Chapter 1

"Acting doesn't have much to do with the script of a play. The writer writes the script and gives you a character, lines, a story, and some stage directions. The director gives you a more detailed set of stage directions, a costume, criticism, and a sounding board. You as the actors have to supply the flesh and the emotion, the life and the personality of the characters, and that life can come only from what's inside you as people. You'll never be able to create anything in a character that you don't already have inside you, and your hang-ups are going to show in a bright spotlight on that stage."

I sit nervously and listen to his even, confident voice and feel the panic rising in me, happy for the comforting presence of the twenty other students of the acting school sitting around me, glad that his sharp eyes and drilling voice aren't focused on me alone. He is so dynamic and sure of himself that he's frightening yet terribly exciting at the same time. There was no one in Topeka like him, but then this isn't Topeka either; it's New York and I'm here now and he's a part of New York. I've been here over a week and I still can't get used to the idea.

"We'll begin the year by staging a two act play that I wrote. I'm going to assign parts randomly, trying to type cast as much as possible instead of having you audition. The sooner you get on stage the sooner I'll be able to assess your individual abilities. Some of you will probably get parts that are foreign to you, but that will just give you more of an opportunity to act."

His eyes are so powerful that I keep blinking to help myself screen his intensity down to where I can handle it. Then I appraise his features with a forced calculation; it's a trick I taught myself in order to cope with people more powerful than myself. I look at them as if they're objects instead of people and they become less of a threat. He is about six feet tall with dark hair that falls over his ears and down over his collar in back and he's terribly handsome with piercing gray eyes. I guess him to be in his mid-thirties but it's hard to be certain. I have the feeling he could project any age he wanted. His body is lean and thin almost to the point of being skinny, yet his muscles are hard and flex under his shirt when he moves, and his movements are cat-like they are so self-controlled and fluid. I remember his name, Mark Langstrom... and that he is a well known Off-Broadway director.

"There's one more thing I want to stress at this point. This is a professional acting school, not a place for kids who want to play at acting. You pay money to come here, a lot of money, but that doesn't mean that you're going to stay here. There's a hundred others for every one of you sitting here that would like to take your place, and as far as I'm concerned they can have your place if you don't earn it and earn it fast. I don't know what kind of experience any of you have had in acting or in your personal lives, but if you don't grow fast in both of these areas you're going to get the boot, and if it comes don't say you weren't warned. If I don't think you've got it together to act I won't waste my time or yours. I may sound hard and I am hard, but I'll be honest with you all the way. If I ever tell any of you that you're doing something well you'll know I mean it."

He begins passing out copies of the script and I watch his hands. They have a softness and delicacy that is almost feminine, but I notice that the heels of each hand are calloused in a strange way. He hands me a script and I feel his eyes all over me. He is looking at each of us carefully as he passes out the script. I suddenly feel as if I'm sitting naked, as if his eyes are seeing right through my clothes they stare so hard and deep.

I take the script and with feigned interest I begin reading it to escape his eyes. Then he is back up in front and I look up as he begins talking again. We all look at the list of characters on the second page and he begins assigning parts, asking each person his name as he assigns a part and writing the name in his copy of the script. I sit frozen with fear as he moves closer to me in his assignments, then he asks me my name and I have to audibly clear my throat before I can answer.

"Jennifer Reynolds."

I feel his eyes burning into me.

"Stand up, will you Jennifer," he says.

He hasn't asked anyone else to stand up, and as I rise to my feet all eyes in the room focus on me. Some boy in the room whistles softly and there is a wave of laughter. I feel myself turning red and fight to control it but I know it shows. I've been handling whistles and catcalls all through high school but I feel insecure and alone here and I can't keep myself together not to blush. I look at Mark Langstrom and he is smiling.

"I've saved the part of Lilly especially for you, Jennifer. Lilly of the Valley, she's called, and she never blushes."

I blush all the more with that dig and sit back down while he doles out the rest of the parts. I'm acutely conscious of my body now and squirm on the floor where I sit. I feel hot all over as I watch him talking, and when the session is over and the first rehearsal time has been set I hurry out of the room and go quickly down the hall to the dressing rooms. Dance class is in half an hour and I must change into a leotard. A girl named Bernie and another named Sandra come in behind me and we begin undressing together, talking about the script.

The school offers several different classes of instruction in various theater-related subjects like dance, signing, costumes, make-up, stage design, lighting, and so on. I have chosen to concentrate on dance because I feel most competent in it, and I've always been told I'm a good dancer.

Sandra and Bernie strip down to their bra and panties and I do the same, looking discreetly at their bodies. Sandra has big breasts, as big as mine, but they are lower on her body. Bernie has little pointed breasts and is very thin except for her ass which shoots out behind like the ass of a Negress. The door to the hall is partly open and I wonder if they aren't afraid of someone walking by in the hall and seeing them nearly naked, when the door suddenly bangs open and a tall blond guy named Bill comes walking into the dressing room.

"Hi, chickies," he says.

I reach for my robe and hold it in front of my body but Sandra and Bernie just look up and smile at him. They don't seem upset in the least as he looks them over. He throws his own tights and T-shirt on the long dressing table and proceeds to unbutton his shirt and pull it off.

