Sharing Crotch Space with Beyonce Knowles

There was a time in my life when I could be quite starstruck. Backstage at an Eminem show - a Y2K misstep - I managed to get a picture of my friend and I sandwiching Dr. Dre between our heinous tank tops from Forever 21 and two overly friendly smiles. He made some joke about a menage a trois. We were sixteen but neither party cared.
I kept that photo in a cheap faux cherry wood frame next to my bed until I moved away to college. I can't say why - except for the fact that it in some way validated my existence. It also served the additional role of conversation starter at my sleepover parties. Girls are easily excited and equal opportunists, squealing over sixteen year old boys with sparse facial hair as well as thirty-something rap producers with criminal records. It was a simpler time.
Years later I am jaded from this jet setting, glamorous, Los Angeles life. I see Lindsey Lohan and Sam Ronson storm out of a hotel lobby. I am unimpressed. Justin Timberlake walks past my lunch table. I keep my food down. Pete Yorn whispers sweet nothings in my ear about how I am a nerd "in a good way." I do not swoon. I am the pillar of who the fuck cares.
Just the other day I was doing a photo shoot in the very same patchwork elastic lace leggings Beyonce wore in her latest music video. The very same! My vagina and her vagina were existing in the same space for a moment - different moments - in time and space. But did I turn pink with glee, excitement blushing my face? Did my vagina know the importance of this monumental event? Would this be my closest brush with stardom yet? Alas, non. All I could think about was her giant booty stretching out these pants as they went sliding down my backside. My acquisition of acute narcissism and heaping ego has done wonders for me and my vagina's dignity.