|We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes and the flashback starts…
By now, everybody has probably seen the music video to Lady Gaga’s smashing single, Judas. We’ve all held our breath as Our Lady of Art belted out the ravings of her conflicted soul: Jesus is my virtue, but Judas is the demon I cling to. It’s raw. It hurts. It’s blistering. (If it starts oozing or weeping, please see a doctor.) Inspired by her soul-baring and over-sharing, I’ve decided to come clean about the lurid affairs that clutter my own past.
First, there was Jack. Sweet, murderous Jack, with his fetish for red roses and other soft, moist, fleshy, crimson things–like organs ripped from a still-beating breast. I loved Jack despite his imperfections; I loved him for the man I knew he could be. A star! A household name! A man who would rise from the gutters of London to make the world blanch at his surgical precision! Unfortunately, before Jack’s meteoric rise to fame, I broke up with him over his inability to leave the toilet seat down. Facepalm!
I had a quick rebound fling with Caligula, against my better judgment, but what can I say? Sometimes a girl just needs a crazed Roman Emperor to make life a little sweeter. I couldn’t resist the way he threw audience members into the arena to be eaten by animals. His claims of divinity were so endearing, too. He was a man who knew what he wanted out of life and just WENT FOR IT, you know? It was really cute when he made his horse a member of the Roman Senate, but after a while he started paying too much attention to that animal (feeding him oats mixed with gold flake?!) and not enough to me, so I had to cut him out of my life.
Perhaps I ignored a few warning signs when I plunged into my illicit romance with Fagin, but I’ve never been able to withstand a man with long, sensual fingers that can filch diamonds out of the bourgiest pocketbooks. And oh, those fingerless gloves–! What a fashion icon. He was a little older than some of my more predictable inamoratos, but I found his ability to break into song and dance despite his age quite alluring. All my girlfriends swear he was getting ready to propose, but unfortunately he was hanged for thievery first. (I’ll never forget the time I found out that a Mr. Charles Dickens, who wrote his biography, described him as “disgusting” to look at. I wept all night at the heartless depiction. Some people will never understand Love.)
My last mad fling? Ah, I was young, so young. Surely nobody can fault me for loving the wrong man–though I cringe at the memories. “How could you, Tori?” screamed my mother, the day I told her we were courting. My father simply wept, polishing his shotgun through his tears and muttering, “I could never use this weapon on such a pulpy, spineless boy.” Even my friends railed against him. “The unnecessary falsetto!” they howled. “The watered-down lyrics! The insipid imagery!” But I closed my ears, for I thought I loved him. One afternoon, as we sipped iced tea from vintage tea cups in a field of daisies while sitting four feet apart on separate blankets that his grandmother had knitted for his hope chest, he said, “I wrote a song for you.” And I said, “Ooh, what’s it called?” And he said, “It was called Yellow.” And I said, “Oh…that’s cool.” Chris Martin paused to brush a butterfly from his shoulder, then murmured, “I drew a line for you.” I smiled and nibbled on a homemade biscotti because I wasn’t sure how to respond. He took a deep breath and said, “I swam across, I jumped across for you.” And I said, “Across what?” And when he didn’t have an answer, I knew that it was over.