Chapter 11

Despite our lack of sleep, everyone having spent the night fucking, we arrived at the rehearsal space early. Others had booked it later in the day. Running through what we had without stopping we asked the Amazon and her fresh eyes to note any moments of weakness. She laughed through most of the first act. The new viewer always laughed. The incongruity of words and our matter of fact acting style generated it. Laughter presented a problem. It created expectations. Is it all supposed to be funny? Should we search for the next laugh? The joke couldn't help getting old and the laughter couldn't help becoming forced. It would add another weird twist, but we had to confront it.

Before we headed off to a nearby coffee shop for breakfast and discussion of the Amazon's notes, the mulatto sat us in the audience chairs and said, "We have to fix the laughter." We agreed. "What if someone writes me a monologue, something over the top, about the pain of being laughed at? I accuse the audience in direct address of laughing at me. Using what causes laughter, the deficiency of others and making it scientific and at the same personal I want to get very upset. It will be like nothing else we do. I will use sense memory and lose myself in it. I don't want to write it. Maybe I can guide the personal, make it about something in my life, but that's not necessary. But I don't have the skills to craft it. And I want it to be like any actor reciting from a playwright's words, going through the process of making them mine."

We knew who had to write it. Just like the mulatto represented the "real actor" of our group and the one to perform the aside, I considered Princess the "real writer." She took the challenge and through dialogue with the mulatto, pondering her own experiences in relationship to the mulatto's, visits to the library researching comedy and discussions with a professor of drama to make sense of what she read, she created a beautiful if lengthy monologue. Hacking it down to its essentials became brutal but necessary. She retained most of the original for another version, shaping it into an audition piece for the mulatto. A collaborative effort, I never considered myself the director, but I insisted the shorter version had to be the one we used. Being stubborn, the young women demanded trying both versions for a couple of run throughs. My sister, the Amazon, the lighting kid and even the drummer, who suffered the evil eye of the mulatto, agreed with me. The long version became the mulatto's favorite audition piece and helped win her roles.

We were ready. Booking the rehearsal space for the last two weeks of June and performances the last weekend of June and the first of July, everyone concentrated on it.

High School ended, permanently for the lighting kid, the drummer and the Amazon. The Amazon, having crafted the stretchers and created the screen Upstate at a mentoring carpenter's studio, hauled them down after graduation with her personal belongings. Her aunt's apartment appeared to her parents to be her summer residence, but she stayed with me most nights.

Lean models like the princess and cute sprites like my sister along with the fleshy curves of the pin up girls constituted the fantasy figures of lusting men. The muscular thickness and the small breasts of the Amazon puzzled everyone. I couldn't get enough of her flesh and her beautiful face never ceased to stir my heart. Her enthusiasm never waned. Intelligence and a quick mind made her an enjoyable companion and a perfect lover. Everything I showed her that pleased me she retained. Her felatio became incomparable and she swallowed. Even her massages, helped by the old flapper, fascinated by her difference and my infatuation, amazed me. I worked out more so I could have the strength to return the favor.

As far as the old flapper, she gave birth to our gorgeous daughter. Plans to film the birth stopped when difficult and painful labor resulted in a Caesarian Section, scarring the model. Surprisingly, she didn't mind the scar. When we finally made love, I included it in my lovemaking. She hated my wearing condoms for the first time with her, but I reminded her of the painful consequences. Relenting for a time, she had herself made safe and I went back to plunging my naked penis into her loving vagina.

The infant had several fawning mothers and me. We took turns attending to her needs. Heart stopping in her beauty, she proved compared to me at her age undemanding. At first my mother attended to her almost as much as the old flapper. That soon changed.

