A Funny Thing Happened...

That night, a few of us—Liz and I, Glori, Carolyn (playing Philia), Brad (gay protean), and Jack (Hysterium) were sitting in the two bedroom apartment Glori shared with Karen having some post-show wine and munchies, and rehashing the day.

Something struck Liz, who was already a little drunk, as funny, and she cracked up, spitting wine all over herself, giggling and choking. When she found her voice, she wheezed: "Holy shit, Gin, did you hear the reaction you got when you came out in "Maid"?

Jack, who had gone for paper towels, now threw the roll at Liz: "Not to poop in the punch bowl, Sheena," He'd given Liz the nickname after seeing her in a hot-pink leopard print bikini costumes had originally given her, "but I think they were laughing at Sim's line, not Gin's titties."

"Bitch! That's what I'm talking about: Sim's reaction! It sounded like he was talking through his hard-on."

Glori: "Ok, what does that even mean?"

Liz: "You know, like his cock was so hard it tightened up all the muscles in his body...even his throat...I don't know, it's just what he sounded like..."

Carolyn: "Gotta say, I wasn't even on stage, and I thought it sounded adorable."

Liz giggled some more, then she started chanting: "Sim likes Gin! Sim likes Gin!...Sin likes Gim...Gin likes Sin...I mean Sim...that's really hard to say!"

Carolyn: "Oh my God, you are wasted! How much of this shit did you drink?

Liz: "'S not shit. Cost like seven bucks at 7-11."

Brad guffawed: "Chateau All Night Convenience Store!" He picked up the bottle: "Best before August 12th. Ooh, that's a good week!"

"Jesus, I can't believe I'm drinking this!" I was feeling a little giggly myself by now, and I tried joining in with Liz's chant: "Gin likes to win...Pin likes the Gym...Fin...uh..."

"Gin, Liz, shut up." It was Jack's voice. He'd spoken softly, but the words had fallen into one of those weird pauses for breath you sometimes get when a bunch of drunk people are talking at and around each other.

Liz stopped in mid-chant with a kind of "Whuh" sound. Then she got a little angry. "Seriously? C'mon Jack, what's your problem? I'm just fucking with..."

Jack cut her off, gently but firmly. "I know, and there's no problem. Just listen for a minute, ok?" At 43, handsome, urbane, witty, independently wealthy, and, by the way, in a fifteen year monogamous relationship with one of the most powerful casting directors in New York, Jack Lindley was the most considerable personage in the room, by far. Also the smartest: BA from Columbia and a D-Phil from the London School of Economics, if you please. Don't get me wrong; he's a great guy: talented, funny, a little bitchy, no arrogance, no attitude, and he has the sexiest South Carolina baritone. But on the rare occasion that Jack has something of substance to say, smart people, even drunk smart people, tend to listen.

"Look, I don't mean to preach, but this is how rumors get started, and once you start 'em, they can be tough to kill."

Liz was incredulous: "Jack, a guy with a jones for Ginny here is hardly news. I mean look at the body on her. It's like any straight guy with a pulse..."

"C'mon, Liz, would you just..." I was a little embarrassed, a little flattered, and a lot wasted (and when did that happen?), and if my sentences didn't want to finish themselves, I wasn't gonna be forcing the issue.

Jack was a little defensive: "I know, I know, it's just...ok, this is my second show with Sim. We did George a couple of years ago up in Maine. I like the guy. I mean I really like him..."

Glori: "Um...just so we're clear here, are you saying...?"

Jack chuckled: "You have a dirty mind, my child! No," and his tone became thoughtful, as if this was some stuff he hadn't quite worked out himself, "I mean I really like him. I value him. I almost like the world—our world—a little better because he's in it. It's weird, because, I mean, you all know me: I love all the shit he doesn't seem to go in for. I love the cattiness and the gossip. I adore the divas and the old queens and the chorus boys and the parties and the cat-fights and the hook-ups and the break-ups and the...I don't know...the passionate way we live our lives and do our work and have our fun. And I think there's part of Sim that would love to be a part of all that, but for one reason or another, he's not. I still don't know what to make of him..." Nobody said anything for a few minutes, and when Jack spoke again, it was as if he'd continued to speak without the rest of us having heard him. Maybe he had. I was pretty fucked-up by this time; maybe I had dozed off. Didn't feel like that, but you never knew.

