat. I knew she was thinking about Darren. I didn’t know how I was going to tell her about the sex or our complicated relationship that wasn’t as dead as I led her to believe. I’d told her we were done for good and she was thrilled that he was out of my life. She didn’t like his influence on me. “What, I can’t enjoy a night cap listening to some Sade without Darren being up here?”

“I don’t trust you within 100 miles of that loser. His cock must have a magnet inside of it because you always seem to end up attached to it when you come back to the city.” I gave her a middle finger and she pretended to be hurt by putting a hand over her fragile heart. “How dare you flick me off when I come bearing gifts?” she said, holding up a box from our favorite cheesecake spot in the city.

“Okay I take it back,” I all but drooled before withdrawing my middle finger back into my palm. “Bring me gifts, please.”

“I’m not messing with your pre-oscar diet am I? I don’t wanna tempt you if you’re on that final stretch.”

“Just come up,” I said, deciding not to reveal to her that I was totally off my diet now. “And bring the cheese cake.”

I was several pounds over the weight that my designer wanted me at for my final fitting on Thursday. But it didn’t matter anymore. I was going to call up Dior to let them know I would not be wearing the gown – or any other gown – for the Red Carpet. I was hoping they could provide something else for me for to wearing during the show.

But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, I was going to hang out with my best friend, and pig out like I had no worries in the world.

I thought about throwing on a tshirt and shorts but instead I grabbed a housecoat to slip over my naked body. It’s not like Emma hadn’t seen me naked plenty of times before but for some reason I was feeling a little modest. Or perhaps it was because I didn’t want her to see my hard nipples or smell my wet pussy.

We embraced like best friends that missed each other dearly whenever she made it up to my place about ten minutes later. She handed me her coat and ‘gifts’ before leaning down to give Peppi kisses.

“You want something to drink to go with this?” I asked as I examined the cheesecake inside the box. It looked delicious.

“I want whatever you’re having,” she said before I led her to the kitchen to pour her a glass and refill mine. “You sure you need some more alcohol? I saw you had some rum earlier.”

I handed her the glass. “You saw that?”

“I always watch your Late Night interviews,” she said before inhaling the aroma of the red wine. “You’re always bound to say something fucked up and hilarious.”

We clinked glasses. “Did I disappoint?”

“You called Harvey an ass boil.” She took a sip and laughed. “And you weren’t even drunk yet.”

“Oh they don’t wanna hear me to talk about Harvey after I get drunk.”

“I do,” she giggled before instructing me to drink up.

But as we sipped our wine and ate or cheesecake near my fireplace, we didn’t talk about Harvey or anything that would dampen our mood. She did briefly mention the problems she was having on her current film but cut it short whenever I asked for details.

“I really didn’t come here to dump my crap on you babe. I saw you kicking off your pumps, drinking, and sharing good vibes on the Late Show and wanted some of that good shit to rub off on me.”

Sometimes, just being in the presence of your good friend was enough to make everything feel better. And over the next hour we laughed and giggled over nothing in particular until the subject of Sunday’s ceremony came up. She was on her diet of dandelion tea and exercise just like virtually everyone else in Hollywood, but she considered this her cheat day that allowed her to indulge just a little. She was describing her outfit as I went for another slice of cheesecake.

“You sure about another slice, sweety?”

“Oh you think I’m fat?”

“Shut up. You know I think you’re fucking fab. And I’m sorry I keep bitchin’ about your diet but I just get worried about your contract stuff with Dior. I know how they are about you making weight for the gowns and I don’t want to fuck that up for you.”

“I’m not really on a diet right now,” I said as I nibbled on a piece of the cake.

“Really? You told me Maria had you working your ass off so you can fit into some warrior gown for the red carpet..”

“Well…that was before I decided against wearing that gown on the red carpet.”

“What? Why?”

I’m not really sure when I decided I was going to tell Emma why being thin enough for that dress no longer concerned me. It wasn’t a conscious decision that I debated over or had any internal dialogue about. It wasn’t a hard choice I wrestled over or felt uneasy about. The thought just arrived in my mind without any distress.

Perhaps I knew the second we hugged each other at the front door that I would be telling her.

Or maybe it was whenever I hollered in laughter as she recounted an embarrassing moment of driving on the wrong side of the road while she was overseas.

Or maybe it was when I saw her eyes drop from my face for a split second and I became aware that my nipple was peaking out of my housecoat.

