This movie itself was indication enough as to what was to come. And I’m sure if everyone had paid better attention to how I was reacting, they would be able to guess right off the bat how I would turn out. It’s probably why my mother wasn’t surprised at all when I came out to her. She almost seemed relieved that I had finally gotten up the gumption to get it over-with. 

Who Framed Roger Rabbit? was my favorite movie as a child. I remember spending hours parked in front of the television, just watching it over and over. I was so taken with it. There was the animation, of course. There was the humor, most of which was over my head and, when I went back and watched it recently, found sometimes hilariously brilliant (the 50 year old baby’s comment about having a three year old “dinky”? How was that allowed to creep into a “family” movie?).

But, most of all, it was her. Jessica Rabbit. She started just about everything. I can’t remember the first time I saw the movie, but I do remember how I would feel when she first came out on the nightclub stage to sing. There was something inside of me that got tugged so hard I thought I would snap in two. The narrowness of that waist, unnaturally balanced with that round rear and her breasts. It was the epitome of everything sexual, everything that could make a woman so desirable and awake something so primal within me. And, for God’s sake, she was a cartoon.

And then there was the scene where she was tied up. By the coils around her neck, the guy who drew her was clearly a fetishist (or at least trying to appeal to them). I used to sit in front of the VCR and rewind and replay that scene over and over. In first grade, we had to pick a book and learn to read it. I found the Who Framed Roger Rabbit?  picture book buried in the shelves. 

During reading time, I would just retreat to the back of the classroom and stare at the page that showed Jessica Rabbit tied up for the entire time. I wouldn’t do anything but stare. Just take her in and wish I were there with her. Tied next to her. Sometimes I even wished I was just her. I didn’t know what was pulling at me do be this way, to obsess over her image. 

But, I guess, in a very quiet way, I always did sort of know.