Lair of the White Guys

Women in Film More like Women in Fuck This Is So Annoying

It’s 4am. I’m at a party in Chelsea. I’m in bed with two men. Well really it’s me, another gentleman beside me, and one on the end. My legs are long and hard to fold which is what I want to do because the man on the end is grabbing my toes. 

The man next to me runs a successful posthouse In Manhattan. A posthouse is a place where films go to be “finished” (colorized, mixed, etc.) so they can be watched in a theater. The other man is a close friend of his and also a writer. And likes to grab the toes of unsuspecting girls.

Ten minutes before, my friend and host of the party introduced these two to me so that I could network with them. I am a first-time filmmaker. I need the services of the man who runs the posthouse. There is a chance that these services could be discounted because I am a friend of a friend. Posthouse man is also very attractive and grounded unlike his friend, Toes. 

Making small talk, I stammer. I say “like” and “um” too many times. I am probably just what these men think of girls of my generation. Inarticulate, immature, conceited. I grow more self conscious by each word that exits my mouth. The red on my lips from earlier is now flakey, I feel it. 

They stare at me as they wait to hear what I am going to say. Mr. Posthouse is trying to figure out if I am worth his time. I see it in his eyes. Toes asks me what movies inspire me. 

This is a question a film guy will ask you when meeting you and your answer– whatever it is– is unforgivable.

My favorite film ever is Princess Mononoke and it has been since I saw it for the first time at the age of seven. But I know I can’t use that film as my answer because it is a cartoon. It shows my young age. My incompetence. Though I think that film is one of the most endearing, heart-wrenching stories that advocates for labor rights, ecological justice, and gender equality, I assume they won’t be able to get past the cartoon part. 

My second answer I think of is Suspiria (2018), but I know the women-being-violent-towards-men-thing will make them uncomfortable– it could even make them think I am hard to work with. I am running out of time. I can’t say “uh” again.

“Lair of the White Worm.” I am relieved. It’s a Ken Russell film, it’s weird, and there’s no overt feminist themes in it. 

“Why?” they both ask. 

I instantly think of the scene where the female antagonist is sporting this ridiculous wooden strapon while summoning a worm god to eat a sacrificial girl. They don’t make movies like that anymore. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen that,” Mr. Posthouse says.

“Ken Russell?” Toes asks. 

“Yes.”

“What did you like about that film?”

“Um, well I mean the lead woman– the snake lady– is hot and alluring in this really interesting way.” 

“Interesting,” Toes ponders, “Do you identify with her… sexuality?”

I squirm. I knew I answered wrong but like I said, can one really answer right? 

I take a deep breath and remind myself, I’m not talking to an acquaintance, I am talking to a man that has potential to influence my career in film. 

Dial it back- I tell myself. Be professional. Even though they are wasted, you keep your side professional. This is a double standard we are all too familiar with. 

I say, “honestly, I really like the way the film is genre-bending. It incorporates everything from history, comedy, drama, to folklore. Plus, it’s just a really uniquely aesthetically beautiful film.”

Silence. I dodge Toes’s question about sexuality. 

“What do you think of death and reincarnation?” Toes asks. 

My heart sinks. My time with Mr. Posthouse is almost up, and I haven’t gotten anywhere with him. Yet I’ve managed to make an impression on a man who engages in nonconsensual foot play. 

Toes asks again, ending the word reincarnation with a curious smile. His unevenly spaced teeth are yellow. 

Though Toes is demanding my attention, I am here to talk with Mr. Posthouse. Toes notices I keep facing his friend and this clicks for him.

“Well, this guy has everything that you need to make a movie. A really good movie,” Toes explains,” he has the cameras, the color suite, equipment, audio engineers, everything.”

I am relieved our discussion of reincarnation has been killed. 

Posthouse gleams at his friend’s words. He wears his drunkenness on his face. He wears a sports coat and a button up. Curly hair, pale skin, deep brown eyes. 

Mid to late 40’s but he is probably even older. He is definitely someone I need to be connected with. 

I feel a sense of urgency in this interaction. I am mostly at peace with doing sex work right now because I am able to afford to funding extremely low budget passion projects. But it is unsustainable. Both financially and emotionally. I can’t do this forever. Not only that but I have found something that gives me greater purpose and that thing is making films. Story-telling. I need to do whatever I can to invest in my future so I can exit the sex industry with a solid career in something else. Networking is non-negotiable. 