Or maybe I knew all along that I would be unable to keep this secret inside of me for the entire week without telling someone.

Between wanting to talk to someone right now about what was on my mind and not wanting to have to come up with an explanation on Sunday for Emma’s “why didn’t you tell me?” after she saw her friend naked on the carpet, I knew I had to get this out in the open now.

Despite already having explained to more than a dozen people now that I was going to go to the red carpet naked, I still didn’t feel adequately prepared to tell my best friend about it. Where would I even start? I knew that I wanted her to understand. But how could I get her to?

I was very rarely lost for words whenever I was around her, so my silence must have been confusing. “Babe, why are you looking like that?”

I took a deep breath and sat down my glass on the coffee table. “I want to tell you something in confidence. Something I don’t want anybody else to know right now. Just between us.”

“Of course,” she said while following my lead and setting her own glass aside. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, not wanting this to get off on the wrong foot. Wrong was the wrong word to describe something that gave me this much excitement. Something being wrong with me was the last impression I wanted to give. This wasn’t depressing or evil or dirty. This was something fun, something transformative, something right despite how wrong it may have felt. I just needed to convey this properly.

I laughed out loud to ease the tension. “No, Emily Jean nothing is wrong. It’s just…” I remembered that a picture was worth a thousand words. So I imagined a live demonstration was worth even more. “I want to show you what I’m wearing on Sunday to the red carpet.”

The look on her face eased from concern to playful puzzlement. “Okaaay, so show me.”

I eyed her with a grin before reaching for my wine glass and finishing the little bit that was left. “Sit tight, I’ll be back.”

I ran to my bedroom, threw off my housecoat and kicked my cute slippers off. Here I was, naked again, but a plain sort of naked that wasn’t necessarily representative of how I planned to look on Sunday. Just because I was going to be in my pure state it didn’t mean I couldn’t be glamorous too.

I went into my walk-in closet and found a silver pair of heels with a silver necklace to match. The cold felt good and erotic against my skin. I was brought back to how thrilling it had been over Greta’s, strutting all around her place naked with so many people watching. That really got me going, and made me wish I would have finished myself off before I invited Emma inside.

I didn’t consider myself bisexual, but I was beginning to come to the realization that my sexual orientation was malleable as hell whenever I was the only one naked, surrounded by clothed people. Powerful men gave me a rush of emotions and sexual energy but having women look at me provided its own thrills.

Greta had touched my breast in her bedroom and her soft but firm touch had nearly made me melt into an orgasm right there in her closet. I had to accept that being an exhibitonist meant that both men and women could provide me with those tingly feelings part in parcel to the experience. And while I wasn’t going to show myself to Emma for the thrill, I couldn’t deny that the thrill was a nice side effect.

“You almost done?” I heard Emma yell from the living room as I squirted lotion into my palm.

“Hold your horses,” I yelled back as my fingers smoothed out lotion down my long legs. “I’m almost done.”

I finished by massaging the lotion into my breasts and applying just a tad of makeup to my face. Not enough to attend an awards show – I couldn’t get it perfect while being rushed – but enough so that she could get the basic idea of what I would be going for come Sunday.

Looking at myself in the mirror made me mumble wow to myself, even with the rushed makeup job. The glisten of naked skin, hard nipples, and shapely legs looked delicious and all I could do was stare and admire. It should have felt narcissistic but instead, I felt humbled by my image. Why had I ever allowed myself to feel as if I was no longer sexy or desirable? What had taken me so long to get to this moment of wanting people to see this incredibly beautiful woman staring back at me?

Well, no more, I told myself. Tonight it was Emma’s turn to see, but Sunday, it was the entire world. That gave me a bolt of energy as I walked out of my bedroom.

“Close your eyes,” I yelled from the hallway as I click clacked across the tile.

“Why?”

“Because I said so!”

“Fucking hell,” she laughed as I arrived at the end of the wall dividing us. “How long do I have to keep my eyes closed?”

“Not long,” I giggled as I peaked and made sure her eyes were closed. She had sighed but like a good friend she humored me and closed her eyes. This was obviously silly but silly was par the course for our friendship. I figured she’d get a kick out of seeing me totally naked like this and it would serve as a great ice breaker to talk about Sunday.