Getting back to the Vase, my sister designed the eye catching poster with two thick swooping black brush strokes inscribing faces in profile and a third face straight on with subtler lines, constructing the in between shape in three dimensions and accentuating the vase through blends of greens and blues. Behind the profile lines she kept the background white. "The" written horizontal at the lip and "Vase" vertical, the black letters thick with softly rounded edges bent inward and outward following the Vase's shape. "A Cruel Theater Performance," and the dates, times and address and "$5 at the Door" appeared underneath the artwork. I named our company in honor of Artaud and his Theater of Cruelty philosophy. I expected debate, but everyone found it coolly bizarre and transgressive. Printing the poster using three lithographic plates became a project in itself. My sister's mentor, the woman artist, helped blend the inks and legitimized their presence in the fancy art printing shop. The posters became a major expense.

The lighting was free. Spots and floods and the lighting board came with the space. Canvas and frames and especially the screen, silvered material specific to reflecting film and the weird frame designed by the Amazon to silently raise and lower the screen using aluminum rods to stretch the top and bottom with the least weight and rubber coated dowels on a track to lift or drop the screen and a weird winch hidden behind a black canvas wall attached to a rod with two spools curved out at the end containing the thin black ropes that held the screen even, keeping it from binding as it rose and fell proved significant expenses. Buying and developing the film added to the cost as well. I edited down several hours of footage to twenty minutes or four five minute movies. The library in the mansion provided space for my editing studio. The old flapper bought me the Moviola, the projector and the splicer. I bought the film and processing. Everything else the producer wrote off as rehearsal space expense.

We invited everyone. We tacked posters on gallery bulletin boards, near performance spaces, on walls and poles throughout the East and West Village and on the Upper West Side and wherever we happened to be where a poster could be hung and might stay. The quality of the poster reduced its presence, so we needed a couple of excursions all over town to replace the stolen ads. A thousand were printed and we ended up keeping 200 some of which we sold at the shows for ten bucks each with my sister's signature.

Part of the problem was the heat. Ideally we shouldn't have performed in summer. The space contained air conditioning, but it clunked loudly forcing us to turn it off during the performance. We provided large containers of lemonade to dispense cups for free and the fifteen minute intermission between the second and third acts helped cool off the audience, at least those that stayed.

Another problem was the length. Nearly two hours made for a lot of strange nonsense to take in. The films I made were kinetic, with frequent bursts of quick editing between longer sustained shots, and those tended to move more than anyone expected a shot to move. And of course three people talked in seemingly normal conversations and configurations, sometimes monologues and sometimes dialogues, but disconnected and random. We filled the 200 seats the first weekend, but over half the seats emptied after the first intermission. The second weekend attracted less audience, but many had come because of a review in a weekly paper local to the Village in which the writer had been generous in his praise though not completely enraptured and the people expected the craziness. Another review in the NYU paper hated it, but his description might have made some curious. We hadn't advertised in newspapers or solicited reviewers.

We were praised. Though the best of the artists hated it, the Dutchman and my sister's mentor thought it interesting. The most enthusiastic audience, including the fashion photographer and the drummer's dad sat for several minutes after the performance ended, scratching their faces or beards thoughtfully, waiting for the final reverberations to fade. Unfortunately with one or two exceptions, it left them speechless. The young poet spoke the most remarkable response. After everyone but the collaborators had gone he motioned for us to gather around him and proceeded to babble for several minutes. I wish I had a recorder. I knew he said deep things, but he rambled too quickly to pick up everything. The thing is he got the vase. Others had mentioned sensing something being created out of the chaos and found it a cool phenomenon. He got that we generated out of the constructions of the past, the film and the choreography and the settings and the words, something altogether new and present between us. It excited him and inspired him. "Though I don't know what I can do with it," he concluded. Hugging those he knew, me and the princess and my sister who he whispered to and she shook her head, he shook the rest of the collaborators' hands. Knowing what he had asked my sister, I whispered to her, "I hope he didn't come for handouts." She shook her head. "I don't think so," she said.

