A Funny Thing Happened...

Prologue

"Hey Sim, are you doing anything Monday night?"

"Hey Gin, Monday, the 14th?" A pause. "No, nothing special. Why?"

"Couple of the girls and I are having a little impromptu gathering in the green room. Be nice if you stopped by." A short pause, then: "Jason's cool with it." Jason was the Company Manager, and if he wasn't cool with it just yet, he soon would be.

"Alright, that sounds like fun. Shall I bring anything...or?

"Nah. Don't worry about it. Just bring yourself."

Sim gave a little half smile, as if to say 'Well, if you're sure.' and started back towards the parking lot. Then he turned.

"Sorry. I've got the car here tonight. You want a ride back to the place?"

"No, Liz and I have some girl stuff to talk about, and I could use the walk. Hey last thing: could you not tell anybody else about it? I don't really want to make it a big deal."

"No problem. You sure you don't need a lift? Plenty of room for Liz, if..."

"No, I'm good." And I was too. Having invited the guest of honor, I now had most of five days in which to get everything ready. Not much time, but I was going to have some help.

1.

If you've never seen A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum..., you're missing out. It's a great show, it's the first musical for which Sondheim wrote both music and lyrics, and it's basically a Roman sex farce with some pretty catchy songs: "Comedy Tonight", "Lovely", "Dirty Old Man", great stuff. The plot—not that it matters much—concerns this young man who lives with his parents. The 'rents go off to the country for the weekend, and he (his name is Hero, by the way) falls in love with a courtesan who lives at the brothel next door to his house. Her name is Philia, she's a virgin, and she loves him too, but she's due to be sold to this super-stud of a general called Miles Gloriosus. So Hero offers his slave, Pseudolus—Pseudolus is the real star of the show—his freedom if he, Pseudolus, can figure out a way for Hero and Philia to be together. Well, plans get made, lies get told, potions get drunk, men put on dresses, everybody chases everybody else, and hilarity pretty much ensues. It gets done a lot, because the music's not too hard, the cast is not too big, and who doesn't like songs, gags, and scantily-clad ladies doing the Roman equivalent of pole dancing? Anyhow, if you haven't seen it, check it out the next time it comes to the local theatre or college or whatever. And if you have seen it recently, or if you see it in the next five to ten years, you probably have or will see me playing Gymnasia.

You see, when Hero tells his slave that he's in love with a courtesan, Pseudolus asks Lycus, the owner of the brothel, to show what he's got on offer so that Hero can point out the one he's interested in. This is a perfect excuse for a dance-number in which six lovely ladies of pleasure display their wares for a potential buyer. For five of the roles, casting doesn't have to be too specific: basically you're looking for attractive women who can dance. Tintinabula usually has a kind of belly-dancer thing going on, so she's often a little softer and curvier than, say, Panacea, who's probably going to be somebody with ballet chops. The brothel owner describes Vibrata as a tigress, so she tends to get the most athletic choreography, leaps, twists and tumbling, like that, and she's usually wearing a kind of jungle-girl bra and loincloth ensemble. And the Geminae are a pair of twins, so most directors find a couple of girls around the same height and build, put them in identical costumes and wigs, and then choreograph for whoever's the weaker dancer. But Gymnasia has to be something special. She's this Amazon bitch goddess: tall, stacked, and fierce. Pseudolus falls in lust with her at first sight, and there are all kinds of jokes in the script about the size of her body, the size of her boobs, and her ability to single-handedly pleasure large fraternal organizations. So right off the bat, you're looking for somebody with size, sass and sizzle. Put another way, you're looking for Virginia McNally. That's me.

Gymnasia doesn't even have to dance much, although it's better if she does. And as it happens, I do; pretty well, actually. I'm also 5'11" with a big rack, a curvy ass, a slim waist, and what my jazz teacher calls "forever legs." I've also got apple cheeks and blue eyes from my Irish mom, and waves of sexy-messy golden-blonde hair from my German grandma. I've just turned 26, and I've already played Gymnasia three times, although this is far and away the best production I've been in, and the hottest costume I've ever worn. Our designer was going for a kind of wild-woman/dominatrix look, so she gave me this killer black wig with a thick braid that reaches down almost to my ass. She also found these amazing thigh-high black leather boots with three-inch fuck-me heels (hell to dance in, by the way, but damn they're hot!), black spandex panties—we're not hugely concerned with period accuracy here—a garter belt, stockings, and a sort of half-corset which makes my boobs, half bursting out of the damn thing anyway, look even bigger than they actually are. Then I've got these kind of Xena Warrior Princess black and gold armor pieces: a really wide belt-thing, which rests just under my tits, and broad leather bracelets. And props found me this evil-looking black riding crop which I get to use on poor besotted Pseudolus at the end of the finale. Basically, if you've ever fantasized about Wonder Woman going over to the dark side, buy a ticket to the Broken Arrow Opera House's production of Stephen Sondheim's A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (Must Close on March 20th) and kneel before me, worm!