She was slightly leaned back with her head facing up and her eyes closed, looking half annoyed, half amused when I stepped in front of her. “When you open your eyes, I’ll be wearing exactly what I’ll be wearing to the red carpet.”

“Yeah I got that much,” she said. “All of this top secrecy better be worth it. You better be fucking gorg.”

“Oh I’m definitely fucking gorg,” I said before I put my hand on my hip and struck a classic red carpet pose, just feet away from her crossed legs on the sofa. I can’t wait to see the look on her face. “You can look now!

“Thank Goddess,” she said before opening her eyes. Watching her face change expressions so quick was priceless.

“Tada!” I said, presenting my naked body with my arms and twirling so she could take me all in. God did it feel so good being naked before another person. Especially when they looked washed away by my beauty, which is how Emma looked in this very moment. I took something valuable from these wowed faces. They made me feel alive. “Well?”

“Well what?” she laughed. “I thought you were going to show me a gown but instead you’re here showing me your naked ass. I’m not complaining. I like it when you go all exhibitionist on me but are you not going to show me what you’re wearing?”

“Emma. This is what I’m wearing.”

“What?” she asked, confused. The same kind of confusion Dawn and Jennifer Todd had displayed when I told them. There was just no easy way to tell someone you were going to appear naked in a public place. I guess the only way was to say exactly that.

“I’m doing the red carpet naked.”

“Naked.”

“Naked,” I confirmed.

I felt my nipples harden as I watched Emma chew on the word naked. She couldn’t swallow it though. “You’re fucking with me right?”

“I’m serious,” I told her. “This is how I’m going. More or less. Some different heels and better hair and makeup. But I’ll be naked.” I presented myself again, but this time her eyes didn’t take in the sight of my naked body. Her eyes never left my face.

“Why?” she asked. Why was always the pressing question.

There wasn’t a single explanation that I thought could ever satisfy the why. It was a multitude of reasons that intersected with each other and coalesced into the compelling urge to just do it.

But Emma was owed an explanation at least as good as the one Dawn and Jennifer Todd had received. She deserved to understand my thought process better than the strangers I’d paraded my naked ass in front of at Greta’s. And I desperately wanted someone other than Darren to get me. I needed her to get me too.

But where to start?

Should I tell her about my childhood obsession with naked women being exposed to a group of clothed people?

Should I tell her about Showgirls and the other films that helped to grow this obsession?

Should I start with the night Darren suggested that I do this? End with the trip to Staten Island where I tossed my clothes out the window and had the time of my life as the only one naked in a house full of people ?

Or would it be better to start with my victimization and issues with women shaming me for my sexy dress in the cold and work backwards to explain how this would empower me?

But this wasn’t a group of strangers I was trying to impress or some producers that I had to convince to be on my side. This was my best friend. I didn’t like agonizing over having a conversation with her that should have been as natural as my naked body was. And I didn’t want to present her with 100 puzzle pieces and ask her to make sense of it. If I just started talking, I was sure she would eventually catch on to what I was saying. She knew me better than everyone else. If anyone would be able to get me, it was her.

So I sat by her side, smiled and asked “Remember when you said if I wasn’t a celebrity, I would be a drunk college girl dancing naked on stage trying to win a wet t-shirt contest? Let’s start there.”

With Emma listening by the fire, I stitched together a narrative that was supposed to make clear why me showing up naked to Sunday’s award show was a logical progression of my life experiences.

She had the benefit of already knowing many of my personal failures and insecurities, so drawing from that established history made it easy to rattle off events that happened to me without having to explain each and every one. She knew the nude leak had destroyed my self confidence. So all I had to explain now was how this stunt slash statement would help repair it.

But while I wanted this moment with Emma to be totally special and unique, I felt deju vu.

I’ve been here before. I’ve been explaining myself over and over again, not just to Dawn, and Jennifer Todd, and Greta and the guests at the turtela. I’ve been having an internal dialogue with myself for even longer. A debate that forced me to satisfy my own screaming questions of why.

So the words that left my mouth felt very familiar, almost as if I was reading from a script that had been written on my heart. I talked about John Lennon and Yoko Ono and Rose McGowan. But the words were not just my own, Darren’s descriptions and vocabulary had been absorbed into my thesis, but with no citation, it felt a little like plagiarism. A little rehearsed and stilted. A little false.

By the time I got to talking about how my naked experience on the Red Sparrow set was analogous to showing up naked to the red carpet, it really set in that this entire exercise was a poor imitation of what had occured during brunch with Dawn and Jennifer.

