Run Catch Kiss

by Amy Sohn

Genres: General Fiction; Humor & Satire; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

"I was only twenty-two and already I was infamous..." So begins Amy Sohn's hilarious and wise debut novel, Run Catch Kiss. When the saucy Ariel Steiner returns home to New York City to be an actress, she is buoyed by daydreams of becoming Hollywood's hottest ingenue. Nothing can stand in her way -- nothing, that is, but her freshman-fifteen pounds, a senile talent agent, and the fact that she's living back home with her parents in Brooklyn. While waiting for the ever-elusive big break, Ariel discovers a hidden talent for channeling her erotic fantasies and becomes a sex columnist at New York's hottest downtown weekly. Soon, art and life are imitating one another, and the junkies, commitmentphobes, and other subjects of Ariel's columns are wreaking havoc on her life. But when she finally falls in love, the real Ariel must stand up. Is she a nice Jewish girl who wants to settle down or a brazen sex kitten who'd rather meet a deadline than the man of her dreams? Sharp, savvy, and irresistible, Run Catch Kiss is a tongue-in-cheek commentary on that dangerous turn-of-the-century phenomenon: the single girl who wants it all.

Release date: July 10, 2000

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Print pages: 256

Sample

Chapter 1

I was only twenty-two and already I was infamous. I read the gossip pages with terror in my heart, certain I would find some humiliating detail about my recent downfall. I walked the streets with my eyes peeled, ever on the lookout for hidden paparazzi. I entered my local café with my sphincter tight, counting the seconds until a stranger recognized me, shouted my name, and mocked me for my crime, a crime no one understood, because of my adamant and prolonged silence on the matter.

I was the Hester Prynne of downtown. A public laughing-stock at an age when my biggest worry should have been my lack of health insurance. Shamed before my time, defamed without good cause, a huge red letter branded on my (sizable) chest.

Yet somehow it all made sense. I had always wanted to become someone who could walk into a room and have her reputation precede her. That's what I got. In the worst way.

I didn't move back to New York to be a sex columnist. I wanted to be an actress. The day after graduation, I moved into my parents' apartment in Brooklyn Heights and called my agent, Faye Glass. She had represented me since I was fourteen, and helped me book a few off-off-Broadway plays and an anticrack commercial during high school, but by senior year my career wasn't exactly promising enough to make it worth postponing college. So I let my contract expire, went off to Brown, and told Faye I'd be in touch in four years.

I don't think she realized I meant it literally, because when I got her on the phone that day in May and told her my name, she said, "Who?"

"Ariel Steiner," I repeated insistently. "You represented me when I was a kid. I finished college, I'm back in the city, and I want to start auditioning again."

"Oh," she said like she still wasn't sure who I was. "Come into my office sometime tomorrow and we can get reacquainted."

She seemed to recognize me when I walked in the door, which at first was a huge relief. Maybe her early-onset dementia wasn't as advanced as I had thought. She sat me down opposite her desk and I said, "How's the business changed since I've been away?"

"I'll tell you how you've changed," she said. "You're heavier. A lot heavier. I hate to say it, but looks are seventy-five percent of this business, and it's always going to be that way. I can't send you out for any ingenue parts until you lose fifteen pounds. Come back and see me when you've slimmed down. In the meantime, I'll submit you for fat character roles."

I nodded mutely, but as soon as I got out on the street, I started bawling. It came as something of a shock to have to put my life dream on hold all because I never got rid of my freshman fifteen. And it didn't help that I was being asked to diet when I had just graduated a college where you spend four years learning not to buy into the warped value system of the patriarchal hegemony.

The reason Faye's words were so surprising was that I'd never considered myself fat before. I was five five, 142 pounds -- no slim chicken, but by no means a total porker. Guys had always considered my body more of an asset than a liability. I'm what they call zaftig: all butt, boobs, and hips. I was a late bloomer, but once I bloomed, I bloomed big. I didn't understand how the same figure that had served me so well horizontally could serve me so poorly professionally. But it didn't matter how I felt about my body. If Faye said I was fat, then I was. I had to lose the weight or choose another career, and I wasn't going to choose another career.

