Disclaimer: This story is meant to be a work of fiction, based on a (rather traumatizing) dream. It is not intended to imply any gayness on the part of Miley Cyrus, nor to imply that the author, though gay, actually WANTS to have relations with Miley Cyrus.
Taryn Wood is a big gay lesbo, AND wants to have relations with Miley Cyrus, but does not exist, so this is perfectly acceptable.
Enjoy.
The Other Side Of Me A Cirrus Kain joint
Who am I?
An actress, washed up at twenty-seven, living alone in a house with far too much space. Just enough money to make things really boring. The house was a gift, and don't get me wrong, I'm so eternally grateful, but it was all I could do during its construct to reign it in at a mere sprawling single-story, instead of the extravaganza it was intended to be. I just prefer simplicity. In a neighborhood full of tricked-out custom SUVs and Euro-trash sports cars I drive the same Camry I drove to the lot in 2004, when I made my tiny personal fortune. Remember the last season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer? Remember the small army of teenage "potential" slayer girls that fought alongside the show's beloved regulars that season? Of course you don't. And if you do, you don't remember me. I was barely more than an extra really, but I survived until the last episode, and had a name, Rallie, even if it was only in the script. And that entitled me to everything I got; more than enough, I don't have any family to speak of, and I still buy most of my clothes at Target.
I guess I impressed Mr. Whedon during my brief stint on his show though, because he decided that I needed some kind of apology, for the show ending before I could make my career with it he said. Joss Whedon commissioned my house. Seven rooms aside from the standard kitchen-dining-formal living-family rooms. One of them is mine, the master suite, and is the size of the studio I lived in when I moved to LA in the first place. Except for one furnished guest room, the others are empty. I thought off and on about turning them into things like libraries or game rooms over the years, but honestly I didn't want to have to walk across the house for a book or a round of Smash Bros.
The back yard, however, was an entirely different story. Far from being embarrassed or uncomfortable with its opulence, the grounds of my "estate" were my favorite place spend time. The pool was a work of art. One round central diving pool, surrounded by four smaller Jacuzzis, each connected to the main via underwater tunnel. I was always selective about its use because of the ridiculous cost of heating the thing, but I adored every second I did spend in it and, during my more social days, it made for a rockin' party site. Off to the side I had a raised wooden deck and gazebo, with vinyl covers for the sides to make it watertight in inclement weather, on the off chance that Southern California had any. I kept a sofa and two large armchairs there, around a wrought iron fire pit. In late November, on a cold dark night, there was no better place to be than that, wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire.
I was there, staring into the fire, coffee pot beside me, when I discovered I had new neighbors. You'd think that, living in LA and being an actress myself , I'd have at least a passing interest in Hollywood and in the comings and goings of my posh little zipcode. Whatever passing interest I had once possessed though had indeed passed. I hadn't done more than background work in six years. By Thanksgiving of 2009, my depression had cost me my interest almost everything, as well as most of my friends. I spent Thanksgiving alone. It wasn't just my lack of work either. Something was missing in my life, and I had no idea how to go about finding it.
And that was when she found me.
I nearly didn't recognize her; anyone would be hard pressed to identify modern celebrity plopping down on their couch in sweatpants and no makeup, hair carelessly tossed up, and eyes just a little swollen from crying. Nearly. But as closed off as I was by then, I still lived in LA, and I still shopped at Wal-Mart.
"I don't recognize you," she said, quietly, like she was afraid her voice might break again. "You're not weird are you? Are you Hollywood? There's a hole in your wall."
I took that to mean she'd expected a familiar, in the TV/summer blockbuster sense, face when she snuck on to my property and approached my fire. "No," I told her, "not for several years, if I ever really was. And I am weird. But not, like, creepy, if that's what you were asking."
"Do you know who I am? Ugh. That sounds so awful, asking that, like that. But you know, right?"
"You're the chick from Wal-Mart, right?" It worked, she cracked a smile. "I'm Taryn Wood. You won't have heard of me."
"My dad thinks I should get a tattoo," she scoffed. "I turned seventeen three days ago. I don't even know what I would get. I should at least have SOME idea, right? If I'm gonna put something on MY body, forever. For. Ever." She caught sight of the coffee pot on the end table behind me. "Can I have some of that?"
What else could I do? I topped off my cup and handed it to her, without a word. She drank it black and didn't flinch. She continued and didn't pause. Her voice had grown stronger.
"And that pole-dancing thing? I didn't even want to do that! That was all management. One minute they want me to be the good little Disney princess girl, and the next they want the tabloids to call me a skank! Why do I have to make people hate me just to keep them talking? I was happy just to have my fans talking, because they liked me, and they liked my work, you know? I mean like... I know what people say when they see this stuff... when did making people disgusted with you become an acceptable thing to be famous for?"
Miley Cyrus sat next to me on my couch and ranted into the fire for a good twenty minutes about the forced dichotomy of her public image, and a bevy of other things that would never have crossed another seventeen year old's mind. I sat and listened, first blindsided, then sympathetic, until her cell phone chirped and, eyes rolled back like only a teenager can roll them, she decided it was time to get back to "happy family time" and "Billy Ray's tattoo suggestions". As she stood to leave she looked at me for the first time that night, and suddenly, inexplicably, seemed overcome with shyness.
"Look," she muttered, as softly as when she had first spoken, "I know ya'll probably think I'm a freak and stuff... but like... if I didn't bug you too much... could I maybe hide out here again some time?"
"Only if you teach me to pole-dance."
She groaned, but she was grinning too. "You're a jerk. I like you. See ya Taryn."
"Tay. See ya Wal-Mart."
She smiled again and faded back into the shadows beyond the fire's light. I watched her slender silhouette slip deftly between the hedges and disappear, feeling more relaxed and content than I had in months. She had needed someone and listening to her for even a few minutes had given me a sense of purpose I realized I had been searching for in work. I went to bed that night entertaining the idea of this girl, this strong, intelligent girl, and of being a confidant and even a mentor to her. Maybe, I thought, seeing her forge the kind of career she wanted could be just as good as a career of my own.
To my credit, my intentions were just as completely innocent as that, for a whole two weeks.
Please direct questions, comments, bullshit, etc to: blackcoyoterising@hotmail.com.