I’d admitted out loud to them things that I had only just then discovered, and the effect was an honest show of transparency that resonated with the two women. But this was just me remembering what I told them and trying to hit the same beats so I could provoke the same reaction I received Sunday.

But Emma’s body language didn’t make me feel embraced or accepted. She was just staring at me with distant eyes and occasionally bringing her wine glass to her lips for a humorless sip.

I found myself retreating back to memories of sitting naked in front of dozens of strangers, for direction or perhaps comfort. Talking with them had been so easy as I laid my reasons bare before them. There was clarity to my desires then. And they had all responded with such enthusiasm and understanding.

Even the ones that didn’t get it right away still seemed to admire my ambition, and considered my willingness to even think about appearing naked to the world for artistic and personal reasons as bold and courageous.

But admiration was absent in Emma’s eyes as I told her the naked truth about me. I had her attention, so she clearly wasn’t apathetic, but there was no sense of awe or enchantment to her gaze. No look of inspiration or excitement. Nothing to communicate that my words were penetrating her wall of skepticism or drowning the questions of why?

I tried to at least get her to crack a smile by making light of my naked body being presented publicly. Jokes were always disarming and I needed my best friend to drop her guard. I needed her on my side with this. “Those South Park guys said my butthole is public domain. But fuck them, I’m putting a copyright claim on my butthole. It’s my body, my intellectual property. And when people google ‘Jennifer Lawrence’s butthole’ I want the search results to be butthole pics I authorized.”

But my dirty humor failed to loosen the sternness of her face or cut through the tension. I felt the weight of her eyes looking at me and realized that those big eyes of hers were searching for something. I couldn’t be sure what exactly she was searching for but with no clothes on, it felt as if she was looking right through me.

I felt completely naked then. Not the fun, excited, stimulated naked that I’d grown to love. But vulnerable, cold, afraid. The kind of naked that compelled people to cover themselves because they were exposed.

The urge to cover myself nearly overwhelmed me. But if I couldn’t sit naked in the privacy of my home with my sleeping dog and best friend, then how would I ever hope to conquer the red carpet? I steeled myself and pointed my chest forward. Be proud of your nakedness, Jennifer. Make her see why you need this. Make her see why she should be proud of you.

I pivoted towards the subject of female solidarity and empowerment, mainly that Jennifer Todd and Dawn Hudson had both supported my decision to come to their show nude. I noticed while telling her about the meeting that I had stopped saying the word “naked” in my explanation and replaced it with “nude” and “au natural.”

“Jennifer Todd thinks the simplicity of my statement is beautiful. Using my nude body to deliver a personal and political message to the establishment. Ethos, pathos, that high-art kind of stuff that is in your face but not preachy. Dawn agreed. Said this show was for women to express ourselves and use the platform to rebuke, and heal, and grow. They are both inspired by what I want to do. They feel really excited about the whole thing.”

It felt cheap leaning on those women. But if Emma could see that other important feminists were on my side, then she could be persuaded to see that this wasn’t so ludicrous after all. And with this train of thought guiding my words, I clumsily brought up Greta, and Sarah, and Jane, and the others that had supported me at the closed door tertulia last week. But this added another wrinkle that needed to be ironed out, as she had no idea who these people were.

It forced me to reluctantly reveal to her that Darren had helped to encourage me to pursue this. But even explaining that part came out sounding wrong. I was trying to tell her about how Darren convinced me to leave the house in my underwear but after I said “he wouldn’t even let me put on shoes,” I saw her face grow even harder. I caught myself and changed my wording, trying not to make it sound so abusive.

I tried to make my experience throwing my clothes out the window on the way to Staten Island sound fun and even cathartic, but whenever the words left my mouth everything sounded so childish and goofy. Even talking about the wonderful night I had drinking wine, reenacting movie scenes, and watching Greta’s nude stage performance felt less momentous than it had felt experiencing it. I just couldn’t gather the right words to express it to my satisfaction – or apparently hers.

Maybe it was the alcohol that was robbing my words of eloquence and coherence, or maybe the hostile body language I sensed from her was rattling me. I felt defeated and she hadn’t even said a word. Her silent stare just said it all. When I reached the natural end point of the explanation, where I had no more story to tell, no more anecdote to dangle, no more joke to deliver, I slumped my shoulders and sighed. “So that’s why, I guess.”

