When I was fifteen, my school put on a production of Les Miserables (which, as you know, is one of my favourite stories of all time). It was my first year in musical theatre, and I was absolutely psyched—until they cast me as, and I quote, “Whore #3.” Obviously it was exactly the sort of role that every girl dreams about getting, and I didn’t even go home crying about how my teachers obviously thought I was a tramp or anything.
My point is, I was young and had no idea how to act like a hooker, which was necessary for the dock scene in Act 1. No, it wasn’t like I had to mount one of my male classmates on stage in front of a thousand strangers (one of the older girls got to do that), but I did have to gyrate like a deranged stripper with a feather boa. And as the stage manager informed me, I wasn’t slutty enough. So she told me to go home and watch Moulin Rouge!.