Thoughts on Rudolph Valentino
So, you wanna know about Rudy, eh? What makes you think I know anything about him? Maybe I've never even met him before. Oh, right, the papers. Everyman believes what they read in the fucking papers, don't they? So, they have a picture of us kissing? Well, can't do anything about that. Maybe we were, maybe we're lovers like everyone says. Why do you think I would tell you? That shit's none of your business. OK, I'll admit it, that's me in the picture, with Rudy. And I'm not ashamed about it. Of course, I'd appreciate it if the damn press didn't follow us around but...I like that picture. That was a good memory.
Rudy had taken me to dinner. Fancy Italian joint downtown. We laughed at the accordian player and how fast I could slurp spaghetti. He told me it was terribly unladylike. His face was serious, but I could see from the glint in his eyes that he was smiling inside. And Rudy started to sing a little tune. A little Italian love song he knew. Very softly, almost like he was whispering. He movied in real close when he sang it so I could feel his warm breath against my cheek. And it was perfect, so perfect. I knew he was about to kiss me then and I sighed because I wanted him to so badly.
But then there was a flash of light behind his head and the sound of a photographer scurrying away. And just like that, the magic was over. We both flet a sense of hope drain out of us. I could see Rudy shivering with anger, his jaw tightening. But he didn't say anything.
So while I do regret the way the picture was taken, I can't hate the picture itself. I can see him leaning towards me, his eyes closed, skin glittering. He is a star. He reminds me of the archangel Raphael. He is so beautiful in this moment it hurts. I wonder why he choses me. Every woman in the world wants him. Women more beautiful than me, smarter, more charming...
You think he loves me? I hope so. Because I love him. Too much I think. And he's always away...always busy somewhere. He has the look on his face like he wants something more. He tells me he feels like a whore sometimes, a whore to the studio and a whore to the public. And I cradle his head in my lap and tell him everything's all right.
But I wonder what my love means to him, compared to everyone else. The studio loves him 'cuz he makes money. The women love him for his beauty, because he's a fantasy object to them.
"I am merely the canvas," he once said, "on which women paint their dreams."
I resented him for that. But I knew it was true. I knew it was gonna be hard for me to love him. And I would always be jealous. He calls me his lady and I call him my angel.
So, you wanna know about Rudy, eh? What makes you think I know anything about him? Maybe I've never even met him before. Oh, right, the papers. Everyman believes what they read in the fucking papers, don't they? So, they have a picture of us kissing? Well, can't do anything about that. Maybe we were, maybe we're lovers like everyone says. Why do you think I would tell you? That shit's none of your business. OK, I'll admit it, that's me in the picture, with Rudy. And I'm not ashamed about it. Of course, I'd appreciate it if the damn press didn't follow us around but...I like that picture. That was a good memory.
Rudy had taken me to dinner. Fancy Italian joint downtown. We laughed at the accordian player and how fast I could slurp spaghetti. He told me it was terribly unladylike. His face was serious, but I could see from the glint in his eyes that he was smiling inside. And Rudy started to sing a little tune. A little Italian love song he knew. Very softly, almost like he was whispering. He movied in real close when he sang it so I could feel his warm breath against my cheek. And it was perfect, so perfect. I knew he was about to kiss me then and I sighed because I wanted him to so badly.
But then there was a flash of light behind his head and the sound of a photographer scurrying away. And just like that, the magic was over. We both flet a sense of hope drain out of us. I could see Rudy shivering with anger, his jaw tightening. But he didn't say anything.
So while I do regret the way the picture was taken, I can't hate the picture itself. I can see him leaning towards me, his eyes closed, skin glittering. He is a star. He reminds me of the archangel Raphael. He is so beautiful in this moment it hurts. I wonder why he choses me. Every woman in the world wants him. Women more beautiful than me, smarter, more charming...
You think he loves me? I hope so. Because I love him. Too much I think. And he's always away...always busy somewhere. He has the look on his face like he wants something more. He tells me he feels like a whore sometimes, a whore to the studio and a whore to the public. And I cradle his head in my lap and tell him everything's all right.
But I wonder what my love means to him, compared to everyone else. The studio loves him 'cuz he makes money. The women love him for his beauty, because he's a fantasy object to them.
"I am merely the canvas," he once said, "on which women paint their dreams."
I resented him for that. But I knew it was true. I knew it was gonna be hard for me to love him. And I would always be jealous. He calls me his lady and I call him my angel.