Chapter 4
I reached the apartment house where Sandra lived just before six and rang the buzzer below her name and pushed the door open when the door buzzed unlocked. The apartment was only about ten blocks from mine and was in a racially mixed neighborhood with the predominant culture seeming to be Puerto Rican by the number of people speaking Spanish in the streets around me. I knew no Spanish at all and had the sensation of walking in a foreign country. My long blonde hair had attracted some attention as I walked the last two blocks and I heard a chorus of whistles behind me as I went. At first it confused me but after a few steps I relaxed and enjoyed the compliment. When I entered Sandra's apartment I was feeling fine.
"You look stunning," Sandra said to me immediately, and I smiled warmly at her. It was a nice thing for her to say and it made me like her, not so much because she was complimenting me but because she would actually say it. Then I turned around and saw Bill sitting in a chair.
"She's right. You do look stunning," he said, smiling.
I looked long at him and decided that he wasn't being sarcastic, that he actually meant it too, and I smiled back at him, slightly upset that he was there but thankful that he was being nice and friendly. In fact, he looked so cheerful and open that I continued to smile at him, feeling my natural attraction for him bubbling to the surface. He was really very good looking with his long blond hair and clear blue eyes, his lanky body stuffed awkwardly into a big chair, and I suddenly realized that objectively I hadn't done so bad for myself after all in letting him be the one to enjoy popping my sweet cherry. This thought brought my gaze down to his crotch and again I saw the bulge in his tight pants and felt my knees weaken slightly as I imagined his genitals hanging out as I had in dance class earlier. Bill's balls and cock, I suddenly realized, would be imprinted in my mind for life.
"Would* you like a drink of wine?" Sandra asked me.
"Yes, I think so," I said relaxing.
After two glasses of wine I felt completely at ease with both of them. Sandra fixed dinner and we sat around on the floor and ate and talked. Bill was acting like a real gentleman.
"By the way, Jenny," he asked part way through dinner, "have you read the play yet?"
"Only the first act so far, but I like it very much."
"You play Lilly, don't you?" he asked curiously.
"Why yes, how did you know?"
"I remember Langstrom assigning you the part."
"Oh," I said, remembering my embarrassment at having to stand up. "Was it you that whistled?"
"Of course," Bill answered. "I'm sorry if it embarrassed you."
"It kind of did," I confessed, and am surprised how easy it is for me to admit that. "But it's all right."
"I get carried away sometimes."
"I know," I said, and we smile at each other. Tonight I really like Bill.
"What do you play, Bill?" Sandra asked.
"Peter," Bill says, and looks hard at me.
"What?" I burst out, unable to control myself.
"I thought that would get a rise out of you," Bill said smiling.
"Wow!" Sandra says. "You two are going to have one hell of a time with this play!"
"I know," Bill agrees." "Jenny, you like me tonight, don't you?"
"Yes ..."
"Do you know what I've been doing ever since you walked in that door?"
"I'm not sure what you mean," I answer, confused.
"I've been acting more like Peter might act in this circumstance than like I would normally act. I've been acting Peter out for you rather than myself. And you like Peter better than you like me."
It hits me like a hammer that he is right. He has been acting young and innocent, polite and shy, the whole evening and I liked him more this way than I ever did before. I look in amazement at him and for the first time I see that Bill is one good actor and has a depth that I'm just beginning to see. Both of their eyes are fastened on me and I know what they're thinking, that I may not be able to handle the part of Lilly because I'm more like Peter than anything.
"Lilly wouldn't like me the way I'm acting tonight," Bill says. "Lilly would pass me by a thousand times before the one time in the play when she gives the innocent type a try."
"I know," I say, looking down in a sudden fit of self-doubt.
"Hold on a minute," Bill says, apparently sensing my sudden discouragement. "Look at me."
I look up at him and he holds my eyes as he talks.
"Let's get something straight right now, Jenny. Last week I fucked you and I was Bill to you, simple and clear, and you were Jenny to me, simple and clear. But now I am also Peter to you and you are also Lilly to me. I've proved I can begin to act like Peter around you, but you're going to have to act like Lilly around me. And I'm going to see that you do, because when we finally get on that stage you're going to have to be Lilly all the way. If you aren't, then I'll fall flat as Peter too, because it is going to take both of us to bring those two characters alive and neither of us can do it by ourselves."
"I understand," I say.
"Good. Only I want you to understand something else about the way I feel as well. Langstrom is big. He's capable of making me an actor, of getting me good parts and giving me the break I need. I'm more than simply ambitious about acting, Jenny; I'm absolutely ruthless. This is a big chance for me and it so happens that much of how I come out of it depends on you. Langstrom is no dumb ass. It was no accident that he cast me in the lead as Peter; he wants to see me act, to see if I can act, because he's always looking for actors that he can really use. He cast me as Peter because he thinks he can use me and this is going to be my chance to show him and I'm not about to blow it. It will be a hard part for me because I'm not much like Peter and he knows it. He's seen this play acted out a lot of times before and he knows what can be done with the part; after all, he wrote the damn play. And I'll tell you something else, Jenny. It was no accident that he cast you as Lilly either. You're quite beautiful only you got small town Midwest written all over you like you just walked out of a corn field. You look more like a contestant for Miss America than you do an actress. He's going to test you fast, and by making me play opposite you he's testing me even further."