"You're taking dance too?" Bernie asks.

"Yeah."

"Good, it'll be nice to have a man around," Bernie says.

"I would think so."

He next unbuttons his pants and pulls them down and I see with a shock that he has nothing on underneath. His genitals come openly into view. I look away but then look back. His penis is dangling out from thick blond pubic hair and his balls hang underneath. His penis is long and tipped with a reddish head. I've only seen a man's genitals once before and that was at a distance but that image has stayed with me ever since, and now I can't tear my eyes away from Bill's exposed genitals. He bends and pulls his pant legs over his feet, then straightens, and his penis sticks out from his body so I can see his balls, round and full and covered with soft blond hair like down. He is naked now and I see that both Sandra and Bernie are glancing at him too. Their eyes travel up and down his body while mine are fastened on his crotch. I begin to sweat under my arms and my own crotch feels moist. I'm suddenly certain that I must be the only virgin in the entire school and that feeling makes me nervous and afraid. I'm sure I don't look like a virgin, though, and I decide I'd better stop acting so much like one or they'll all know. I put the robe down and stand in my bra and panties too. I look at myself in the mirror and see that there is a bulge where my pubic hair presses out against the flimsy fabric of my panties. Then I look at Bill casually and see that his penis has grown some. It is growing bigger before my eyes. Bill looks at me, at my body, and grins broadly. I force myself to smile at him and turn away to keep from staring at his genitals.

Then we are all dressed and walk together down the hall to the room where dance class is held. During exercises at the bar I stand behind Bill, and I can't take my eyes off the bulge in the crotch of his tights. When he stretches it pokes out even more and I force myself to keep my eyes closed for several seconds to gain control of myself. Floor exercises are better. I can't see him at all. After about forty-five minutes of exercises the class ends for the first day and we return to the dressing room.

I'm terribly excited as I pull off my leotard. I fiddle in my purse as an excuse for standing almost naked like that. I want Bill to look at me again. He undresses as before and again I see his genitals exposed. His body is flushed and hot from the exercises and his penis hangs down in a long curve from his crotch. His balls hang lower now also, and as I watch him out of the corner of my eye he rubs his genitals absently. I feel myself getting weak in the knees like a little girl who is confronted with something bad yet exciting. The temptation is there to reach out and touch it. He is that close to me. I shake the thought out of my head and turn away, breathing hard. Sandra and Bernie are already dressed and I quickly pull on my clothes. I feel ashamed of myself for staring at him, for indulging in fantasies about touching him. I feel suffocated suddenly in my own terrible thoughts, feel myself slipping into a state of lost control as if sinking under water. I have to get out of here quick. I pick up my things and cram them into my bag and head for the door, not looking back. Sandra and Bernie have already left. I pull open the door and am almost out in the hall when I hear him.

"Jennifer."

I close my eyes against his voice wanting to pretend I haven't heard him, but I have; I've already hesitated at the sound of my name, and he knows I heard him. Slowly I turn back and am relieved to see that he already has his pants pulled up.

"Yes," I finally manage to say, forcing a carefree voice and thanking God for what acting ability I have.

"How about having dinner with me tonight?"

He's pulling on his shirt and I see his chest with the patch of curly blond hair disappear beneath it. He is so cool, so manly, and I suddenly am terrified of him.

"Yes, sure," I hear myself saying, thinking no, never, I just couldn't, not after seeing you like that. I bite my tongue for having accepted and think maybe he didn't hear me. I feel myself slipping deeper into the water. I cling to the doorknob to keep from going under, to keep part of me afloat.

"Good. Be with you in a minute," he says.

"I'll wait out in the hall," I say, and I close the door behind me. Out in the hall I lean against the wall and breathe deeply. I know that if you can control your breath, make it come easily, you can get control of the rest of you. I feel my lungs catch then fill with air and my head slows down. I reach in my purse and pull out my cigarettes and stuff one in my mouth, lighting it with shaking fingers. I inhale deeply and blow the smoke out almost as a sigh of relief. My mother was surprised to find that I had begun smoking a year ago. She should have known why—the tension got too great sometimes and cigarettes seemed to help.

I light my second cigarette as Bill comes out and we walk down the long hall together in silence. Outside the building the five o'clock Manhattan rush is on. People jam the streets and sidewalks all in a mad rush to get home from work, to get from one cubicle to another. As we push our way along the street Bill takes my hand. I feel more secure that way and am glad he did it. He turns us left about four blocks from the school and we go another half block and duck into an old apartment building. We climb the stairs to the third floor and he unlocks his door and we're inside and away from the streets.

The apartment is nice in an inexpensive way, nicer than I had expected from the outside appearance of the building. It's only two blocks from my own apartment, but in Manhattan two blocks can be two worlds. There is a large living room with a small bedroom off to one end, and a kitchen and bath and closet. The ceilings are high and a corner window looks out over the street. I settle on the couch and look down at the tops of peoples' heads while Bill puts some music on the stereo.

"I'm going to take a shower," he says. "Want to join me?"

