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Jean Milburn, a lusty, complicated, sometimes manipulative see: human woman, bumbling and grasping through midlife while single-parenting her teenage son, Otis. For years, her literary agent received inquiries from publishers and editors about interviews she might do, confessions she might write. For a long time, she put them off. But then her editor suggested something more communal: other people, submitting anonymously.
Anderson was finally convinced by the idea of a large and varied group. The result is Want : pages of anonymous sex fantasies selected and ordered by Anderson. Her hair pulled back loosely on our Zoom call, she talks emphatically, thoughtfully, leans forward, back, runs her hands wantonly over her face and hair. I ask her about how discussing this topic as a public person who would also like to keep a good amount of her life private could get prickly.
Anderson has made a career out of playing women who inhabit adjectives that might make people wince or cringe, that would almost certainly make a particular type of suitor swipe left instead of right: tough and cold and hard and sharp. Bristly and cerebral, Scully was the antithesis of her giggly, often teenage female counterparts on other early nineties showsβshe hardly ever smiled.
A master of a certain type of subtletyβan eyebrow raise, a shifted lipβAnderson can appear blank and placid on the surface while somehow brimming with life underneath. Steely and brazen, Stella propositions a new coworker and near stranger in the first episode. Want, Anderson says, is all about women stepping into their sexual power. With the added fact of anonymity, each contribution functions as an opportunity to stretch, play, explore, and create, without the threat or pressure of real-life consequence.
Manyβoften women who are contentedly ensconced in heterosexual marriages, or so they sayβhave fantasies about their female friends. There are bondage and entrapment fantasies, fantasies of submission, of role-swapping, of risky, public sex. One wants to be laid out naked in a medical theater, to have her vagina examined by a crowd of students. You can smell their sweat, the specific sour of their breath. And, indeed, at the very heart of all my fantasies, I am the watcher not the watched, or sometimes, I switch between watcher and participant, but I am most definitely the director.