I'd known acting was my calling since November 1976, when I was two. My parents had taken me to my grandparents' house in Philadelphia for Thanksgiving, and after dinner the whole family gathered in the living room for the entertainment segment, where all the kids showed off their latest accomplishments. As my three-year-old cousin Eddie belted "Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree" into a microphone, I sat in the corner, watching them all watch him, and was seized by a jealous rage. I couldn't stand the sight of so many people paying so much attention to someone who wasn't me.

Then I got a brilliant idea. As Eddie continued to sing, I slowly and quietly began to strip off all my clothes. Everyone was so focused on him they didn't notice what I was doing. As soon as I was in the buff, I jumped in front of him with a loud "Ta-da!" and the entire room burst into fits of hysterical laughter. Eddie had been totally forgotten. They were all watching me. I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty for stealing his limelight. I just felt like justice had been served.

But now justice would have to be delayed until I lost my extra poundage. I wiped the tears off my face, bought a Slim-Fast at a Korean deli, and got on the subway home.

Brooklyn Heights is a quaint, old-fashioned neighborhood known for its tree-lined streets and elegant turn-of-the-century brownstones. I didn't grow up in one of those brownstones. I grew up in a three-bedroom apartment on the thirty-fifth floor of a middle-income apartment building, Silver Tower, that was built in August 1973. I once looked up Silver Tower in a Brooklyn history book and it was described as "a blot on the otherwise attractive landscape of the neighborhood."

Sad to say, that's pretty accurate. The railings on the terraces look like prison bars, the concrete is gray-brown and ribbed like a condom, and the entire phallic palace is the biggest eyesore in a twenty-block radius. The only thing that makes the apartment halfway worthwhile is the view. The terrace faces Queens, but if you lean all the way out and look toward the left, you can see the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, and from my bedroom you can spot the Statue of Liberty.

When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and listening to All Things Considered. "How was Faye's?" she said.

"She can't send me out on any ingenue parts till I lose fifteen pounds."

"She really said you have to lose fifteen pounds?" said my mom, horrified.

"Yeah."

"Because I think ten would be more than enough."

"Thanks," I said, went into my room, and shut the door. I lay down on the bed, closed my eyes, and fantasized about the day my skinny, perfect ass would be on the cover of Rolling Stone. It wouldn't take long. Once I lost the weight, Faye would send me on an audition for a murderous, conniving bitch part on the New York cop show Book 'Em. The casting director would be so blown away by my venomous appeal that she'd hire me on the spot. As soon as we shot the episode, every casting office in town would start buzzing about me, and before the show even aired, George C. Wolfe of the Public Theater would cast me in his next star-studded production -- as Lady Macbeth to Will Smith's Macbeth. Once we opened, Ben Brantley would cream all over me in the New York Times, and Hollywood would start calling.

I'd get a walk-on in the new George Clooney vehicle shooting in New York, and then Woody would cast me as his mute fourteen-year-old mail-order bride in his Untitled Winter Project. Although I wouldn't have any actual lines, my face and body would be so expressive that I'd get nominated for a best supporting actress Oscar. I'd bring my father as my date, and when Jack Palance opened the envelope and announced me as the winner, I'd run up to the stage in strapless Chanel and they'd cut to a shot of my dad drowning in a sea of his own mucus.

I'd follow my Oscar-winning role with the girl roles in Speeds 4 and 5 and Insanely Indecent Proposals. Julia would become a has-been, Julianne a nobody, Juliette yesterday's news. Winona and Gwyneth would become my best buddies. I'd help Gwyn with her eating disorder and convince Winona to change her last name back to Horowitz, and the three of us would become the reigning Jewish Girl Power Mafia of Hollywood. Under our influence, Reform Judaism would become the most popular celebrity religion and Scientology would die out forever.

I'd start my own production company, Zaftig Pictures, and produce chick-friendly scripts with completely one-dimensional roles for men. I'd be the first woman to start asking twenty-five mil a pic. Time would put me on the cover, saying I was changing the rules of Hollywood. Brown would award me an honorary doctorate and I'd go back to campus to give a speech about female empowerment in a male-dominated world. All the young theaterfucks would clap wildly for me as I choked up and did a beauty pageant wave, remembering the day when Faye had told me I was Just Too Fat.

I must have dozed off, because I was awakened by my brother, Zach, standing over me, saying, "Hello, blubber." He was in his junior year at Stuyvesant High School and going through his smart-assed-prick stage.