I'm mostly kidding about the "kneel before me" thing, although I do get a little—shall we say "dewy"—just from putting on the costume, never mind the rush I feel every time I step on stage and hear from a third to half (lots of gay guys at musicals) of a 750 seat house moaning with lust at the sight of me. (No shit, I can hear it.) But beautiful and talented as I almost certainly am, I'm also smart enough to know that I'm not actually the reason that this production of Forum is so good. Gymnasia doesn't actually have any lines. None of the courtesans have, except Philia, of course. No, we're basically sight gags or eye candy depending on who you're talking to. A production of Forum lives or dies with its Pseudolus; in this case, Sim, the guy who just agreed to meet me and a couple of other ladies at the theatre on Valentine's Day—well—night. This year the holiday falls on the off day. Like most theatres in the United States, Broken Arrow is dark Mondays.

Now I love, love, love musical theatre, but as a career path, it does have its frustrations. You might work a little more often and make a little more money than theatre folks who don't do musicals, but unless you're Patti LuPone or Idina Menzel lucky, you don't get rich. Then there're the social drawbacks. All that waffle about how gorgeous I am to one side, the chorus of your average regional musical tends to break down as follows:

50%: Attractive, talented young heterosexual women (say aged 21-35.)

49.9%: Attractive, talented young homosexual men (same age range.)

0.1%: Attractive, talented heterosexual man who's had almost every woman who's ever signed an Equity Chorus Contract three times a week and twice on Sundays, and who consequently thinks he is God's gift to the ladies.

It really can become a problem. Take my case here: I'm young, unattached, and usually far from home (it's an absolute bastard finding work in the City.) So when I have work, I'm giving eight athletically rigorous, sexually-charged performances (ok, so maybe not so much in Sound of Music, but South Pacific, Guys and Dolls, Cabaret, fer chrissake?) per week, which flood my body with adrenaline and stoke the fires of my not-exactly-latent exhibitionism. So show's over: I'm restless, jumpy, and often just plain horny, and I'm surrounded by beautiful, sweet, intelligent, witty guys, almost all of whom want cock as much as, or more than, I do. Of course the lads can, and do, turn to each other for sex, solace, and, more often than you might think, long-term partnerships, but we ladies are left with few options, all of them unattractive, (unless of course we happen to be gay, which, despite some experimenting in college, I'm not.).

There is the occasional straight chorus boy. He's usually gorgeous, ripped and ready, but he's also usually an arrogant prick who wouldn't know a clitoris if it offered to help him with the Times crossword. There're stage hands, house management and/or box office, if anything particularly yummy happens to be working the show. But since those folks are local, they tend to have wives and girlfriends nearby, and while I'm occasionally a slut, I'm not a home-wrecker. There's bar-hopping: maybe that works for some gals; of my experiences that way, the less said the better. And of course there are the principals.

Actors who play leads in musicals tend to have come up in musicals, and so of course many of them, particularly the handsome leading men types, are gay. More of the character guys tend to be straight, but first of all, they're "character", a Hollywood euphemism for ugly or older or both, and they mostly break down into two categories: married and "Not with a titanium condom in a rented vagina." I know it sounds really awful and shallow, but I'm 26 years old. Sex with some paunchy, middle-aged lech, or even with some beaky, emaciated 30-something just doesn't appeal; at least not more than True Blood on Hulu and a vibrator. And in this production of Forum, the pickings were particularly slim: Proteans, one gay and sweet, the other straight, kind, if a little distant, and extremely Christian; Lycus, elderly, alcoholic perv; Senex, gay; Erronius, close to 80; Hero, gay; Miles Gloriosus, Calvin Fletcher, one of my favorite people in the world, straight, cut, gorgeous, happily married to a beautiful deaf woman, twin daughters; Hysterium, Jack Lindley, charming, urbane, handsome, 40-something, gay; Pseudolus... well, Pseudolus...

2.