After what felt like an eternity of complete silence, her mouth opened. I thought she was going to put me out of my misery and tell me how she felt. But all that left her mouth was a belch.

After my long winded defense, that felt like a slap in the face. “Well?” I asked.

“Well what?” she finally spoke.

“Well… say something.”

She threw up her arms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I just spent God knows how admitting something personal to you. You don’t have anything to say about any of it?”

“I have a lot I could say. But you seem to have it all figured out. You even have two powerful producers supporting you.”

I playfully nudged her with my naked knee. “That means nothing without the support of my best friend.” She let out a chuckle, but it felt bitter. Nothing about it revealed that she found anything amusing about this. “Seriously, Emma. What are you thinking?”

Her mouth opened but she hesitated to speak. It was as if she was measuring her words, measuring my naked vulnerability, trying to decide if being honest with me was worth it.

“Don’t lie to me,” I told her. “ Don’t sugar coat your feelings to spare mine.”

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and forced out a laugh. When she looked at me again, I knew that she was not going to hold back. “I hate Darren.” Her humorless laugh acted as an exclamation to her statement. “I fucking hate him. He is the worst thing to ever happen to you.”

I should have expected that but for some reason it caught me off guard like a knee to the groin. I felt infantilized in that moment, having poured out my soul explaining a life defining choice, even if clumsily, only for her to boil it all down to me being led astray by Darren.

“This isn’t about him.”

“Jennifer.”

“It’s not,” I said even louder. I felt my blood boiling over this. “I’m a tad peeved that you’re even suggesting that it is.”

“You really are going to sit here and tell me that Darren’s stench isn’t all over this?” she said, matching my energy with hers. “You think I’m a fucking idiot?”

“I think you’re fucking mistaken.”

“I’m not,” she shook her head. “I listen to you. I hear the things you say and the things you don’t say. You’ve been calling me, half drunk, half sleep late at night for months. Venting about Darren. Ranting about Darren. Telling me how frustrated you get with him. Telling me how you question yourself when he gets in your head. Telling me how you lose yourself in his voice. You don’t ever say no to him. It’s like you’re physically incapable of it.”

“That’s fucking bullshit.”

“You still fucking him?”

“What?”

“What?” she mocked. “Are you still fucking him?”

“No.”

“No?”

She sees right through me.

“No,” I said again. I felt even more naked as I realized my breasts were jiggling each time I raised my voice at her. I hugged my chest and tried to calm down. “Even if I was sleeping with him, that isn’t what any of this is about.”

“Then why are you lying about it?” she asked.

“Because whether I sleep with him or not doesn’t relate to what I’m telling you now. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” she said. “It’s always mattered. He’s controlling in ways you pretend are endearing and fun, then he plants ideas in your head that you end up taking to heart until you convince yourself you came up with it all on your own. All of that shit about your naked body being a political statement, like Yoko Ono and John Lennon. That’s his vision. Those are his words, not yours.”

“Can you please not do this?” I begged her.

“Do what?”

“Can you please not throw the things I’ve told you back in my face like this? Can you please not as if I’m an infant incapable of making my own decisions? Can you not deny me of my agency?”

“I don’t think that is what I’m doing,” she shook her head. “But if I am, I’m only doing what you asked when you told me not to spare your feelings.”

“I asked for your opinion. I didn’t ask for you to ignore my feelings about this. Yes Darren may have had some influence on me – he may have suggested that I try something like this, and helped me see the artistic or social value in it. But it’s not like he is trying to hurt me. He just saw something in me, the same thing you saw years ago, and helped me nurture it. And if I sound like him? Big deal. Of course I carry some of him with me even after our breakup, just as he carries some of me with him. That’s what happens in relationships. You love someone that deeply and you’re gonna be changed. But that doesn’t mean I can’t exist and make my own thought out choices.”

“Look, it’s not my intention to hurt your feelings, demonize your relationship, or deny you of agency. I would never want to do that. But I’m not a yes woman. I won’t kiss your ass when you have a horrendous idea. I can’t lie to you. This whole thing sounds like bullshit. I keep thinking you’re going to say gotcha and the joke will be on me. I hope like hell you’re just pulling an elaborate prank because otherwise the joke will be on you. That is all I’m trying to get across to you.”