"Mom told you?" I said.

"Yeah."

"Do you think I need to lose weight? Be honest."

"Well, I've never wanted to say anything to you, but you have put on a few pounds over the last couple years. I think the diet's a good thing. It's an excuse to make yourself more attractive." Zach could be sharp sometimes. He cracked, but he cracked wise.

We went to the dinner table and started in on our fruit cocktail, and then my dad walked in. He kissed my mother, but not me. Since I hit puberty, I haven't let him kiss me. When I was a kid we embraced all the time, but as soon as I started developing, I stopped feeling comfortable around him. Then, when I got over my puberty weirdness, I didn't know how to go back to kissing him again, because that would have been admitting I'd been wrong not to kiss him, and you can never admit to your parents that you were wrong.

"What did Faye have to say?" he asked, sitting down at the table. I told him. "I see," he said, then began contorting his eyebrows violently. He has a bushy black beard and I've never seen his lips, but I can always tell what he's feeling by his forehead.

"Don't worry," I said. "It'll be OK. It's only fifteen pounds. I don't think it'll take me that long to lose it."

"I don't either," he said. But for the rest of the meal he didn't say another word about Faye. He just asked Zach a bunch of questions about his physics class, as I shoveled down the kasha varnishkes my mom had made for me, and pretended to like it.

The next morning I made an appointment to interview at a temp agency on Wall Street. I had gotten its name off the front page of the Sunday New York Times classifieds. The ad was diabolical, but it worked. Want to be a Star? it said, in bold caps. And on the next line, in much smaller letters, "Then sign up with Dynamic Associates for flexible, temporary work."

When I walked in the office, a coiffed fortyish woman introduced herself as Frances, took me into a conference room in the back, and had me fill out some employment history forms. Then she led me into another room, where I took the typing, word processing, and grammar tests. The last was the most humiliating. It consisted of retard-level questions like "Which is correct? (a) Washington, d.c., (b) Washington, DC, (c) Washington, D.C., (d) Washington dc" and "Pick the choice that defines or is most like the word collate. (a) destroy, (b) separate, (c) assemble, (d) moisten." I wondered what they did to the people who got that one wrong. Was there a special torture room in the back where they forced you to do huge mass mailings for hours on end, until the meaning of collate was forever embedded in your mind?

When I finished the tests, Frances took me back into her office and tabulated my results. "You need some work on your word processing skills," she said, "but your grammar is good and you type seventy-five, which is excellent. I'm going to try to get you something for tomorrow."

By the time I got home from the agency she had already left a message on my machine about an assignment. I'd be the secretary to a financial administrator at a magazine publishing company, McGinley Ladd, at Thirty-second and Park Avenue South. The rate was $18 an hour -- more than I'd gotten for any job in my life.

My boss greeted me in the lobby of the building. She was six feet tall with shoulder-length blond hair, and she introduced herself as Ashley Ginsburg. I could guess by that name that she was a shiksa who'd married a Jew, and despised her immediately for stealing one of our boys -- my own occasional shaygitz suckerdom aside.

She took me upstairs to the twelfth floor and led me to my desk. It was in a small dingy room with a window overlooking Park Avenue South. "This is my office," she said, pointing to a door to the right of the desk. "Don't walk in on me unannounced or when I'm on the phone."

She showed me how to transfer a call and work the intercom, turned on my computer, gave me a user ID, and disappeared into her office. As soon as she closed the door, I called my machine to see if Faye had left a message. Nothing. For the next two and a half hours, the Corposhit didn't come out of her office once. I sat at the desk staring at my watch, looking out the window, daydreaming, and checking the machine once every fifteen minutes. At eleven-fifty, just as I was on my way out to lunch, I dialed one more time and struck gold: "Ariel, it's Faye. I got you an audition for Book 'Em tomorrow at six. Please call." I couldn't believe my fantasy was coming true so quickly! But when I called her back she said the role was "a chunky young woman who works as a cashier and studies part-time at City College," and I realized it might take some time before my dream became reality.

On my lunch break I took the bus to the casting office and picked up the sides. They were in a folder titled "Fat Cashier" and they weren't too inspiring. The suspected murderess had ordered produce from my grocery store and I had to explain to the cops what she looked like. I tried to rehearse the scene on the ride back to work, but it wasn't too easy to find deep motivation for lines like "All's I know is he bought radicchio."

