Next to the bed was Demi Moore’s memoir, Inside Out. I’d finished it the night before, S sleeping beside me as I read. Demi’s final message to the reader stuck with me: “Maybe some part of this story is yours, too.” I sure as hell hope not, I thought. But she was right, even if she couldn’t have known how directly some aspects of her life resembled mine—for instance, the way she used her body to succeed.
Now, I studied her black-and-white portrait on the cover, feeling annoyed with myself. I’d judged Demi before reading her book. I thought of her as sexy and not much else. You of all people. You who just posted your ass on Instagram and have the audacity to bitch about the world not taking you seriously? What a fucking hypocrite. I wanted to be able to have my Instagram hustle, selling bikinis and whatever else, while also being respected for my ideas and politics and well, everything besides my body. I pressed my fingers into my forehead and shut my eyes tightly. Everything felt like a mistake: my stay in this bizarrely perfect environment, the followers seeing my image and judging it. At what cost did this vacation come? I was getting paid by a corporation owned by some billionaire （who made his fortune how, exactly?） and posting images that encouraged the world to see my body as my primary value. It’s my fault. My stomach tightened. Maybe I should jump in the ocean, I thought. Purify myself in the rain and salt water.
I was born a year after Demi starred in Ghost, the film that propelled her to fame. By the time I could read tabloid covers in the checkout line, her time as a respected actress had morphed into something else, and I absorbed the idea that she was more interesting for her love life than her acting. I remembered her in Charlie’s Angels, climbing out of the water in a black bikini. I’d always thought of her as beautiful, sure, but certainly not as serious. I’d only picked up Demi’s book because I’d read her co-writer’s memoir and liked it.
I texted my friend Jessica. “Fuck, even I have internalized misogyny.” Jessica and I exchanged texts like this regularly. She’d get it. Or maybe not? Jessica came from money, and I wasn’t sure if she’d ever even considered capitalizing on her body in the way that I’ve done. Then again, she’d married a much older and financially successful man when she was very young. Model or influencer or actor or not, all women know what it’s like to use their sexuality for security in some capacity, I thought. Anyway, it was the middle of the night where she was. I fought the urge to go back to Instagram to check my likes and comments. I dropped the phone on the ground next to the bed and turned to S, my headache pounding.
Later, the sun broke through the clouds and we headed down to the beach, bringing a bag full of books and our iPhones. We dipped in the warm ocean and floated in the salty water, far from everything and everyone back home. I brought my legs around S’s torso, feeling the weightlessness of my body in the water. We kissed and marveled at our surroundings. The big sky wrapped around us.
“Being here makes me think a lot about money,” S said once we’d returned to our beach chairs and as he sprayed white sunscreen onto his face. I inspected the other guests from behind my sunglasses.
“Rich people,” I muttered as we began to speculate. How did they even decide where they were going on vacation? Did they go to the same places again and again? Did their kids fly first-class, too? How much would this vacation of ours cost, anyway? We tallied the prices of the flights, the drinks, the meals.
“Damn,” I said. “This shit is rich as fuck.”
“Yeah, but we’re living it, baby. We’re living like really rich people.”
I tugged my hat brim down to shade the tip of my nose as I reached for my pi?a colada.
“But I played the system,” I said, taking a big sip of alcohol. I felt the sweetness rush between my teeth. S made a face.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
I pointed out that we weren’t like the other guests at this resort. “We wouldn’t spend our own money to come here. It’s too expensive. These people, they could shut off their phones if they wanted to,” I said. “And what about the owner of the island? Or the hotel conglomerate? The money I’m making here is a drop in the bucket of their four hundred million. It’s insignificant, even laughable, next to the net worth of the guy who owns the property! I’m here as a pawn, here to help their business. I’m an advertisement, not a vacationing guest.”
S slowly cracked a smile, the lines around his eyes showing. “C’mon, baby,” he said, reaching out a finger to tickle my armpit. “You’re a capitalist, too, admit it.”