Long before I had my affair, Curtis and I were divorced both in soul and in heart. We were really only married on paper. We lived separate lives, but out of some sick need Curtis would not let me go.Oh, how I do not miss Curtis! Staggering home at 2 am, crashing through the door and falling into bed. His inebriated tongue like a jellyfish upon me, a muscle with no muscle -- just drunken, disoriented dallying. I would pray for him to stop beating it around the bush. No, I don't mean Curtis was into SM. I mean I wanted him to get to that place where I was coming from. But if you can barely navigate your way home, how the hell are you going to find the jewel?
Time and again I'd draw him a map -- X marks the spot -- but it was useless when he'd been drinking. And if I tried to talk to him about it when he was sober, he'd just sit there, morose, saying nothing. "What's the matter, Curtis?" I'd say. "Cat got your tongue?"
Jello! I've had guys do more with their hot breath down there in five seconds than he could do in five minutes with that drunken tongue. And the more I'd push against it, the more he'd melt away. Then finally, when my climax was on the tip of his tongue, so to speak, he'd stop. "No," I'd plead, "don't stop!"
Well, came the day I stopped the pleading and had the affair with the sound man, which left me pleading in a different way -- for more. We met while working on a cross-gendered production of A Streetcar Named Desire. I played Stanley, and took a lot of my character studies from Curtis. I nailed Kowalski on the nose.
Now, I'm a down-to-earth sort of actor and I like hanging out backstage chewing the fat with the crew. At least until it's time to go onstage and chew the scenery with the rest of the cast. On my second day of rehearsal, I was having a catnap on the couch in the green room.
As I awakened, my eyes focused on the bleached denim crotch of the sound man. As he sauntered toward me and introduced himself in a smoky blues-singer kinda voice, I had an urge to breathe hotly into the faded blue.
My co-star, the diva playing Blanche, whispered in my ear, "Your consciousness is in your crotch." To which I promptly responded, "No, it's not. It's in his." And that was the shape of things to come. The sound man became engraved in my brain, branded in my heart, tattooed in my pussy.
I remember the first time he showed me the sound booth, slipping his key into the keyhole as he moved his eyes up and down the considerable length of my legs. My eyes followed his agile fingers as they deftly inserted the key -- the same fingers I'd dreamed of sucking and biting as I'd watched them flick switches and manoeuvre levers, slender, silver-ringed fingers that stroked keys and danced on buttons. Now ensconced in the dark sensuality of the sound booth, these deft digits raced juicy circles around my own buttons, knobs, switches.
Ohms, sound bites, hot-spot power speakers, perfect pitch, good vibrations -- the man had it all. And a tongue piercing, to boot! He amplified my pleasure to peak decibels and we shook the rafters of that old theatre with our wild and electrified lovemaking.
During the course of the show I cherished his every wet kiss, and when we were apart I wrote about him in my journal. I had to. In code, of course -- you know, uckfay emay abybay. Nights when I couldn't be with him I dreamed of biting his lips till they bled -- lips that were apt to curl into a sexy, sly smile like a bent cupid's bow.
And then the show closed. At the closing party I was having a beer on the catwalk with the sound man, whining about my bad marriage and being out of a job. I bemoaned the fact that I didn't think anyone was taking me seriously enough in the industry or out of it. And then he took me. Seriously. Right there on the catwalk, far above the madding crowd amidst the spotlights and other equipment.
And suddenly a light went on: what was the worst that could happen if I walked out on Curtis? Just left him there blathering threats and drowning in his own emotional blackmail? Would he really pummel me as he'd always said he would?
He'd hit me before, but my guess was that the booze and drugs would win out over the exertion required for exacting revenge.
The next night, while Curtis was at the bar, I packed a few things and left. I hid at a friend's house. I heard Curtis was furious, but apparently not furious enough to find me, which he could have done. Anyway, in a few months it all blew over and I went on with my usual life. Only there has never been anything usual about my life since I left Curtis. I had cut the rebop, as Stanley Kowalski would say. And it felt glorious.