Zero Mostel was the original Pseudolus on Broadway, and you often see a fat man in the role. If you weren't feeling charitable, you might describe Simeon Brownstone, our Pseudolus, as squat. He's on the short side of things—5'8" or 5'9"—with powerful shoulders, short thick arms and legs, and a broad chest and back. And yeah, he's probably carrying 20 extra pounds. I'm guessing he's in his 40's, although he could be 38 or 51: tough to tell; he's got good skin. He's mostly bald, and he keeps what hair he has shaved close to the sides of his head. I think he has a handsome face, but then I like the man: large brown eyes with thick brows and lashes, square-ish jaw, a generous mouth and a flattish nose. Overall the physical impression is blue-collar: a shop foreman or a butcher, or a plumber. In fact, he was a violin prodigy. His folks died when he was a baby, and he was raised by the one grandparent who made it out of Germany alive: his dad's dad. Old Man Braunstein (Sim took the English translation as a stage name) was a professor of music and an accomplished clarinetist, and he had his grandson fiddling away before his 4th birthday. The way Sim tells it, he got very good, but he was never quite good enough. His Grandpa died when Sim was at college in Chicago, and the plucky little bastard (pun intended) paid for the rest of his education by becoming a pit musician at a local touring house. He played the first national tour of Into the Woods, and that's the show that started him climbing out of the pit and onto the stage.

I'd heard of Sim, but had never met him before being cast in this Forum. Word on him was pretty good: powerhouse of an actor, strong—if untrained—baritone, no formal dance training, but picked up choreography quickly; straight plays as well as musicals, some film and tv, but not much; an old-school theatre guy. Easy to work with, if not particularly easy to know; not a partier: virtually no booze, although somebody said he would very occasionally get high. Almost certainly straight, but not a show-mancer; in fact, nobody knew who or even if. In the small and incestuous world of American musical theatre, that was unusual in itself. Somebody usually knew somebody who'd been fucking so-and-so. All in all, I'd looked forward to meeting and working with him, but that was about it. He was supposed to be a decent guy. If he was, we'd get along; if not, we'd manage.

Sim's first word to me, as he looked up into my face on the first day of rehearsal was "Okey-dokey." He shot me a kind of bemused smile, introduced himself, shook my hand, and then asked me if I'd played the role before. I gestured down my body: "Yuh think?" That earned me a chuckle.

"Look," he continued, "just so we're on the same page. You've done the part, so you know I'm going to have to get a little "handsy"...

"I'm sorry, did you just say "handsy?"

"I'm not taking credit for it. The last woman I did the show with didn't like being touched in rehearsals. It's her word. It wasn't a problem," he added quickly. "I just want to make sure I know what you're okay with. Apart from the fact that I like getting along with the people I work with, I'd be particularly disinclined to piss you off."

There were several ways to take that, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed like an ok guy, just trying to diffuse a potentially awkward situation. Also, he had been looking me in the eyes. I was wearing a blue leotard under a ripped grey sweatshirt, and I was taller than he was. That made him either gay, polite, or both.

"What the matter, you scared of me?"

He sighed. "Frankly? Yeah, probably a little. Can't come as a complete shock to you."

I giggled: "Don't worry, I don't bite...in rehearsal." Why was I flirting with a guy who was probably 20 years older than me?

"Good then: safe for a couple-three weeks anyway. By the way, you didn't answer my question.

"About? Oh, look, don't worry about it. I don't mind getting a little physical in rehearsal, and I'll let you know if I'm uncomfortable with anything. Thanks for asking, by the way. So you've done the show before too?"

I'd liked him at that first rehearsal, and as we worked on the show, I liked him more. He was talented, easy-going, and very funny. And he was, as I had suspected at our first meeting, a pro. He was polite to everyone, assistant stage managers, crew, and dressers included, and helpful without being intrusive. I remember choreographing the courtesans' first number. It's called The House of Marcus Lycus, and the set-up has Pseudolus telling Lycus, the brothel owner, that he, Psuedolus, has just come into some money and wants to buy—or rent—one of the girls. So Lycus calls us all out, and since we're all looking to make a denarius, we each do some really seductive dance for, and in some cases on top of, Pseudolus. So there's Sim, sitting on this bench, and Karen, this impossibly flexible ballet dancer who's playing Panacea, ends her solo hanging upside down with her legs wrapped around his neck, his face a few inches from her crotch. Before going on with the scene, Sim stops for a moment:

"Karen, how you doing down there?"

"No problem."

"Good. Look, I want to button this by sort of snapping a look down directly at your crotch and then coming up for a reaction. Is that cool with you?"

"Sure, whatever you need."

Sim (turning to the director): "Does that work for you, Greg?

Greg: "If it's funny, it's fine, but keep it quick. This number's got to move."

Half an hour later, Liz—my BFF—playing Vibrata, is rehearsing her solo. Parker, our choreographer, wants her to finish up by giving Pseudolus what's essentially a lap dance, and so she grinds away, tits in his face, straddling his lap, final pose: she's in his lap, back to the audience, head thrown back like she's just had a massive orgasm. Again Sim stops, and says something quietly to Liz. She nods.