But everytime I try to say something that could help me to connect with Mr. Posthouse, Toes is caressing my upper thigh. He is gripping the arch of my foot. He is making me so fucking uncomfortable and I have to make it seem like nothing is wrong. 

Toes starts blathering about his opinions on eastern religions again. Mr. Posthouse has locked eyes with a tiny woman in a black wig. Big red lips and sharp jawline. She is alluring and stylish, dressed like a pinup doll. 

Posthouse is on his feet within seconds, “You’ll have to excuse me.”

It’s me and Toes now. I lost. 

I see him walk away, talking to this woman. How could I blame him. I just wish I could have kept him entertained long enough to talk to him about the film I am making. 

“...I just believe the stories that movies nowadays are so much less compelling than they used to be. And this generation of kids consume media that is mostly meaningless,” Toes complains. 

Such an interesting and unique take on youth culture.

“What kind of stories do you want to tell?” He asks me hypothetically. That’s what me and (Posthouse) are trying to find. We just want to go out and ask people what stories they want to hear about.” 

Fuck it. Posthouse is gone. I hate the guy I am currently talking to. What do I have to lose?

“Do you ever think about sex workers and the stories they have?” I ask. “I think sex workers are some of the most interesting people I have ever met.” 

“That may be true but gosh that’s a story that’s been told so many times.”

I want to scream.

“Maybe from a male’s perspective but not from the workers themselves,” I posit. “Rarely has there been a mainstream film told about a sex worker telling their story on their own terms.” He fights to say something but I don’t let him. 

“I mean just think about it. You want to tell a good story. Storytelling is about exposing the range of human emotion and experience. Who better knows that than a sex worker?” 

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he pauses, “I think it’s interesting what the masses will respond to. For instance, I wrote a book in 2012, and it was really popular. Got a big response because the audience was waiting to hear what my opinion really was.”

He wants me to ask him about his book. I will not give in. I do not fucking care about his book.

I don’t say anything. There is silence. 

“Anyway, what interests you about sex work? Why is it something that draws you to it?” He grins, like he has just seen the top of a girl’s underwear peeking out from her jeans.

My chest flushed. The topic of sex work gets him horny so he wants me to say things that will get him off. It’s my fault for going here.

He grabs my upper thigh again. 

“I have to go check on my friend,” I squeak. 

I run to the other room, walking past the lively conversation between Posthouse and Pinup. 

I sit next to my friend on the couch and she is smoking. I am embarrassed. I want to go home.

“Where did you go?”

“I was trying to network with this guy that could help me out with my film.” 

The living room is foggy. Young, attractive artists do lines of k and laugh. I think they are all trust-fund babies. I resent them. I resent everyone here. I want to go home. I have to be up in a few hours for work where once again I’ll have disgusting men grabbing my upper thigh but at least it’ll be consensual. 

I tell my friend I am going. I say goodbye to the host and thank him for introducing me to Posthouse though I ruined it. 

I feel embarrassed for putting myself in the position to get groped by that revolting guy. I feel small. I feel like a little girl.

I walk to the lobby. I see Mr. Posthouse waiting. He is alone. No Toes. No Pinup. This might be my chance to do a redo. 

“Waiting on a car?” I ask.

“Yeah, it’s that time of the night.”

“Well thanks for–”

“Was my friend being overbearing?” He asks.

So he did notice his friend was groping me.
“Yes, honestly. He kept grabbing my feet and thighs. It made me really-”

“Yeah, I had a chat with him.”

“Oh–”

“I told him you can’t do things like that nowadays. You can get in so much trouble for that sort of thing.” He squints at me, like he is about to say something profound.

“You know we are definitely on your side when things like that happen now.”

“Right” I say, “thanks.”

“My car is here.”

“Okay, well hopefully we will meet—”

“Yeah, just get my contact info from Tony.”

“Thanks.” His door slams. 

I walk down the street to Taco Bell so I can get some serotonin flowing after not one but two disappointing interactions. I am sure Posthouse feels like a hero in his UberBlack right now. He saw something and dammit he said something! I am also sure he won’t remember any of these interactions in the morning. But I will. 

I make my order at Taco Bell but my card declines. I cry a little.