The performance upset the old flapper and she left early. It confused my mother, but she politely kept negativity to herself. The producer whom she dragged down to see it with her smiled at the end. "It'll never make Broadway," he joked. Then he leaned into my ear, "Don't tell anyone, but I kind of liked it." Then he talked to each collaborator and shook their hands. The mulatto and the Amazon suddenly enlivened. They both grabbed me after the producer left and told me they had been given work; the Amazon to apprentice building a new production's set and the mulatto to go to the audition. "He said he loved the laughing monologue," she said. "Should I do the long version?"

"I think it's what he hinted," I said.

"Cool," she said and ran to the princess, getting her enthusiastic. They embraced, held hands and hopped up and down like the kids they were.

The last performance turned out to be best. More than any other time, we sensed the vase. Hardly anyone left early. People remained in their seat longer. There had rarely been much applause at the end, which on the second night we realized came from the nature of the performance, and even less clapping occurred that night. The audience that remained found their voices. We had planned to head to the penthouse immediately after the performance for a closing night party but became delayed by more than an hour as we sat with the stragglers and discussed what they got out of it. We didn't clue them in, but asking questions led us to answers we wanted to hear. Along with the mulatto's monologue and the movement and how it affected speech getting high praise, they wrestled with the vase phenomenon they enjoyed but couldn't articulate nearly as well as the young poet.

"When's your next production?" asked a young man.

"This one took over two years," I said, smiling at the princess who smiled back. "I wouldn't expect anything soon." As soon as I said it, the smile disappeared, replaced by an emotional wall.

"Too bad," said the young man. I heard murmurs of agreement. Some bought signed copies of the poster before leaving. Like every night we divided up the door seven ways. I locked up and we headed uptown, stopping at a nearby phone booth for me to apologize for the delay to the old flapper.

The party definitely started without us. It seemed everyone had been invited. For the first time since we had met in Montauk, the four clients gathered in one place with me. Even the pixie was there. She had actually been the only one of them besides the old flapper who had attended the performance and at the party she told me she didn't understand it but liked it. She whispered she wanted another session or two. She seemed less at ease than I remembered. We set a date for the following evening. Two other prospective clients had been invited. The old flapper figured I'd gotten my silly experiment out of my system and had time for new clients. She was right.

One, a doe eyed brunette seemed plain but had a well kept figure, not overly busty but voluptuous. Seeing her naked became a revelation. For a forty year old, she had a fabulous pin up body.

The other, a redhead with lots of energy and soft pale skin and a hefty bosom and some extra fat loved to flirt, more so as the night progressed as she helped finish the champagne, went first. Before she got too drunk we had a session. She proved the least nervous the first time than any of the others. As soon as my door closed she ordered me naked. As she touched me, I stripped away her clothing. She looked sexier clothed. Her body drooped. I kissed her for awhile. It took that long for her to respond to the kisses. Once I smelt her ardor I worked my mouth down, fondling and sucking on her dugs before getting to my knees and lapping her vagina. Her libidinous fluid flowed prodigiously. Urging her to the edge of the bed, as soon as she felt it she sat. I grabbed a condom and covered myself and steered her to the middle of the bed and aimed and pushed deep with one thrust. She moaned loud curses making me glad I asked my mom to turn up the music. Her hands held me inside, pressing on my buttocks. Her eyes widened. When her hands moved I began my thrusts. I kept them slow but steered hard. She liked it. I kept it steady, squeezing her breasts and kissing her. She helped her cause by rubbing her clit. When she began losing control and sped up her rubbing my thrusts became fast. Leaving her mouth to allow her heavy breaths and moans to have room, I suckled her nipples while mauling her breasts. She thrust up and climaxed. After all the noise, she squeaked quietly. Relaxing back, she immediately bawled. I remained hard inside her while brushing away her fine red hair and looking into her eyes.

"Tell me," I said.

