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I'm Seen, Therefore I Am by Vanessa Grigoriadis -- page 5
Alex smiles proudly. "Really? What's your boyfriend's screen name?"
"George," says Heather.
It rings a bell:
George: Talk to us, reporter girl. We won't bite — HARD.
"Omigod!" exclaims Robyn. "That's the guy who tattooed my real name on his ass!"
"What?" yells everyone in unison.
"Well, we started becoming friends, so I told him my real name," says Robyn, sheepishly. "And a few weeks later, he sends me this picture — a tattoo of his butt with my name! I freaked! What a weirdo! So I totally stopped talking to him."
"Excuse me," screams Heather. "That's the tattoo he got of my name when I was like 16 years old!"
The bonding has begun. The Girls in Voyeur Dorm Have No Secrets.
Tree: The reporter girl better eat pussy tonight
Rexx: The reporter girl does not look as hot as she did last night
The other women are left at home as Hammil, Nikki, Heather and I squish into the Jeep for the drive to Empire, a huge club downtown that plays Miami rap like 2LiveCrew. In the back, there's a pretty impressive booty-shake contest going on. Nikki and I clink glasses of Moët and wander onto the street. It's still 100 degrees outside, and the street is packed with drunk 18-year-olds.
"I'm going to be the reporter," Nikki says playfully. We walk up to three cops who are leaning against the hood of their squad car. "Have you heard of Voyeur Dorm?" asks Nikki, pretending to hold a microphone and leaning into the fattest one. "Nah," he says. "Why don't you ladies come to my apartment tonight and give me an update on the issues?" Nikki laughs, prettily, and makes me take her picture with them.
Further down the street, she goes up to two guys eating pizza outside a club. "Have you heard of Voyeur Dorm?" she asks. "Yeah, yeah," they nod. Both are grad students at USF. "What do you think of it?" she asks. "I think you girls
should make like Menudo and change girls every time you hit twenty-one," laughs one. "I think it's freakin' disgusting," says the other. "Why don't you go do something with your life? Why are you playing into the smut and oppression of females that's so prevalent in Tampa? The whole world is out there, waiting for you." Nikki shakes her head and starts walking away. "Don't play into the exploitation of women!" he yells after her.
"Moron," she says, turning to me. "Look at the way he was staring at you. He was totally looking you up and down and like drooling. Then he's all upset about exploitation."
She lifts the back of her short skirt. "Exploit this, motherfucker," she shouts his way.
We're on the way back to the dorm when Nikki decides that she wants to go to the relatively upscale Mons Venus. In the club, nude women — who are totally, utterly hairless — gyrate around the periphery of a dark-pink-lit stage. Others, some wearing just gloves or knee-high boots, move through the crowd, proffering lapdances or selling cigarettes and roses. Hammil buys three flowers for Nikki, Heather and me. Nikki gets a bottle of rum from one of the dancers and pours half of it into her coke.
Maybe the alcohol kicks in quickly, because now Nikki and Heather want to get on stage. I demur, which takes some persistence, and the two of them step nimbly up on a platform and start undressing. In their black mini skirts and chunky black sandals, they look out of place, their bodies uncomfortably natural next to those of the inflated working professionals. In one night, Nikki has play-acted as sex-positive activist, reporter and night-club stripper. As she turns around, bends over, and uses her hands to spread herself wide open, it occurs to me that maybe Nikki thinks regardless of what women do, what they're valued for is some version of what she's doing on stage right now.
Finally, I ask Hammil to drop me off at my hotel next to the airport. But Nikki has other plans for me. "Please come back to the dorm with me," she begs, gripping my arm in the backseat of the Jeep. "Hammil can sleep in the living room and we can sleep in his bed together. It'll be so fun."
"But my plane leaves so early," I protest. "Please? Please?" she begs, turning to Hammil. "Make Reporter Girl come back to the dorm!" He throws up his hands, seemingly embarrassed by her outburst.
Somehow I extricate myself from her embrace and check into my room. I've just fallen asleep when the phone rings.
"Hi," says a soft voice. "It's Nikki." I gently tell her goodnight. I'm ready to leave.
I was on standby for a flight when I left Tampa, and when they called out my flight number I went to the wrong desk. "You need to go over there," said the frazzled check-in clerk. I didn't understand why and protested. "Little girl, don't argue with me!" he shouted. "Over there!" I immediately burst into tears.
I am a little girl. I should live in a playpen with six other little girls, wondering who borrowed my curling iron without asking and taking my shirt off so the guys don't get bored. I'm seen, therefore I am.
I am not a little girl. I will get on a plane and fly far from Tampa, back to the cam-free apartment I can pay for myself, because I have a good job, because I was lucky enough to get a good education. I'll fly back to the office where the men I work with will ask me how my freelance gig went, and really want to know what I think.
Tell her Caroline Miller says if she doesn't take her top off, she's fired.
I still feel the cameras on me.
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©1999 Vanessa Grigoriadis and Nerve.com
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