night. I smiled brightly as I bowed before another standing ovation at the packed house at the Raleigh theater. I almost broke out in tears. Not tears of joy, because I would now have to return to New York and my mounting money problems. I knew if this was Broadway, and I had ripped it the way I had, I would’ve been getting seriously paid and most likely auditioning to do other shows. But all I would be getting for my Tony-worthy performance was a check barely enough to get me through a week in New York.
I sat in my dressing room, staring at myself in the mirror as I took the stage makeup off my face. My cell phone sat just to the side of me, but it hadn’t rung in days and there were no missed calls or texts. This was starting to piss me off. S. Marcus hadn’t called in a couple of days, and I was beginning to worry that he’d already moved on. I needed him for two things: the good loving he could deliver and to see if he could really help me get a reality show of my own.
I smeared some more makeup off my cheek with a cotton puff, andangrily threw it on the dresser, forcing myself to admit why he hadn’t called. I must have appeared too desperate. I was acting like some dumb schoolgirl and I knew better. This man had fucked me one good time, and I was acting like I was sprung. Granted, it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, but still I needed to pull myself together.
A knock came at the door. I ignored it, not wanting to be bothered. It was most likely some castmates with their best friend from Bump-fuck, Arkansas, who wanted to take a picture with me and get an autograph so they could post it on their MySpace page.
Another knock. “Please, not tonight. Go away!” I shouted, looking at the door through the reflection in my mirror. After a moment of silence, I went back to my makeup, figuring they got the message, but the knocking came again.
I shot up from my stool, stormed across the room, and flung open the door. I was met with a wall of roses. I couldn’t see the face of the fan who held them, but roses always made me feel better. Most times.
“Look!” I said, no longer controlling my anger. “I appreciate the roses but—”
Before I could finish my sentence, my fan brought the flowers down, and I gasped when S. Marcus appeared behind them with a broad smile on his face.
“You going to talk to me like that?” he joked, stepping into my dressing room. I took a step back, allowing him in. “After I take off from work, fly all the way over here, trying to surprise you, this is the reception I get?” He walked me backward across the room until my back was pressed against the wall.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I said, my voice sounding like a little girl.
He looked at me for a moment with those dark, hypnotizing eyes, as if he was trying to decide what to do with me. Had I messed this up for good? I wondered.
Without saying a word, he dropped the roses onto the sofa beside us, grabbed me tight, and then pressed his open mouth to mine. Hislips were softer than I remembered. His tongue slid into my mouth, and it was full, sweet and playful. I kissed him back, sucking his tongue like it was his dick.
“Oh, baby,” I said, slowly releasing one of my naked legs from the robe. He took hold of the other, lifting me up, spreading them open, and pressing his throbbing manhood against my now moist center. “Can we … can we?” I tried to say, digging my nails into the back of his jacket. “Can we get out of here?”
He pulled his full lips from mine and said, “Let’s make it happen.”
An hour later, we were in a suite on the concierge level of a hotel that had to be the best in Durham, North Carolina. S. Marcus was on his hands and knees, stark naked. I, too, was naked, on my back, my knees bent, my legs open like butterfly wings. S. Marcus’s head was buried, can I say, in the dead center of those wings, and he was making them flap.
I didn’t know what he was doing to me, but I was moaning
I sat in my dressing room, staring at myself in the mirror as I took the stage makeup off my face. My cell phone sat just to the side of me, but it hadn’t rung in days and there were no missed calls or texts. This was starting to piss me off. S. Marcus hadn’t called in a couple of days, and I was beginning to worry that he’d already moved on. I needed him for two things: the good loving he could deliver and to see if he could really help me get a reality show of my own.
I smeared some more makeup off my cheek with a cotton puff, andangrily threw it on the dresser, forcing myself to admit why he hadn’t called. I must have appeared too desperate. I was acting like some dumb schoolgirl and I knew better. This man had fucked me one good time, and I was acting like I was sprung. Granted, it was some of the best sex I’d ever had, but still I needed to pull myself together.
A knock came at the door. I ignored it, not wanting to be bothered. It was most likely some castmates with their best friend from Bump-fuck, Arkansas, who wanted to take a picture with me and get an autograph so they could post it on their MySpace page.
Another knock. “Please, not tonight. Go away!” I shouted, looking at the door through the reflection in my mirror. After a moment of silence, I went back to my makeup, figuring they got the message, but the knocking came again.
I shot up from my stool, stormed across the room, and flung open the door. I was met with a wall of roses. I couldn’t see the face of the fan who held them, but roses always made me feel better. Most times.
“Look!” I said, no longer controlling my anger. “I appreciate the roses but—”
Before I could finish my sentence, my fan brought the flowers down, and I gasped when S. Marcus appeared behind them with a broad smile on his face.
“You going to talk to me like that?” he joked, stepping into my dressing room. I took a step back, allowing him in. “After I take off from work, fly all the way over here, trying to surprise you, this is the reception I get?” He walked me backward across the room until my back was pressed against the wall.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I said, my voice sounding like a little girl.
He looked at me for a moment with those dark, hypnotizing eyes, as if he was trying to decide what to do with me. Had I messed this up for good? I wondered.
Without saying a word, he dropped the roses onto the sofa beside us, grabbed me tight, and then pressed his open mouth to mine. Hislips were softer than I remembered. His tongue slid into my mouth, and it was full, sweet and playful. I kissed him back, sucking his tongue like it was his dick.
“Oh, baby,” I said, slowly releasing one of my naked legs from the robe. He took hold of the other, lifting me up, spreading them open, and pressing his throbbing manhood against my now moist center. “Can we … can we?” I tried to say, digging my nails into the back of his jacket. “Can we get out of here?”
He pulled his full lips from mine and said, “Let’s make it happen.”
An hour later, we were in a suite on the concierge level of a hotel that had to be the best in Durham, North Carolina. S. Marcus was on his hands and knees, stark naked. I, too, was naked, on my back, my knees bent, my legs open like butterfly wings. S. Marcus’s head was buried, can I say, in the dead center of those wings, and he was making them flap.
I didn’t know what he was doing to me, but I was moaning
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