She told the same old story only worse. Her husband had always been a womanizer. She met him at a speakeasy where she worked. Normally she avoided the flirts, but she couldn't resist him. (She would admit to me later that she had dates with her customers. I figured she had, but let her get it off her chest in her own time.) After sweeping her off her feet and making her pregnant, they had a grand old time for awhile, but less and less, especially after the birth of their son. Two years later they had a daughter. He fawned over her. The son and my redhead might as well have not been there. The daughter grew up spoiled and nasty, calling the redhead trash. The son became angry and violent, hanging out with the wrong crowd albeit a rich Long Island crowd. He called her things worse than her daughter. Naturally sexy and flirtatious, her husband abused her physically in jealous and drunken rages. She finally got a divorce, but settled for sloppy old drunks for lovers because she seemed too old to find nice gentlemen. In other words her choice of men flopped.

Letting her know the situation, I could promise her a limited time. She said she had her girlfriends and maybe she'd meet a nice guy to fill in the absences. Probably not, I thought but told her I hoped she did. I slowly fucked her throughout the monologue and when she stopped talking she noticed. She slid away and got on her front and had me fuck her doggy style. I drove her to her second orgasm and my first, my hips slapping loudly against her big fat ass. Collapsing onto her stomach, she murmured, "Thanks honey that was great." Rolling off the bed she got dressed and handed me several bills. We kissed. She touched my dormant penis. "Good boy," she said.

I headed to the adjoining bathroom as soon as she opened the door and cleaned my privates and then changed clothes in my bedroom. When I opened the door, the Amazon stood there looking unhappy. I brought her into my room.

"It smells like sex," she said.

"I didn't know the mistress of the penthouse planned this. It's how I make my living," I explained.

"I know goddamnit." We sat together on the bed. She finally took my hand. We said nothing for a long time. "The mistress thinks I'm weird but I think she likes me okay," she said finally. "Your mother on the other hand can't stand me."

"Really?" I said. After another long pause, I told her, "She's just a poor girl who wanted to be a grand duchess. She learned airs and hung out with high society. She slums it, sure, like with the Negro, but she thinks he's a classy guy. I mean he dresses up and everything. She sees you as the opposite of the way a lady should be, you know, the way you dress. But I don't. I love the way you look. I love the way you wear what's appropriate to you and fuck anyone else. I think you look sexy as hell."

"Thanks." We kissed. "But the thing is she could tell I hated you working tonight. You should have seen the way she looked at me. She seemed ready to spit in my face. I ... kind of ... love you. I'm not jealous, not really. I understand, and you told me up front so I got nothing to say. But ... I want to be here with you and she..."

"I'll talk to her. She knows how I feel about you..."

"Do you love me?"

"As much as I can love anyone, I love you. I have a difficult time with love. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed when I'm with you and not just during sex which is amazing but lying here and talking. I guess that's as close as I've got."

"Okay," she said with a sad smile. "My aunt is here. You know she saw the performance? She really liked it. She loved the monologue and the music and ... she liked it. She's such a cool lady. When I told her about building sets, she got so excited. Anyway, I'm going home with her. She's about ready to go and I'm ... more than ready. Okay? I'm just going to slam down a glass of champagne and go. Everything's cool. Talk to your mom. I love you." We kissed softly and gently and lovingly. "I'll see you at the space in the morning." When she rose, I did too. "You don't have to see me out."

"I want to. Besides, I want to thank your aunt for coming to the performance."

We didn't leave my room right away. We stared into each other's eyes. We hugged. She's a great hugger.

After the Amazon and her aunt left I headed straight to my mother. I told her what the Amazon said; reminding her I never commented on any of her sponsors and expected the same consideration.

"Okay sweetheart I'll try," she said quietly. That's when I noticed how old and tired and sad she looked. I never saw her like it.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. She asked about the redhead. I told her she was a bit of a mess but generous. She smiled. "The brunette looks like she's got a gorgeous body," she said. My mother had been subtler before. She seemed to struggle coming up with that blatant hint. I shrugged and went looking for my friends.