[This story is written to an exactly 750-words for the 750 Word Project 2022.]
Opening night of a special Valentine’s Day two-week Off Off Broadway run of the musical The Fantasticks had gone very well. I, playing the male lead Matt, swept into the wings and into the rather too close embrace of the play’s beaming director, Robert Strang—forties, handsome, well put together, and full of himself. I knew why Robert had given this role to me, and, maybe, someday. But not today. Still, I didn’t remove the hand he was cupping one of my butt cheeks with.
Claudia, playing the female lead Luisa, was still out under the lights, cradling her dozen red presentation roses, and simpering for a few audience members who had come forward to fawn on her. The stagehands already were swarming around us to strike the set.
“Why is it always the female lead who gets the flowers?” I asked, half in jest, but only half. “Why doesn’t the male lead get them?”
“You were magnificent out there, Todd,” Robert cajoled. “Simply the best actor on the stage. Perhaps istanbul travesti when you’ve cleaned up, we can go for a drink.”
I knew what “going for a drink” with Robert would entail. I knew what he wanted. I wasn’t ready for that yet. “Perhaps another night, Robert,” I said. “I’m knackered tonight. Straight to bed.” His eyes lit up momentarily, probably misunderstanding what “straight to bed” meant to me, but then he realized and took his hand away from my butt cheek.
But then Claudia was coming off stage, sniffing at her roses, and Robert turned his ingratiating attention to her, telling her her performance had been wonderful. “You were magnificent out there, Claudia,” he murmured.
Yes, I’d heard him even if he’d kept his voice down. I looked away and into the face of a muscle hunk Hispanic stagehand I’d been sharing smiles with through the production phase. He was smiling now too, and as I walked back to the Green Room to check notes with the other actors before going to my dressing room—at least I merited my own dressing room, complete with istanbul travestileri studio coach that I suspected Robert had made sure was there—I returned his smile.
My smile turned into a laugh when I got to my dressing room and found a somewhat bedraggled small bouquet of mixed flowers in a vase on my dressing table.
As I stood in the doorway, Robert passed me, Claudia on his arm, and I said, “Thanks for the flowers.”
Robert gave me a confused look and said, “What flowers?”
* * * *
Flowers were there the next night after the performance as well. The bouquet was in somewhat better condition and quality than the one on opening night. On the third night, I hung around, down the corridor, before the play started, and I saw the hunky Hispanic stagehand go into the dressing room with a small bouquet in his hand.
“Are those for me?” I asked. “My name is Todd.”
“Yes, I know who you are. I am Eduardo. I heard you wish you had flowers, and I think you deserve flowers.”
“Would you like to have a drink with me, Eduardo?”
“Yes, travesti istanbul I would like that very much. There is a bar near—”
“I have a bottle of tequila in my dressing room—if you drink tequila.”
* * * *
Eduardo was huge, vigorously thrusting, inside me as I leaned over the dressing table, forehead pressed to the mirror above the table, my eyes flashing passion and pain, exhibiting that I was getting it as good as it gets. My mouth was unhinged, yawning. I was moaning deeply and murmuring, “Yes, yes, screw me, you big stud.”
He held my hips in his strong, calloused hands until he was saddled and mounted, and then he grasped my wrists, forcing my palms up to spread on the mirror above my head. I could see the muscles of his bare shoulders knot and release behind me and his so-thuggishly-ugly-that-it-was-beautiful face grinning over my shoulder. He was enjoying this as much as I was. The empty tequila bottle and two tumblers rattled on the dressing table at the upper left and the vase with the bouquet in it shimmered in the upper right.
“Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”
Later, me collapsed on the dressing table, alone, purring, Robert came to me. He touched me on the shoulder, but drew back when I said, “Not now, Robert.”
“Why him? Why a stagehand rather than me?”
“He brought me flowers.”
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