I practiced the scene three times that night with Zach, until I felt confident about my read, and the next day after work I went into the ladies' room, changed into baggy pants and a sweatshirt, and took the bus to the audition. The waiting area was teeming with gorgeous slender girls, so I knew right away they were auditioning for the conniving murderess part. Maybe there was an advantage to going up for fat roles: the competition wasn't as stiff.

After twenty minutes the casting director finally called me into her office. There were two chairs opposite her desk -- a cushy one in the center of the room and a hard-backed metal one in the corner. "Sit wherever you want," she said. I felt like Goldilocks. Would my chair choice affect my chances? Was this a secret psychology trick to see what personality type I was? I weighed my options: I knew if I chose the comfy one I'd sink down into it and give a low-energy reading, but if I sat in the metal one I'd be too far away from the casting director to connect. So I picked up the cushy one, heaved it to the corner, and moved the metal one over in its place.

"Interesting choice," she said.

"Thanks."

We ran through the scene together and when we finished she said, "You're clearly talented, and I know you could do it. Whether we cast you is simply going to depend on what the producers want. If they decide to go overweight, we'll have to go with someone else."

"Excuse me?" I said.

"If the producers want us to cast someone heavy, we're not going to go with you. You're not heavy at all." I grinned triumphantly and walked out.

The next day Faye left me a message saying I had a callback on Monday at one-fifteen at the production office in Chelsea, with the producers and director. As soon as she said the word "callback," I let out a yelp of glee. Then I hung up and rang the Corposhit on the intercom.

"Yes?" she huffed.

"I need to talk to you about something. Can I come in?"

"All right." I walked into her office. "I'm wondering if I can take a long lunch tomorrow."

"Why?"

"I'm actually an actress, and I have a callback." I couldn't resist a little self-satisfied smile.

"What's it for?"

"Book 'Em."

Her eyes bugged out. "I watch that show every week! Would you get to meet Barry Rinaldi if you got the part?"

"Yes," I said proudly. "In fact, my scene is with him. So, is that OK?"

"Sure," she said, still looking slightly incredulous. Then she suddenly seemed to realize she was being nice to her underling, reassumed her permagrimace, and said, "Close the door behind you."

The afternoon of the audition, I changed into the same clothes I'd worn to the first audition (they say you always should) and took the train to Chelsea. Some of the same model-type girls from the first audition were in the waiting room, stretching their legs and mouthing their lines. I sat down between two of them, trying not to be distracted by their burgeoning breasts, and read my scene over to myself. Then the casting director called me in.

Behind a long table in a huge, airy studio were four middle-aged men. I didn't let them intimidate me, though. I read the scene with even more hostile, jaded-cashier energy than I'd been able to summon the first time. At the end they smiled, impressed. That had to be good, because when they don't like you, they don't fake it.

When I got out on the street, I called Faye. "It went really well," I said. "I think I have a good chance, but the casting director said they won't cast me if they decide to go with someone heavy. She said I'm not heavy at all."

"Face it, Ariel," said Faye. "I sent you on an audition for a fat part, and you got called back."

I didn't wind up booking it, but I wasn't discouraged. I would spend the next few months losing weight and doing the obese girl circuit, and then Faye would start sending me out on ingenue parts, and I'd take the world by storm.

But over the next month, as I stuck to my coffee, yogurt, and skinless chicken diet and narrowed to 137 pounds, Faye didn't get me one more audition. Whenever I called to check in with her, she said, "There just aren't that many character roles for young women. I'll send you out on anything you're right for. You have to just be patient and trust me."

I have never been good at being patient. Every single thing I've achieved in life has come to me because I am not a patient person. I ran for the morning-announcements position in high school with no school government experience and won because I wrote a funny campaign speech. I was always a straight-A student because I worked my ass off. My father told me when I was young that "talent is ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration," and I took it to heart, even though he was plagiarizing Edison. So it wasn't easy to be told I had to sit tight.