"He belongs in the theatre...to the theatre, but the rest of his life? I mean I think I know him pretty well, but I don't have the first fucking clue as to..." He trailed off again, and then came back on point with something of an effort. "Look, ladies...and Brad, who's butch...kidding, cutie pie...look, seriously! Don't start anything about him, ok? Not even that he likes Ginny's tits, which I'm sure everybody does...oh God, I am too drunk to explain this to you guys...and you're all too young to understand it anyway. I mean it. I'm not being all high-and-mighty. I'm just being middle-aged, and...oh shit!" And without another word, and without making any sound, Dapper Jack Lindley started to cry.

2.

A few hours later: Glori and Brad had gone back to their rooms. Carolyn was stretched out on the couch with her feet in Jack's lap, half covered by a blanket which Liz had tossed onto her before heading off towards the bathroom, into which she had apparently vanished. For his part, Jack's outburst seemed to have exhausted him. He was still sitting up, and he looked a little too...I don't know, symmetrical?...to be entirely asleep. But his head was back, his eyes closed, and his mouth slightly open. Maybe he was asleep. We all should have been; we were coming up on a 5-show weekend. Maybe Jack was. Maybe they all were. I wasn't.

"Hey Jack?" I whispered.

After a moment: "Yes, my child?"

"Are you ok?"

He raised his head slowly and looked at me: "Honey. I am an aging happily-married homosexual, 1000 plus miles from my scrumptious hubby and within spitting distance of enough hard young cocks to fertilize three poultry farms. It is four-o-fuck-if-I-know in the morning, and I have an absolute motherfucker of a crick in my neck from sitting on a cheap sofa in an apartment currently housing six of the most magnificent tits west of the Rockies, in which I have, of course, no conceivable interest. I am neither drunk enough to be mellow, nor sober enough to be confident of escaping the Queen Bitch Kahuna of all hangovers when I finally drag my sorry ass out of bed in what I won't even pretend to call the morning. So no, Wonder-Slut," (his show nickname for me) "I am many things right now: some good, some absolutely foul, but 'ok' ain't even in the zip-code."

"Have you spent the last three hours coming up with that?"

"Bitch, I am a master of improv!"

"Bullshit."

"All right, you got me. And considering time and circumstances, I'll do. Thanks for asking."

"I do kind of like him, you know?"

"Simeon?"

"Uh huh."

"Honey, I think the only person in this sovereign state who doesn't know it is the man himself."

"Seriously? I mean he's old enough to by my father. Why would anybody think...?"

Jack interrupted with a snort. "My dear Virginia, you are 6'2" in those heels, and you've got boobs the size of cantaloupes."

"Why does everybody go on about how big my..."

"Every time Cute, Squat and Jewish comes within ten feet of you, you straighten your back and stick out your chest. Maybe Microscopic Marge"—our 4'11" Assistant Stage Manager—"could get away with that shit. You do it, and it's a seismic event. Random hard-ons are reported three counties away. By the way, as a matter of passing interest, how come I'm not this funny when I'm sober?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking your blood-alcohol level may be warping your definition of funny."

"Amazonian, lovesick, and humorless: it must suck to be you."

"He told me he was a little afraid of me."

Jack sighed, then smiled a little sadly. "Hell, Gin, I'm sure he is. Look," the drink and the bitchy had vanished from his voice, "if I speculate, can you keep that lovely trap of yours shut?" Ok, so maybe not all the bitchy; I nodded.

"When we did that George together up in Bar Harbor, we had this real honey of a Dance Captain. Her name was Holly Parsegian, do you know her?"

I shook my head.

"Not a surprise, I suppose. She'd be five-ten years older than you. She wasn't local, but she was kind of regional, you know? Maybe she lived in Boston, I don't remember. Anyway she was gorgeous: you know: one of those 0.2% body fat chicks that everybody just hates, flaming red hair, dancer's legs, the cute little butt, the big blue eyes; 5 foot-nothing, probably weighed 90 lbs soaking wet. Anyway, everybody would have hated her, except that she was just such a sweetheart: vivacious, never a harsh word for anybody, patient with the slower dancers, just good, good people. Well she had a real thing for our Semitic colleague, and since Sim and I had become friends, she told me about it, and asked if I could...what?...sort of find out what he thought...if he was—I don't know—available for sex. Or love, or romance; I don't know what all she had in mind, really.

"And did you?"

"Well I wasn't all Gracie Graceful about it, but I did finally tell him: told him straight out, in fact."

"And?"

