|May 15th, Two Thousand: Dear Ed
To: Edward Norton
From: Heather Corinna
Re: Lust and Longing in Row Six, Aisle Thirteen
You probably don't know who I am, nor the depths of my fixation.
You probably never will. It came up quite out of nowhere, really,
surprised me completely, and I'm still unsure what to make of
it at all. You, in many guises, have entered my collective sexual
imagination in all your geeky glory and innocent aplomb, and If
I could have you Ed...I'd be utterly devastated. Maybe.
The other night, my partner and I went out to dinner, then went
to see "Keeping the Faith." It's a testament to my partner's sensitivity
and care for my desires that he not only would go with me and
pay 20 bucks to go see a romantic comedy, but that he would do
so knowing I'd drool into my cup through most of the film.
Ed, you've really done it this time. I was appalled enough that
during "American History X" (which, the shallow lust that follows
aside, I think is one of the better films made in the last decade)
I found myself in tears of sorrow and anger, and all the while,
saying to myself of your character, "What a fucked-up nazi of
a human being...but dear god, what a bloody gorgeous fucked-up
nazi," even before I garnered sympathy for the character and he
mended his ways. It was just as bad during "Rounders," as I watched
your character screw everyone around him and felt sheer envy at
not being the screw-ee; not being victim to that halfcocked sardonic
grin atop that jesters face. I have yet to see any character as
purely nerdy and gushy as yours in "Everyone says I Love You,"
and yet went to bed with visions of pocket protectors dancing
around in my head, being used for all sorts of perverse purposes
they were never intended for. Look, I even put up with watching
that posturing idiot Richard Gere for two fucking hours so I could
see you pull the wool over everyone's eyes, foiling them with
your innocent face in "Primal Fear." You have no idea what a sacrifice
that was, and it was worth every moment. Be still my beating heart,
you even made porn in that film.
Don't even get me started on "Fight Club." I hate watching Brad
Pitt as well as Helena Bonham Carter, and I have fantasies involving
them too, but they generally involve padlocks to which only I
have the keys, a trailer deserted somewhere in North Dakota and
me getting off the bus back home to find my mailbox flooded with
gushingly grateful thank you notes from Hollywood, movie viewers
and Emma Thompson. That film made me ill, and you meant it to,
I understand that, but all the more ill because I hated it intensely
while still wanting to lick the blood off your face, drop
And now, this. I just spent two hours wet between the thighs over
a priest, jealous as hell that I wasn't raised with a plethora
of Catholic guilt to add to the potent cocktail of lust and longing
you mixed, shook and poured for me.
Ed, listen, I don't normally behave like this. For starters, I'm
neither a groupie nor a stargazer. I've fucked my share of notables
in my day, and didn't give a hoot who they were (and, I confess,
sometimes didn't even remember the next morning). I don't thinkof
film actors as royalty, nor do I squeal over them like a Beatlemaniac.
I don't. Really. No, I'm serious.
To top it off, Ed, I'm a one-man-woman.
Hmm. I'm a one-person woman. Gosh, that really isn't true either.
I'm a one-person-woman most of the time, but if the right other
person -- okay, other people -- came along and whoever I was with
was okay with it, I could go play for a while. But I'd always
come home alone.
Okay, not always. If the person I liked was okay with it AND thought
the other person -- okay, okay, other people, for crying out loud
-- were divine as well, I'd bring them home, too, if I could get
away with it.
Now you've got me completely off track here. But you get the point
(well, I hope someone does, because Gods know I'm not sure I do).
The point is, Ed, I've the most ridiculous crush on you, and for
the life of me, I have no idea why. It's so bad I even slipped
and mentioned it in a newspaper interview. I acted like a star-crossed
teenager for all of Boston to read in their morning paper. I risked
my credibility over you, buddy, as a scholarly, upstanding girlsmut-monger.
That's serious business, Ed.
I'm not sure what it is. Is it the voice that cracks now and again?
The cupids-bow mouth? The hair that simply won't behave, no matter
how conservatively cut? No, I know, the small, trembling chin.
Maybe it's the gangly limbs. The eyes, maybe? The delicate nose
that just begs to be sucked? The faerie ears that crave to be
bitten, lapped, licked, and -- oh, hell if I know. I forgot where
I was going with this.
Oh -- I look at you, Ed, and I want to take you home and take
care of you, then completely, utterly, abuse that privilege and
make that little chin quiver with submission. I want to take it
one more step and abuse you so horribly to get a rise out of you,
pull a bait-and-switch, and find my perky bottom atop your skinny
knees. This isn't to say I don't recognize your incredible talent,
I do. It's just beside the point in my sexual imagination. Is
that shallow? Do I care? Do you? Moreover, would you before a
couple hours were up?
Listen, Ed: I can't take it anymore, and that's a Good Thing.
I have absolutely no idea why I end up with sodden panties over
your boyish face, but it's whipped me up into a near-frenzied
state. Do I want you to somehow be reading the journal of a fairly
obscure female pornographer, ring me up, get on a plane and hop
in my bed (or on my kitchen floor, or over my ironing board, or
with your backside prettily poised atop my piano bench...)?
You know, not really. But let's pretend I never said that.
The beauty of the thing, I think, is that you are someone who
in life, had you passed me on the street, I wouldn't look twice
at. Even more delicious is that I know, in my little heart of
hearts, that I can't possibly have you, and if I thought for even
a minute that I could, my aching limbs would go as limp as overcooked
fettuccini in milliseconds.
The beauty of the thing, Ed, is that I think you know that. You
let it crackle on a screen, miles away from reality, whether you're
a priest or a gambler, a nazi or a bumbling suitor. The beauty
of the thing is that behind that innocent little face, those blinking
little eyes, that tidy little mouth and that incredibly geeky
exterior lives the heart of a true, lovely, sexual deviant (oh,
don't deny it, you know it's true, and even if it isn't, I'll
keep on believing it all the same) and it's all locked up in a
teeny-tiny little box, utterly beyond reach, and I can never,
ever have it. Never. Ever.
Never. How sad, how tragic, how...delicious.
What, Ed, I ask of you, do you give the woman who could have near
anyone she wanted? Someone she could never have and would bypass
anyway without even noticing, in technicolor detail, big as a
wall, impossible to ignore, and completely against type. If I
could have you, would I?
...maybe. But only if you wore that collar.