Whenever I got frustrated with my acting career during high school, I would switch my focus to the only other thing I was passionate about: boys. If I didn't get called back for a play, I'd call up a cute guy in my class and flirt, and the rejection wouldn't sting so hard. I wanted to be able to utilize that technique again, but if you want to meet guys, you have to have a frame, a context, and I didn't have one. College is a frame. My boyfriend at Brown, Will, and I made eyes in Moral Problems class the first week of freshman year and went out for the next year and a half. It doesn't work like that in the city, though. If you make eyes at a hot guy on the street, he might follow you home, rape you, hack you to a million pieces, and leave you for the maggots.

So instead of trying to meet new guys, I decided to try bluebinning -- recycling old ones. Whenever I had downtime at work (which was eighty percent of the time), I went through my address book and dialed my exes. I called every cock I'd caressed in summer camp, Reform Jewish youth group, and high school, but all I got were return messages from their moms, saying, "Sam's moved to Austin," or "You can reach David at his new number in Chelsea, where he's living with his girlfriend."

My temp job didn't open many romantic doors either. When you're a temp, nobody talks to you like you're a permanent resident of the planet. Besides, all the men at McGinley Ladd were rich workaholics, and I knew I couldn't have anything real with a guy who could hack the nine-to-five. I kept hoping someone from Brown would invite me to a party, but I didn't make too many friends there because I was so tied up in my relationship, so no one was calling.

Because I couldn't vent my career frustration through real-life nookie, I turned my energies to fantasizing. I stared like a hungry puppy at every male yupster who dropped a paper in the Corposhit's in box, trying to imagine how big their dicks were, what kind of noises they made when they came, and whether they were tit men, ass men, or pussy men. I concocted elaborate scenarios involving them sitting at important business meetings and me sucking them off under their conference tables while they tried to act normal.

At night, after dinner with my family, I would go into my room, get under the covers, and diddle the dai dai. If I couldn't sleep, I'd wank. If I was bored, I'd wank. (Once, Zach came in the room and I had to stop abruptly, but the great thing about being a chick is that no one can see your woody through the sheets.) My orgasms were pleasant enough, but my hand was a poor substitute for a bona fide bone. It was pathetic. I was making my living as a receptionist, the oldest pornographic stereotype in the book, and I didn't have anyone to role-play with. After a month in the most seminal city in the world, I was an overweight actress, an overqualified temp, and an oversexed celibate.

One muggy morning in July while I was waiting for the train at Borough Hall, I figured out a way to improve at least one aspect of my sorry life. I was leafing through magazines at the newsstand when I spotted a copy of Backstage. I picked it up and flipped to the Casting section. An ad caught my eye immediately: "Lolita: Rock On. A rock musical version of the Nabokov classic, to perform at 24th St. Stage. Seeking: Lolita, 15-25, pure but tainted, pristine but vulgar. Some singing required, but soul more important than technique." I hoped they meant it, because although I can do many things, singing is not one of them.

As soon as I got to work, I called the number in the ad. A middle-aged man answered. He had a sleazy, soft-sell voice, the kind you hear on luxury car commercials.

"I'm calling about the audition," I said. "My name's Ariel Steiner."

"I'm Gordon Gray, the director. Prepare a rock or jazz song and come in Saturday at four."

That night at dinner I told my family about the audition. My dad raised his eyebrows a little when I mentioned the word Lolita, then forced a smile and said, "Knock 'em dead." After dinner I locked myself in the bathroom, ran the tap water, and practiced Gershwin's "I've Got a Crush on You" into the mirror until I had more soul than JB. When I was done, I went into my room, opened the closet, and looked for an audition outfit. I picked out a polka-dot midriff for authenticity, because that's what Lolita is wearing when Humbert first catches sight of her. Then I caught a glimpse of my gut and decided against it.

I had to go down four flights of stairs to get to the theater. It was next to a karate center, on the bottom floor of an old church. The waiting room was dark and smelled of cigarettes. Battered copies of Backstage were spread out on the floor, and a decrepit black curtain led to the theater. A blond twelve-year-old and her mother were sitting on one side of the room and a brunette in her thirties was on the other. The girl was very cute, but I could see immediately that she was no nymphet. I didn't know what to make of the brunette. I figured she was either auditioning for the role of Mrs. Haze or seriously deluded about her age range.

