Date: Mon, 11 Jan 2010 22:49:04 -0800
From: Cirrus Kain <blackcoyoterising@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Other Side Of Me (lesbian/celebrity)

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.

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The Other Side Of Me
A Cirrus Kain joint

1.

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.

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blackcoyoterising@hotmail.com.