“Emma, I appreciate that you’re not a yes woman. I love that I can count on you to be real. That is why I told you. But if you think I’m an idiot, then fine, call me an idiot. Just don’t call me a puppet. I’m doing this because I want to do it. And all I want is for you to understand why.”

“Well I don’t understand,” she shrugged. “I heard your entire non-sequitur of an explanation to explain why. But I don’t understand. I’m sorry. But part of what I don’t understand is how you can’t see that he is exploiting you. Objectifying you. Making you his little art project. You don’t think he got off on making you toss your clothes away for his friends?”

She looked closer at my naked body, which I was hiding. “You don’t think he wants to get off to showing you to the world like this?”

“It’s not sexual for him,” I said, again invoking his own words tonight, this time to defend him. But did he deserve my defense? Was I being intellectually dishonest by not mentioning that Darren had admitted to it being a little sexually exciting?

This conversation was mentally exhausting and had me feeling lost in my own feelings. But I had to talk my way through the webs of conflicted emotion and confusion. What I felt secure in was how good I had felt the last time I was completely naked in front of a group. I enjoyed that moment so much. That much I could be sure about.

“Emma, when I was sitting naked with all of those people at the party. I felt alive in a way I haven’t felt in a long time. It felt right. It confirmed that my feelings weren’t something Darren spoke into existence. They were my feelings all along.”

“I know you like being naked. We’ve joked about that plenty of times. But we’re not disagreeing over there being anything wrong with that. We’re discussing you taking it to a level that is beyond acceptable.”

“Who makes the rules for what is acceptable?” I asked. “And why can’t those rules be challenged?”

I thought her eyes might roll out of their sockets as she sighed. “Let me guess, Darren, Dawn, and Jennifer Todd are the brave, social justice warriors that will challenge the status quo by letting you walk around naked. How brave.” She started clapping. “Thank God for them for liberating us from our oppressive gowns and letting us see your titties. Nobel peace prize stuff right there.”

I was fighting back tears now. “Is this really what you think of me?”

“I’m just pointing out how pretentious you sound right now. We used to make fun of people that talk like that. But now you’re hanging around Darren and his elitist  friends, talking just like them, and acting like I’m supposed to be impressed that you hung out all night with them drinking wine and smelling each others farts.”

“Sitting around drinking wine, smelling each others farts is literally me and you every time we get together.”

“You know what I mean,” she said with a laugh that she didn’t want to come out. She paused, as if to reset her train of thought, and restart our discussion. “I know the nude photo leaks devastated you. I know the slut shaming embarrassed you. I know the violation made you less trusting. I saw what it did to your relationships and how it has impacted your career. I get all of that. What I don’t get is why you think that exposing yourself like this would actually help anything. I mean if you were assaulted by someone, you don’t defend yourself by punching yourself in the face. That’s not how you get back at them.”

“But I’m not just trying to ‘get back’ at people. This isn’t a violent reaction to me being violated. I’m not punching anybody. I’m responding to being assaulted by telling those creeps that they didn’t kill me. They didn’t win. It’s about me becoming comfortable in my own skin again.”

“Wasn’t that what your movie choices were for?” she asked. “I mean Jesus, we’ve had this conversation before. When you first told me Darren convinced you to do that movie, and convinced you to do that violent scene where all those people ripped off your clothes. The whole point of all of that was for you to get over what happened to you.”

She had a point there. Emma had seen the film mother! The weekend it released and we had a long conversation about it’s failure at the box office. We had an even longer conversation about if I regretted it, once The Razzies nominated me for Worst Actress.

She’d shared her own feelings about the film then. While she thought my performance was great, she hated the actual film, and found it really disturbing, especially the part where I was kicked, punched, and had my face stomped on by dozens of people while they tore off my clothes and screamed gendered slurs at me.

She thought the scene was too on the nose to be thoughtful, and thought that it didn’t do anything to repair my image or make people feel empathy for me. If anything, she thought it gave the people that hated me an image to enjoy. Seeing the loudmouth liberal woman put in her place.

“You were so convinced doing Darren the visionary auteur’s film would be just what you needed. But he lied to you,” she said. “And look what happened? Nobody went to see your movie. The few that did hated it. And the weirdos that liked it are probably the same blowhards that enjoyed seeing you violated, so of course they got their dicks out to see you nearly gang raped.”

“Thank you for the recap.”