After a few minutes the curtain opened and a short, squat man with a white beard came out. I could tell by his voice that it was Gordon. He smiled at the girl and said, "Betsy?" The mom gave her an eager smile, Betsy went into the theater, and the curtain closed behind her. I heard her say something about "hoping to get involved in off-Broadway theater." How clueless can she be? I thought. This show was about as far off Broadway as you could get. You count the offs by the number of stairs you have to go down to get to the theater.

It was quiet for a second, and then Betsy broke into this loud, throaty version of "Hand in My Pocket" by Alanis Morissette. I looked over at Betsy's mom. She was beaming with pride. I pitied that mom. Didn't she know her kid was never going to get cast with the most brain-numbing anthem in the history of pop as her audition song?

After about fifteen seconds I heard Gordon say, "Thanks so much, Betsy. That's all we need for today." Betsy came out of the room looking vacant and dazed, and she and her mom walked out.

The brunette got called in next. She sang "On My Own" from Les Misérables in a shaky falsetto and she got stopped after ten seconds. The curtain opened, she left in a huff, and Gordon came out.

"You must be Ariel," he said. "I'm Gordon Gray." He extended his hand. "Nice grip."

"Thanks," I said. I never underestimate the importance of the handshake.

The theater was tiny and dark and it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the light. It looked more like a bomb shelter than a theater. There were audience seats on three sides and the stage was just an empty square area of paint-chipped concrete floor.

A wiry, fiftyish man in a beard and glasses was sitting in front row center. "This is Gene," said Gordon. "He'll be playing Humbert and helping me with the casting. Did you bring a headshot?"

I handed it to him and he sat down next to Gene. They flipped over to the résumé side and glanced at it for a second, nodding like my credits were decent, and then Gordon looked up and said, "Whenever you're ready."

I took a spot downstage center and breathed in. I tried not to think about Faye or weight or my total lack of vocal training. I was young, I was nubile, and I was gonna blow these fuckers away. I started to sing: "How glad the many millions of Toms and Dicks and Williams would be to capture me! But you had such persistence, you wore down my resistance; I fell and it was swell..."

They were smiling, clearly enjoying it, but I knew I had to do something bigger. On the next line I walked over to Gordon, sat on his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and nibbled his ear. He turned bright red and squirmed under me. That squirming was a very good sign. It meant I was affecting him, and if you want to get cast you have to make a bold impression. I would show him I could do this part if it took a lap dance. At the final line I strutted back to the stage, did a few curtsies and twirls, and finished on my knees, with my thumb in my mouth.

Gordon whispered to Gene in such an excited way that I was sure I stood a serious chance. Then they looked down at my résumé and Gordon said, "Would you mind doing an improv?" I certainly did not mind. Improv has always been one of my strongest skills. Gordon set up two chairs onstage and said, "Here's the scenario: you've just finished baby-sitting for Gene's kids, and now he's driving you home."

"I don't remember that scene from the book," I said.

"Oh, that's not in the book," Gordon said. "The show is going to be very free-form. We're envisioning it more as a riff on pedophilia than a literal interpretation of Nabokov."

That was cool. I could riff. Gene and I took our seats. He mimed a steering wheel and said, "So, were my kids good tonight?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Jones," I answered. "Very good. But I'm afraid I'm not such a good girl at all." I scooted my chair closer to him and put my hand on his thigh.

Before long I was telling him how much I hated blowing guys my own age and how frustrating it was that none of them knew how to make me come. The raunchier I got, the more flustered I made Gene. I couldn't tell how much was real and how much was pretend. Finally I said, "Well, here's my house, Mr. Jones," leaned over, and kissed him on the lips good-bye. His breath stank and there was some crust caked on his mouth corners, but I pretended to be into it. Then I pulled away, stood up, mimed slamming the car door shut, turned to Gordon, and smiled triumphantly.

"I'd like to cast you," he said.

I felt like I'd just won the Olympic gold. I couldn't even sing and I'd gotten booked as the lead in a rock musical. Clearly my charisma had paid off. But then I remembered how scant my competition had been, and my gold morphed into a bronze.

"This is going to be a very special rehearsal process," said Gordon. "Each of the performers will be given a chance to contribute material which relates to the theme of Lolita. It can take any form -- song, story, sketch, whatever interests you. We want to examine pedophilia in our culture from all perspectives, and Lolita's is one of the most important. I'm particularly interested