“Weinstein quickly masturbated into a potted plant near the vestibule…”
With everything emerging about film mogul Harvey Weinstein, I’d be remiss if I did not share my own.
Me too, friends! Me too! It’s not about you…it’s about me…too!
Some will say, “What right do you have to speak up?” After all, you don't even take the human form; a chlorophyll-based Argentinean creature that has to be watered three times a week has no place in such a serious discussion! What is more, you're belittling the sexual harassment so many women faced by putting your own plant-based suffering on par with it.
I’ll never forget that wild moment when he groaned, finished into my soil basin, and wiped himself up on my lovely leaves.
Perhaps. But hear me out!
It is not easy to be a potted plant. Relegated to a corner. Ignored. The ultimate afterthought. Many of us die—you heard me die—from neglect!
Given these parameters it perhaps can be understood how—for the longest time—I’ve had severe body image issues. Hailing from Mar De Plata, where the female dieffenbachias tend be a little more voluptuous, with ponderous, wanton leaves that sag, I have struggled to accept myself as I am—as my plant brethren in the greenhouse advised. How I longed for the slender, elegant figure of the orchid! Or the dynamism, the colorful, active personality of the Venus Fly Trap!
I was common. As plebian as a potted plant can be. I in no way impressed—and, at the very least, felt I needed a nip and tuck to be noticed by the illuminati of film production. It therefore seemed an unexpected stroke of good fortune when I was purchased by Socialista, a favorite haunt of film moguls—and offered the opportunity to dwell among rich velvets and brocades twelve feet below a gothic chandelier.
Excited as I was, my insecurities were only magnified by my new genteel surroundings. For, as fate would have it, I was situated in a row of potted plants far more fetching than I could ever hope to be. They were trim (perhaps possessing a secret membership at Equinox), with toned leaves and stems, and—from the look of them—turned a hell of a lot more carbon dioxide into oxygen than I could ever imagine. They were photogenic queens and equally regal at photosynthesis! How could I compare?
Night after night I’d watch Mr. Weinstein work his subterranean machinations—envious—yes, I said it—envious—not so much of the supermodels and wannabe starlets who were being harassed—but of the foliage he was pinning them against as he sweet-talked and groped.
Literally, every other plant was included in a harassment encounter but yours truly! It hurt so badly!
Why wasn’t I good enough? Was I really that fat? Maybe he discriminated against dieffenbachias—just couldn’t see the erotic potential in our quirky, misshapen forms?
Yes, these other plants were being abused and objectified. And? More than one starred in the backdrop of films like Good Will Hunting and Clerks 2! I was so jealous! Would I ever get felt up by the chairman of The Weinstein Company?
And then it happened. Blessed night! Memory to crush all others!
Lauren Sivan, a charming young journalist, was cornered by the film mogul in the vestibule between the kitchen and bathroom.
Not only did Harvey block the door, preventing Sivan from departing, but, as she watched, he whipped out his member and stroked it to completion. I’ll never forget that wild moment when he groaned, finished into my soil basin, and wiped himself up on my lovely leaves.
How the other potted plants shook with jealousy! Every plant in Socialista—indeed every potted plant in New York—heard the story!
It was one thing to have a guy like Harvey Weinstein brush up against you. But to finish himself off inside you? To actually become the love object? How miraculous! To this day I cannot imagine how he could have chosen me over the hydrangeas and gloriosas!
And so I am offering this account to The Huffington Post, that paragon of factual reporting, not because I want to put Harvey in jail, as others do, but because I want to confess that I am in love with him.
Oh Harv, you and I, plant and beast, should really be reunited like alien and abductee on The Jerry Springer Show. I can only hope you will seduce me again, and that, soon enough, you will escort me down the red carpet at Cannes. I’ll show mad foliage. Be permanent arm candy. I’m docile and willing—exactly what you want from victims and/or spouses (hint, hint). Plus, in a thin, silky red pot, I’m told I look perfectly ravishing.