“I’m sorry but it’s true. You accepted an edgy, but ultimately bad role because you thought it would heal you in some way and it backfired and made things worse. Same thing with Red Sparrow.”

“What’s wrong with Red Sparrow?”

“You get naked. You get raped and beaten. And you call it empowering. I’m sorry, but getting naked and destroying your reputation isn’t the way to reclaim your dignity.”

You asked for this, I tried to remind myself.

But try as I could to anchor myself in calm waters, the waves of anger only intensified. I’d wanted Emma to be blunt and honest with me. That was how our friendship worked. We told each other what we felt, no matter what it was, and that willingness to be brutally honest was what made the trust between us so dependable. That she would tell me the things that nobody else in Hollywood would dare say, was why I called her my best friend.

But even if she had a point, and even if that point was what I begged her to give me, I was not actually prepared for how hurtful it felt to have her deliver it. I felt pain in my gut as if she had punched me. And the more she talked, the more she felt like my opponent, an enemy I had to defeat. Being completely naked before her only added to the feeling that we were fighting and she was pummeling me into submission. Instinctively, my joints stiffened, and I balled my fists.

This was no longer a discussion. This was self defense.

“Don’t try to shame me because I’m willing to take risks in my career,” I pointed at her. “Sorry but I’m not interested in doing safe as shit La La Land roles my entire career. I want to challenge my comfort zone. I want to show my body. I want to test my limits and push the boundaries. Yes I’ve taken some questionable roles, but that is what art is. Not playing it safe. I’m out there portraying flawed women dealing with real world problems. So maybe I can’t expect you to understand my choices when your ‘edgiest’ role had you pretending to be Hawaiian even though you’re a white as white bread white girl from Arizona. If you’re too self conscious to show your boney ass, then fine by me. But don’t be mad at me because I’m willing to put myself out there.”

The gloves were off now. I’d clearly landed a blow on her and I could see in her face that it hurt. Emma had been involved in a whitewashing controversy because she accepted a role to play a Hawaiian character in the Cameron Crow film Aloha. Emma had expressed to me plenty of times that it was the biggest regret of her young career, and the backlash that she received was one of the most embarrassing periods of her life.

Beyond that, Emma had also admitted her insecurities over her body, and expressed self doubt about ever doing nudity in a scene. I’d told her that her body was beautiful, that she shouldn’t be afraid of showing it if the right role called for it.

But look at me now, throwing her fears in her face.

But she started it!

But did she really? Or was I just angry at her for not giving me the validation that I sought?

I wasn’t sure if I was being fair or just lashing out like a wounded animal that won’t accept any help. I just knew that if I wanted our night to end with hugs and kisses, I should not have said what I said.

She had a smile on her face. But she also had tears in her big beautiful eyes. She had to laugh to keep from crying. She won an Oscar making that face. But this wasn’t a performance. This was what she looked like when she was hurt.

She could have, should have lashed back. But she shook her head, as if telling herself she was not going to say what she desperately wanted to say.

“So about the red carpet,” she said, choosing to ignore my diatribe. “Does your mother know what you’re doing? Your father?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” I said. I knew this came as a bit of a surprise to her. She knew my parents. Knew how close I was to them. I wanted to use this knowledge to remind her that she was special to me. “I haven’t told anyone since I got the okay from Dawn today. Except you. I wanted you to know.”

“Well I bet you regret that,” she said. Her smile betrayed the pain on her face.

“No, I don’t. Emma I’m-”

But she interrupted my apology. “And what about your brothers? I know they’ll be traumatized when they see little sister naked like this.”

“They’ll survive,” I said. “They probably won’t be surprised either. They know what I am.”

I was referring to being an exhibitionist. My brother was the first person introduce that term to me. They’d caught me frolicking naked outside when we were younger. It would be a shock when they saw what I was doing Sunday. But it wouldn’t be a surprise.

I assumed Emma would have immediately jumped to the word ‘exhibitionist‘. She was the second person to ever label me that, when I took off all of my clothes while hanging out with a group of our mutual friends many years back. But she had another word in mind to describe me.

“Selfish?” she said in response to me saying my brothers knew what I was.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Clearly you don’t give a shit about how this affects anybody else.”

“Am I supposed to live my entire life scared of what my siblings think? Be afraid to be myself because of my conservative folks? Is that what you want?”

