Dreamgirl Chapter 6: “How does being a dream girl shape your own dreams?”
Words: Emma Forrest
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As she boards the flight to London a day before Jewish New Year, Casey asks if there’s anywhere we could do Rosh Hashana together. She’s not someone who feels remotely oppressed by her religious upbringing, but, by the same token, she hasn’t been to Temple since she moved to L.A.
Growing up in an Orthodox home, she has fretted about her outfit, and how to make her black pants and blouse most appropriate. But in the event we are greeted, at the Synagogue, by a friendly Trans Woman and a middle aged lady with dyed green hair.
We both agree the young female Rabbi we ended up talking to was wonderful and also, as a secondary thought, extremely hot. The Rabbi has prematurely grey hair, no make up and very long scarlet nails. “There are many ways,” says Casey, as we dissect the Rabbi’s appearance, “to perform femininity”. We are fascinated by how lightly she carries the double bind of being a Rabbi and a young woman, on whom fantasy can therefore be doubly projected - religious and sensual - and are they different things anyway?
Casey is my ex-boyfriend’s “dreamgirl”, she is many people’s dreamgirl. How does being a dream girl shape your own dreams, dreams being the place we make sense of what troubled us in our waking hours.
“I don’t even think of myself as a woman”, she says, flatly. “I don’t see myself as having any gender, though I can perform femininity”.
“Do you see yourself as They/Them?”
“I’m not sure. There was one day when I was like, I need a label. Like a label for my gender and I looked at like a Wikipedia issue of like 50 different words for like different genders. And ‘Demi Girl’ is the one that I found that most suits me. It feels like me, but also that's not a real word. And so I don't like it because it's not, like...It’s not a real word. It doesn't mean anything”.
I ask how it felt to be back in Synagogue.
She sighs. “I wanted it to be more familiar. The parts that did feel familiar were really lovely and feel really comfortable and the parts that were..the words I grew up with but sung to a different tune? I was like, But wait, that's not I want”.
As I look at it written down, this feels like a story about an imaginary best friend. My ex-boyfriend’s favourite porn star came to life and we went to Synagogue together.
One night, she takes me to dinner at a fancy Indian restaurant and we each get tipsy on one elegant cocktail. She says she’d like to create a TV show in the vein of ‘Californication’, and when I am unenthusiastic about the programme, she coos, in explanation: “David Duchovny lives HERE” - her small hands make a triangle at her crotch - then adds, a few minutes later, miming the same gesture, “Gillian Anderson lives HERE”. I wonder if the X-Files actors would be happy to see each other again, co-habiting inside Casey’s vagina, or if they’d feel like the villains who are trapped together for all eternity behind a shard of sealed glass at the climax of Superman.
“My ex-boyfriend’s favourite porn star came to life and we went to Synagogue together.”
The X-Files - which she’d watch with her Father - was pivotal for her nascent sexuality, in part because her Dad, a forensic scientist, was an advisor to TV shows and therefore she had tangential access. “My dad at his office, had a signed picture of them. And it was like, a very sexy picture.”
She agrees, it’s notable that a porn star grew up with a Father who specialised in the minutia - hypnotic and disturbing - of the human body in extreme close up.
“A lot of my dad's consulting was like DUIs or insurance claims, that sort of thing. And then, occasionally, he'd get, you know, Anna Nicole Smith, someone incredibly interesting.”
Her Mother passed away from colon cancer. And, “Yes, it did occur to me many years ago that my Mom was sick with colon cancer while I made a living taking dicks up my ass”.
When she gets back to L.A, she will have a colonoscopy, since it’s a cancer that can be genetic. I tell her I am sorry, that must be a stressful procedure, and she smiles and says “I will find a way to monetise it”. I think it’s like when I say “That hurts HA HA”. But maybe I’m projecting. Like Debbie Harry and Rachel Weisz, Casey has a face shape with a large, clean expanse for a person to project onto.
After the Indian dinner, we meet up with Chloe Cherry, a former porn star who “got out”, becoming a fan favourite on the HBO drama ‘Euphoria’. When we get to her five star hotel, she is in the “see and be seen” dining room, wearing a track suit and eating lobster macaroni by herself.
She is delighted to see Casey and to gossip about her old industry. To an outsider, it sounds like your dad talking to another dad about motorways, “Take the A4 to the M25".
"How often did you shoot for Hussies?” Casey asks her.
Chloe lets her fork pause in front of her plump mouth as she thinks:
“Like three times a month?”
Casey is appalled: “It should have been ten times a month! You were eighteen!”
I think of the sexually upsetting things that happened to me at that age, and to the close female friends I have. None of us talk about our past the way Casey and Chloe talk about their teen years - how they ought to have been better monetized. It is fascinating to me (who has let the memories of my teenage distress melt on my tongue for decades now, like a never ending hard candy.)
In contravention of the traditional porn star origin story, Casey’s first time having sex was “lovely”. “He still sends me dick pics now and then”. “Sentimental dick pics!” I cry. “Exactly”.
The next day, we are eating scones and clotted cream with a friend at The Wolseley, the cavernous art deco walls echoing our conversation.
I ask about a particular film Casey was in and, instantaneously, her whole body slumps. “I have PTSD from that film. I can’t talk about it”. Our friend hasn’t tuned in to how deeply Casey is collapsing in on herself and he begins to talk about the back story to the film. “Not in front of me”, she pleads, but she’s so quiet he can barely hear her.
I jump in, in my best decisive Mother voice:
“Hey! Casey! Would you rather have a bunny rabbit or a cat?”
Our friend looks confused, as she answers me: “A bunny. I had one when I was little.”
“Was it small or giant?”
“It was normal size. His name was Basil”.
She pauses.
“He’s my first memory. I think around two. I had to give him away when we moved from Baltimore to Gainesville.”
“Where did Basil go?”
She’s starting to sit straighter.
“To a family friend. I got updates. I think he lived until I was around seven”.
She takes a small bite of scone, visibly back in her body. I ask the next day if she knew I was doing a Mom Jedi mind trick on her, and that pet talk always catches the attention of a despairing child. “I knew what you were doing, “ she says, “And I appreciated it”.