"Hey Parker," Sim calls, "given that she's an absolutely fearsome dancer, and considering what she's going to be wearing, do you think she can finish up facing the audience, like...I don't know...sitting on my lap with her back to me."

"That'll make it hard for you to do any kind of physical take. She'll be blocking your face."

"I'm not sure we need anything here anyway. And there's no way I'm competing with what she's just done. After that routine, I guarantee you nobody's gonna be looking at me. Besides, Gymnasia's next, and she's going to bump me right off the bench."

"Let's try it. Greg, does that work for you?...Ok, Liz, can you finish up with a turn maybe a little out to the left, then sit in his lap. Then, what do you think, straight out with a really sexy snarl or something?"

"Oh hey, here's an idea," says Liz, "what if..." moving as she talks, "I sit on your lap, reach back, grab your head, and—tell me if this is too gross—run my tongue up the side of your face, like I'm this lioness toying with my prey."

Sim lets out this breathy laugh: "Ok, that's...pretty hot, but, here's the thing—and by the way, talk about gross: I sweat. A lot. You might not want to be licking the side of my head eight times a week."

"Fuck it. I'll go on a low-sodium diet."

Maybe you have to have done what I do to appreciate how unusual Sim's behavior was. There are hierarchies built into the rehearsal process, some acknowledged, and others kind of understood. The director's supposed to be the last word in the rehearsal room, but if your lead, or even one of your featured people, is a little bit famous, or even just a more forceful personality than the director, the balance of power can shift pretty dramatically. Same thing can happen with an established musical director, or choreographer, or stage manager. And there are the unwritten rules about who can stop a rehearsal, when, how often and for how long. Sim, as the lead, had pretty wide latitude in that regard. We courtesans—on chorus contracts—had less. For an actor in Sim's position—an established musical theatre actor, the star of the show, with a track record with both the theatre and the director—to have stopped rehearsal to complain that he was being blocked or upstaged by one of the dancers would have been par for the course. For him to do the same thing to request more exposure for an ensemble member, at the expense of a laugh that he might get himself, was much more unusual. It even freed Liz up to suggest something herself: an idea which made the whole routine hotter. Also—and I'm a little ashamed to have to mention this, but you wouldn't believe how usual it is—Sim didn't use this kind of behavior for leverage with either Liz or Karen. You know the kind of thing: "Hey, Babe, did you like how I got you your bit out there with the director? You want to get some dinner and talk character relationships?" It happens; I shit you not. No, the man was a pro. And as rehearsals continued, I started to get little crush on Mr. Brownstone. I don't know that I'd have done anything about it. I'd crushed on older, more established actors before now—talent can be pretty sexy all by itself—but I'd never thought seriously about seducing any of them. Maybe it was the role. Maybe it was the costume. Maybe it was the ad lib, or the extra glass of wine I had the night it happened.

We were in previews: rehearsals performed before a paying audience before the official opening. The night before, Liz, Glori (playing Tintinabula) and I had been inserted into "Everybody's Got to Have a Maid", a number sung by Pseudolus, his fellow slave, Hysterium, Lycus, and Hero's father, Senex. So: Pseudolus has gotten Philia away from the brothel, and hidden her in the house so that she can be with Hero. Hero's dad comes back from the country a little early, and Philia, thinking it's her general come to claim her, throws herself at him. (Both Hero and Philia—the characters; not necessarily the actors—are dumber than a can of Spam.) Pseudolus appears and explains to the old man that this young hottie is a new maid Hysterium has hired, and Senex, pleased with her work ethic, sings this song about how great it is to have a maid. Four verses; one not very interesting tune, and four dancing character guys: it's actually better than it sounds, but it's not like a little sex appeal can't improve things. Anyway, costumes fits the three of us up in these slutty little French maid outfits, complete with the short skirts, poofy crinolines, white lace aprons and head thingies, and black fishnets, and Parker introduces us into the number one at a time to partner the guys. I'm blocked to come out last in this incredibly low-cut lace trimmed blouse, and I strike this pin-up pose: bent forward, knees together, arms into my sides, tits for days, and a surprised little pout on my red-painted lips. The music stops completely—one of the cellos is supposed to drag his bow across the strings in this kind of atonal honk—and everybody pants at me for a few seconds before the music starts up again and the number continues. Anyway, we had put this into the previous performance, and it had gone over pretty well: dead silence, and then some scattered applause and wolf-whistles. So here comes the number: out I come: pose, pout...and in the silence I hear Alan (playing Senex) stage-whisper: "What is that?" Sim's response is immediate, and unpremeditated, and he sounds like a little boy who's just been given a shiny red bicycle and then hit over the head with a brick: "I think she's a dream sequence!" The audience howls with laughter, the number continues, and for some reason I'm doing the rest of the show with some seriously wet panties.