"I don't think he believed me. I was prepared for...I don't know: excuses, justifications, or maybe excitement, anticipation. But he just flat out did not credit what I was saying; insisted that she could have her pick of any of...well, anybody. And then he said something like 'Besides I probably weigh something like two of her; I'd hate to break anything that delicate.' I think he meant it as a joke..."

"But didn't I read somewhere that there are no jokes?"

"Heaven help us! Theodosia, She-Bitch of Byzantium knows her Freud?"

"Theodosia, She-whatever-the-fuck-you-just-said is going to give you an impromptu prostate exam with her riding crop right before the "Lovely" reprise, if you don't make nice!"

"Oooh, promises, promises! I'm sorry, Ginny, seriously; it's like a reflex or something. But, no, I think you're right. I don't know if he was worried about actually hurting Little Holly Hobbit, or if he was just afraid of...maybe disappointing her? Hell, maybe he was threatened by that perfect little body. God knows I was, and I didn't even want to fuck her."

At this point, Liz wandered in, looking like somebody who had spent an hour or so puking and sleeping, not necessarily in that order. Neither of us noticed her until she spoke: "Jackie my love, you're not going where I think you're going with this, are you?"

Jack jumped—apparently with the muscles in his ass alone—something like half a foot straight up into the air. "Fuck me backwards, Bitch, you just scared me out of a year's growth. How long have you been listening?"

Liz was silent, for a minute rubbing her eyes, then: "Ah shit, there was this great dick joke on 'a year's growth' just hanging there in front of me...oh God, how fucked up did that just sound? Anyway, too drunk, or too tired or something. Never mind. I heard a bit, why?"

Jack: "I'd really appreciate it if..."

Liz: "I didn't mouth off about what you were saying? Don't worry, I heard you the first three times. And by the way, in the interest of full disclosure, I think Carolyn's in on at least part of this.

We all looked at the lump in the blanket where Carolyn's head should have been. After a minute a muffled voice murmured: "Busted. But don't worry, Jack. Seriously. I'm not going to say anything either." Her tousled blonde head emerged, and she yawned, but her dark blue eyes looked awake and alert. Carolyn wasn't much of a drinker.

Liz hadn't yet had an answer to her question. "Jack, no bullshit now: nothing you say goes beyond these walls. But do you mean that Sim's a virgin?"

Jack considered for a moment: "Christ, I hope not. And I don't really think so. I know a couple of 40-something virgins (none of you knows them, but I'm not naming names.) Anyway, that seems like a different set of issues to me. No, I think Sim's had sex. I just don't think he's had much of it." His eyes closed, and when he spoke again, he sounded...I don't know...kind of far away. I don't think he was really talking to us anymore: "Maybe that's the way he wants it; maybe not." A long pause: "I just don't know. I like sex. A lot. Maybe I just can't imagine not being interested in it. But if Sim's not...interested, then ok, I guess. I don't really get it, but ok. But if he is interested, but doesn't feel like he deserves it, or something equally ludicrous..."

"Not so ok." I finished for him, but softly. Nobody else heard.

3.

The show opened that weekend on the Saturday, and some folks went out afterwards, but most of us hunkered down for the two-show Sunday, and the opening party was set for Sunday night. Our Technical Director, Wyatt, had a place a few miles out of town, and we all caravanned down for a potluck.

I was crushing on Sim, but it wasn't like I was obsessed or anything. Well maybe I was a little obsessed. In any case, I planned on monopolizing the guy at the party, if he showed up. With that in mind, I put a little thought into what I would wear. Broken Arrow is in the southwest, so January of an evening is plenty cold, but not arctic. The word was that most of the festivities would be indoors, but that the place had a deck with a fire-pit around which marshmallows could be toasted, songs could be sung, and pot could be smoked, if that's what you were into. Doing my best to cover all the bases temperature wise, I went with skinny jeans, biker boots, scoop-necked t-shirt under a thin, red, zip-up sweater, and a fleece-lined denim jacket. Indoors there might be a little more boob-age than strictly necessary, but given what I'd been prancing around in for the last few weeks of tech and previews, I doubt I'd be raising too many eyebrows. Besides, there were some seriously beautiful women on this production, and ladies who look good and know it dress to impress, particularly at parties at which directors, artistic directors, producers and the like can be expected to put in an appearance. I could rely on Liz and Tiffany (one of the Geminae) for trashy-hot, Carolyn and Karen for classy-hot, and Jynx (no shit: one name, almost no conversation; playing the other Geminae) for gothy-arty-hot. Glori would look like the sweet, dumb as a squirrel South-Philly mall-slut she pretty much was. Hell, I was going to look sedate by comparison.

