Why Can’t I Have Kristen Stewart copy

Why Can’t I Have Kristen Stewart by Anjelica Angwin | CHERRYBOY Magazine

Ever been down bad over a parasocial celebrity crush that becomes real?

I stalk a woman on Instagram who’s in love with the same woman I am. Kristen Stewart—my Kristen—grins in a vintage Oasis tee. The caption reads: Happy birthday to my favourite person to do nothing and everything with. Swipe: she’s curled on a sofa with a fluffy white cat. Swipe again: her arm is around the other woman’s waist. I zoom in on a chunky silver band wrapped around Kristen’s ring finger, and I hurl my phone across the room.

TMZ called it the most anticipated wedding of the year. Rolling Stone said they were planning to carry each other’s embryos. My friend @dykeanotherday DM’d me to say they apparently picked up their marriage license on Tuesday. I should’ve been in Silver Lake days ago, so I booked the first flight out of London.

Kristen Stewart (the love of my life) and I crossed paths in the BFI bathrooms. I was a plus-one at the premiere of her latest queer thriller-noir. She was at the hand dryer, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I moved without thinking, as if I'd been pulled through the air. I touched her shoulder.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

She sniffled. “I will be. Now that you’re here.”

The flight to LA stretched for twelve hours, but I couldn’t sit still. I paced the galley, mumbling her name into plastic cups of orange juice. I imagined the turbulence was her divine intervention. When the plane dipped, I clutched the lavatory sink with one hand and slid the other up my dress. I panted like a dog, and my breath fogged up the mirror.

Not long now.

Of course, the ceremony was at Casita del Campo, her favourite Mexican restaurant. Pink stucco walls. Mosaic tables. A patio made for whispering, “I’ll love you forever and ever until our last dying breath.” Two gays in black wraparound sunglasses were smoking out front, discussing queer optics. I sent one of them a bank transfer, and he slipped me the start time like a drug deal.

I waited.

My velvet mini stuck to my thighs. I was sweating through MIXED EMOTIONS, the Byredo perfume I stole from Heathrow. I climbed a fence tangled with bougainvillaea and peered through the window. It was the rehearsal. Kristen: radiant in an effortless beige two-piece. Her fiancée: trying too hard in a sheer white dress. I hoped she’d trip. A lesbian string quartet tuned their bows. I wanted to throw up.

Instead, I jumped down and reapplied my lipstick—the same shade Kristen once kissed off my lips in that sacred Southbank bathroom. What we shared in London wasn’t just a moment. It was transcendental. When I wiped the tears off her cheeks, she looked at me and saw herself. I looked back and saw a sad, scared little girl. Then I blinked, and she was exceptional again. And through her specialness, I could become special too. Her lips brushed mine, barely a kiss, more like a dare.

I slipped into Casita del Campo holding a busboy’s tray like a shield and bumped into Justin Chon by the bathroom. I told him I loved Blue Bayou. He touched his heart. Then I asked what it was like working with Robert Pattinson and Toni Collette in Mickey 17.

He paused. “That’s not me. That’s Steven Yeun.”

I blinked. “I’m so sorry,” and walked away.

He called after me: “I have MDMA if you wanna get on it.”

I didn’t bother turning around. I swiped two spicy margaritas and ducked into a storage closet. The dark made everything quiet. I skulled my drinks, peeled off my dress, and lay down on an altar of folded napkins. I closed my eyes and saw her: barefoot, in a flower crown, lips parted, about to say something.

Outside, the quartet began to play Dancing On My Own by Robyn. I hummed and then choked. I heard clapping, laughter, the sound of people choosing each other. I imagined the kiss. Her wife’s trembling hands. Kristen’s mezcal mouth on mine. Then lower. I ran my hands down my chest and stomach, as if her hands were guiding mine. Her voice in my ear, not sweet but cruel, in the way women can be when they know you’ll beg for more. She’d call me her lady-in-waiting. I’d call her my queen. She’d say she liked me dirty, feral, pathetic. I bit my hand hard and moaned her name like a prayer.

Then a thud. I’d kicked over a bottle of floor cleaner. I lifted my hips, and the napkins crackled beneath me. The door creaked open. Kristen stepped inside and I thought I’d imagined her. But then she flicked the light switch. For a moment, we just stared at each other, communicating telepathically. Then in came her wife.

“We’ve been looking for you…” Kristen said, biting her lip.

“... This is Dylan. She saw you talking to Justin and thinks you’re really cute. This is going to sound crazy, but–”

Dylan continued, “–We have this fantasy. About an unhinged fan crashing our wedding and fucking Kristen while I watch.”

I looked down: sweaty, dishevelled, wearing only a thong. Dylan leaned in, tucked my hair behind my ear, and murmured:

“You’re giving, like… unmedicated poet. And we love that.”

I whimpered. I was born for this.

One second, Kristen was out of reach. Next, I was pulling her down onto my makeshift mattress. The room reeked of lemon disinfectant. I spread my legs across her lap. My hands ran over her narrow shoulders, down her arms, hips, along her thighs and into her skirt.

We turned our heads slowly, lips sliding over each other. She kissed my throat. I squeaked. I sucked on her fingers. I pushed her shoulders to the floor and contorted my lips to her nipples. I turned to look at Dylan, squished up against the door, stroking her chin like a sleazy casting director. My mouth swelled with thirst. I grabbed Kristen’s hair. She clawed her nails down my back. I spat on my fingers and reached between her legs, but suddenly her face changed. She pushed me off and crawled into Dylan’s arms.

“I can’t do this,” Kristen quavered.

“It’s okay, baby,” Dylan soothed. “It’s probably too soon.”

I stayed frozen on all fours as they left. Dylan turned back at the door.

“We’re soooo sorry. You should stay for the cake.”

On the bus to LAX, I opened Instagram to rewatch the wedding stories. There I was, beaming, standing behind Kristen Stewart as she sliced into vegan and gluten-free lemon drizzle. I stared at her face. Then mine. I liked the post. Unliked it. Liked it again. My underwear felt sticky, and my dress had new stains. Somewhere behind me, a mariachi band started playing Linger by The Cranberries.

♫ If you, if you could return

♫ Don't let it burn, don't let it fade…

@anjel_ica

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