"No ... no thanks. I don't feel like one just yet," I answer with as much cool as I can muster. He disappears into the bathroom and I hear him singing above the spray of the water. After a few minutes he walks out of the bathroom naked. I'm not expecting that and I catch my breath and pretend not to see. He crosses the room to the closet and stands for a long time as if trying to decide what to put on. I look furtively at him and see that his genitals are swollen even bigger than in the dressing room. He finally slips into some pants and a shirt and joins me on the couch. His mere presence now gets me excited and scared and I try to think of a way of escaping from him for a while. Then I remember his offering me a shower.

"Bill, if it's all right, I think I could use a shower. Suddenly I feel all sweaty and tired from dancing class."

"Be my guest," he answers.

I go into the bathroom and close the door. There is no lock and this disturbs me, but it's too late to back out now so I quickly undress and jump into the hot water. I don't care if my long hair gets wet because I have to wash it at home that night anyway. I lather my body heavily with soap and rub my skin all over, feeling the sensuous tickling of my fingers on my skin. When I get to my crotch I can't keep from rubbing the bar of soap sideways into my slit and I feel the pounding of my clitoris as the soap teases it. Before I know what I'm doing my fingers have replaced the soap and I'm back into the year-old habit of caressing myself between the legs, only now I'm in a fever with it like I've never been before. I close my eyes and picture Bill's naked body, his genitals dangling close to me, and as I see them in my mind my hand works harder in my slit and my whole body is pounding wildly. My clit grows stiff under my fingers and a feeling like floating comes over me. My legs feel like rubber and my thighs spread wide as if someone is pulling them part. As if from a long way off I feel it coming, a throbbing that pulses and explodes inside me as I dig my fingers into my cunt, and I stifle a sob as I come, still picturing his penis in my churning mind.

Seconds later the bathroom door opens and Bill pulls the shower curtain back. My legs are weak and my mind is filled with guilt at what I've just done. I've rubbed myself with soapy hands before but I've never carried it all the way. It was the first orgasm I had ever known and I'm dizzy from it.

I look at Bill's leering face and my first thought is that he has seen me masturbating. I turn scarlet and want to drain out of the tub like the water, to become fluid and invisible and disappear forever down into the sewers of the city where I belong. I'm so upset and uncontrolled that I don't even bother to hide myself from his hot eyes. I just stand there with shame written all over my face and let him stare at me.

"You got a lot of soap in your crotch," he says grinning. "Let me help you wash it."

I try to speak but my tongue won't work. I see his hand extending toward me and watch his fingers sink into the soapy hair of my cunt. They dig into my slit where my clit is still throbbing and I feel him poke around my secret flesh. I want to scream I'm so frightened.

"Don't!" I manage to say weakly.

"Come on now, it's all in fun. A little petting is good for everybody. Keeps your blood circulating."

I feel his fingers exploring my flesh where no man has ever felt before and against all my will I begin to respond as he manipulates my love button.

"Like it, don't you," he says, and his fingers reach for the unopened entrance to my cunt.

I feel him pressing up into my hole, pressing against the unbroken hymen closing the entrance to my vagina against him, and I panic, feel his slippery finger digging inside me and jerk away from his hand, splashing him with water as I move back in the shower. He wipes the water from his face and stares at me angrily.

"Look, chick, I know what you were doing in here. You can't fool me with this coy bullshit. You like your own finger up there better than mine? I can see all over your face that you were fucking with yourself."

"I wasn't! I wasn't!" I hear myself scream, and then I'm crying, sobbing tears that mix with the water and flow down over my breasts into the drain. I look at his face and he seems scared, hesitant. I'm sure he didn't expect such an emotional outburst, such hysteria, and all of it so real. His face goes slack, uncomprehending; he tries to put the shattered pieces together.

"You're really scared," he finally says in an almost clinical tone of voice, as if he's watching some animal react in an experiment. "You're really fucked up, aren't you?"

"Leave me alone, please," I plead.

He shows no sign of leaving. He looks me up and down and I watch his eyes focus on my breasts. I feel like a trapped animal in a cage. Then he strips his clothes off and steps into the shower beside me. I see that his penis is no longer flaccid and hanging. It's stiff and sticking out cruelly in front of him like a weapon, like a knife of flesh. He presses against me, his hands covering my breasts, and he fondles my flesh. I feel his penis like a spear pricking at my belly and I close my eyes at its touch. I feel faint, terrified, helpless against him. His mouth is seeking mine and I twist my head to avoid his lips, pushing at him with what strength I have left. The hot water sprays over us and I feel suffocated by his body and the steam. I can't breathe. I struggle harder against him and in a sudden spray of water we both slip. The water hits my face and mouth and I gasp for breath. He lets go and struggles to his feet, reaching down and pulling me up after him.

"Get me out. Please, I'm suffocating," I whimper.

I feel his arms lift me off my feet and I am being carried out of the bathroom. I feel the cool air of the living room and see the high ceiling. The music is around us now and I hear it interspersed with my own choking. Then the living room ceiling changes to the bedroom ceiling and I feel the softness of the bed cushion my body.

"No . . . no," I mumble. "Please ..."