Sim was there when Liz and I arrived, but he wasn't as easy to collar as I had anticipated. First of all, he spent a little time with almost everybody, thanking our master carpenter for something, listening to our already somewhat plastered managing director talking about how he played Pseudolus back in the day, bringing drinks to his dresser who was wrangling her six-year-old, and generally being agreeable. And sedate or not, I found myself having to fight off a series of propositions from our box-office manager which got more explicit the more he drank. Eventually I had to threaten to call his wife (his home phone number was listed on the contact sheet), and he stomped off. He was followed by Tom Havermeyer, playing Lycus. Blowing off the box-office guy meant I might have some trouble comp-ing any friends who made it out to see the show, but basically I didn't give a shit. I didn't care much for Tom either, but I had to work closely with him, so I didn't want to piss him off by stomping on his dick. Fortunately, it's an established fact that, given a lack of other viable options, Tom Havermeyer will drink rubbing alcohol and/or fuck a mossy hole in a tree. I excused myself, came back with some decent scotch, handed it to him, and lied about having to go to the ladies' room. In another ten minutes, Tom wouldn't be able to spell his own last name. In another twenty, he wouldn't remember it.

I finally cornered Sim out by the fire-pit. He was sitting just outside of a circle which included a couple of riggers and one of our spot-ops. The techies were pretty drunk, and they were in the middle of an intense discussion about basketball. Sim's face was toward the conversation, but his eyes and mind were elsewhere. A small clay pipe sat on the bench next to him. I sidled up to him, bent down and whispered into his ear: "Boo!"

He didn't jump. "Hey Gin. Don't you look lovely tonight?"

"Thank you, Sweetie, flattery will get you everywhere. Hey, is that what I think it is?" I pointed to the pipe.

"Well, if you think it's some decent if unspectacular pot, than yes."

I wanted to get him away from the basketball debate, which seemed to me unnecessarily loud. "Think I could have some?"

"I don't see why not." He turned to the techies. "Excuse me, fellows." They ignored him. He grinned and shrugged. "Maybe I won't take it personally."

We wandered away from the fire pit towards the edge of the deck, and leaned against a wooden rail. We could see lights from a few scattered houses on a hill maybe five miles away, across a small canyon. The sky was mostly clear, and the barest beginnings of a crescent moon couldn't compete with the light from thousands upon thousands of stars. I felt...I don't know. The night was so beautiful, and I was alone with a man who I...what? What did I really want from Sim Brownstone? Sex? I mean, sure, I suppose. I wanted sex, because I hadn't had any recently, but with Sim? And anyway it felt a little...more than that. Was I in love with him? Maybe a little. But not really; I mean, I barely knew him. And all of a sudden that was it. I'd decided. For the moment, I just wanted to get to know the man.

And of course that made things trickier. In my experience, getting a guy to fuck you is pretty easy: take off your clothes, smile. Getting a guy to talk to you...that is rocket science.

Sim had dug a lighter out of his pocket and fired up the pipe. He took a small hit himself, and then passed it to me. I hadn't smoked for a while, and it was pleasant to feel the slightly mossy smoke making its way through my lungs. I'd taken a pretty good hit, and I could feel my chest expand with my breath. For a moment, Sim's eyes dropped; then he shook his head a little, and looked out across the desert.

"Hey," I stood beside him—close, but not too close. "Are you ok?"

"Hmmm? What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Gorgeous out here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it really is. And the pot's not so bad, or maybe the night's just helping it along some. Are you high?"

"I don't think so. Not particularly. Why? Are you?"

"I haven't smoked in a while, so yeah, I might be a little buzzed."

"Mmm-hmmm." he said, and gave a wry little smile.

"Sim, it's ok, you know? You have permission to check out my boobs every now and then." Well, shit! Where had that come from? I flashed back to Jack's story about trying to tell Sim about that dance captain. I wasn't getting cast as Gracie Graceful any time soon either.

His reaction was surprising as well: "God damn it!" All of a sudden he was angrier than I'd ever seen him; angry at himself, apparently. "Gin, I'm sorry. I didn't mean...shit..." He turned away, like he was getting ready to leave. I grabbed his arm.

"Sim, seriously, don't worry about it. It's not like it's never happened before, and, well hell, I mean, they do cover a certain amount of territory, right?"

That got him; he chuckled a little. Then: "Yeah. But it's creepy, and...I don't know. Makes me feel like I'm ten and I'm sneaking a peek at my Grandpa's National Geographics or something."