“You’re so fucking selfish,” she laughed. Bitter, cold, and angry. But a laugh nonetheless. “Harvey’s victims are going to be at that red carpet. And yet you still can’t see how you ‘being yourself’ is basically a fuck you to them.”

“I’m not saying fuck you to anybody by merely being naked. Dammit Emma. My body is not offensive.”

“Don’t you fucking put words in my mouth. I never said your body is offensive. But you know your body will be a distraction and you don’t care,” she said, resigned to see me as pitifully selfish. “That’s why it’s a fuck you. There will be women there that will want to talk timesup, metoo, being harassed and objectified but nobody will listen because everybody will be too busy talking about your butthole. And apparently, that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” I insisted. “I explicitly expressed to Jennifer and Dawn  that I had concerns about potentially overshadowing the conversation. We talked through it for hours. They both agreed that my naked body will help the conversation, not distract from it or trivialize it. Me showing up without finery, but as I was born will highlight all of the objectification, harassment, and outright hypocrisy we face.”

“Cool, you believe that but do you really think the women you’re propping up believe that? Dawn Hudson is the same woman that allowed the ‘we saw your titties’ song to degrade the women in our profession. You think she cares about ‘the conversation‘? You think she cares about making sure women don’t feel marginalized at a show that is supposed to be for them? You think Jennifer Todd gives a shit about you? That her excitement over this stunt isn’t about the ratings your naked body will give her?”

“When did you become so cynical?”

“Honey if I’m being cynical, you’re being naive.”

I didn’t respond. She broke the silence with a bitter laugh.

“I don’t even think I’m going to go now,” she said. “I can’t deal with that kind of second hand embarrassment. And I don’t want to have to answer a million questions asking me what I think about your ‘wardrobe’.”

It was tradition for last years best actress winner to announce an award at the following years show. And now it felt like she was threatening to break tradition as a way to strong arm me into changing my mind.

“Oh that is bullshit Emma,” I said, jumping out of my seat and scaring my dog awake. “And you’re talking about me being selfish? So fuck you to the entire academy because you’re too afraid to say ‘ no comment?”

She stood up, refusing to back down from her naked friend. “I’m not saying fuck you to the Academy. I’m saying fuck you to you,” she threw at me. “Fuck you for not seeing how stupid you are going to make all of us look. We’re going to all look like fools because you want to ‘be empowered’ or whatever. And we’re going to have to answer for it.”

“I see. All of this time, I thought maybe you were truly concerned about me. But I see now that this whole thing is about you. You don’t want to answer tough questions. You don’t want to stand up for anything. You’re not concerned about me. You just don’t want to look bad.”

“Are you kidding me? Are you this deluded?” she yelled at me. “You let a 50 year old megalomaniac talk you into bad decision after bad decision. All I’ve been doing is trying to talk sense into you. I love you, Jennifer. But you’re being stupid. And I don’t want to let temporary stupidity ruin you. But because you’re so up your own ass you don’t see that everything you do reflects on all of us.. You’re the face of Hollywood. Your fuck ups have a ripple effect on every other woman in Hollywood. And instead of seeing that, you’re trying to lecture me about what art is.”

“You’re deflecting. You made my body about you, now you’re  trying to pretend you’re sticking up for other women in Hollywood?”

“Oh fuck off. We’re all fighting to be taken seriously at the negotiation table,” she said. “We’re fighting for opportunities behind the camera, to tell our own stories, for our voices to be heard. How the hell do we do that if Hollywood’s biggest female star is out here waltzing around naked like an attention whore?”

“You are being unfair…you-”

“The world is unfair,” she interrupted. “We work our asses off but people still act like we only achieved fame by sucking off some fat producer on a casting couch. Metoo has only made the perception worse. Now all of our talent and success and credibility is tainted and questioned. Now we all get whispers that we used our bodies to get ahead. And your response is to flaunt your body? Not your brain, or your talent, but your naked ass? You’re the chosen girl. Our biggest star. And this is how you represent yourself? This is how you represent us? And for what? Your boyfriends boner?”

“GOSH Emma, stop saying this is about Darren.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. It’s not about him. It’s about art. What’s your encore for next years show? He money shots you and makes you show up on the red carpet so everyone can admire his work of art on your face?”

“FUCK YOU!” I screamed.

“FUCK YOU!” she screamed back.

She left without another word.

I ran to my bedroom and hid inside my robe. But even after being clothed once again, I still felt utterly naked.