I listen and look into Bill's penetrating stare and suddenly I begin to understand what New York is really all about, understand how far from Topeka I've really come, and I want nothing more than to run back there as fast as I can only I don't even know how to do that. I avert my eyes from Bill's and stare at the floor sullenly. The silence in the room is almost unbearable. I can feel both of them looking at me, searching my reactions to what Bill has said. Sandra is the first to speak.
"I wish I had your chance, Jenny," she says with her usual open honesty about herself, a trait I'm beginning to admire more and more in her and in people. Even Bill in his way is being very honest now and I feel it necessary to follow their lead.
"I don't know if I can do it, Bill," I say humbly, looking back up into his eyes. "I'm sorry you got stuck with me."
"You're being sorry doesn't matter a damn," he says. "I'm stuck with you and that's that."
"Take it easy, Bill," Sandra says.
"Hell I will," Bill answers back, and I look up at him startled. "Jenny," he begins again, in a soft voice now, "I'm not trying to frighten you. I'm trying to open up myself to you so that you can really trust me, because that's what it's going to take. I'm going to believe that you've got it in you to act the part of Lilly like it has never been acted before. And I'm going to do everything in my power to see that you come through with it. I want to get all your fear out in the open so we can move beyond it. There is no sense in being sorry about anything. We simply have what is and we have to make the very best of it we can, even if it means facing pain and the unknown inside us. There's no going back, no starting over, and no regrets. And in the end we're—you and I—going to give a performance that will blow his mind. Is that all right with you?"
"Yes . . . you're right," I say, only I begin to cry anyway and I try to stifle my sobs. "I'm scared, Bill," I manage to say through my tears.
"You're not the only one, Jenny," I hear him say in a different voice yet, one mixed suddenly with his own fear for himself, and I look up at him and see that he really means it and isn't just trying to baby me. I stop crying and look at him almost hotly. So he's really scared too, I think in wonder.
"I'm beginning to understand, Bill," I say, wiping my tears away as I talk. "I'm beginning to understand what acting and life are all about. You see, I've never known people like you before, and I've never known what honesty is all about, what it even meant."
"That's it, Jenny," Sandra says. "You're getting into it now."
"I. feel like a little girl that just walked out of her parents' house for the first time."
"That's what you are, Jenny," Bill agreed. "Only you got only six weeks to become a woman, to become Lilly."
"Is that when the play is scheduled to be shown?" I ask.
"Yeah. I saw Langstrom today and he told me. He asked me if I'd met my leading lady yet. He knows what's going on."
We finish dinner in silence, and after dinner we have another glass of wine and talk about New York. Bill has been in New York for ten years and Sandra for three. I'm surprised to find they are both twenty-four years old, older than I had thought they were. They don't look any particular age but being nineteen myself I just assumed that most of the students were around the same age. I ask about the other classes and Sandra tells me there are people of all ages connected with the school, that there is one man in his sixties that is a pretty good actor and will probably take the part of the bartender in the play.
"You see, Jenny," Bill said, "most acting schools aren't worth a damn because they're divorced from existing theaters; they play their little games for their own ego satisfaction and are happy to be students which is a safe life. But this one is different. This place is more like a casting agency, and Langstrom won't keep people around that he doesn't think he can use. He doesn't need our money. And he's too busy to waste his time with students. He wants good actors and this is his way of finding them."
It gets late and Bill says he'll walk me home. We say good night to Sandra and walk out into the darkened streets of the city. The night is soft and still warm, but in the air there is a crispness that presages the coming of fall. We walk close to each other but Bill doesn't take my hand. I would like him to touch me, hold my hand, in some physical way acknowledge me, but he doesn't. As he walks I see his genitals pushing out against the fabric of his pants and I wonder if we'll fuck sometime again. It's so strange for me to be thinking something like that, so unfamiliar. Only four nights before I lost my virginity under his naked body, and only today I hated him and myself for it and thought it was so sordid and degrading, a vile and humiliating act, and now I'm wondering if and when I'll do it again with him. I decide I'm really screwed up about sex, that I don't even know how I feel about it, or rather that my feelings are in such conflict that I feel a hundred different ways at once. I'm beginning to be relieved that that first one is over, though; I'm beginning to be thankful that I'm no longer a virgin.
We reach my apartment building and Bill walks inside with me when I open the door and follows me up the dark stairs. I unlock the door into my apartment and turn to say good night but Bill walks on past me as if he has no plans to say good night yet, so I close the door behind us and wait to see what is happening. Before I can turn on a light Bill puts his arms around me and kisses me on the mouth hard. I feel his lips crush into mine and his tongue slip into my mouth and seek my tongue. I whimper and try to pull away but he holds me and forces his kisses against me. Finally I jerk back, breathing hard and scared.
"Stop it Bill, you're hurting me."
"I'm going to hurt you a lot more than that," I hear him say in the dark.
"Now you're scaring me too," I answer.
"You scare yourself."
"I want some light."
"Light a candle then," he tells me.
All right, I say to myself, and I walk in the dark over to the table by the couch and fumble for matches, then I strike one and light the two candles I keep there. Suddenly I don't like what is happening and I wish he would go home and leave me alone. The night has been really good up to now, but so much has happened, so much has crowded into my mind, that I need and want time to sort it all out before having to handle any more. I might like to fuck him again some time, but I certainly don't want to do it tonight. Last Friday is still too close and I'm still scared to think about anything like that happening again even though I keep looking at his crotch and wondering about it. Thinking and doing are such different things, and all I'm interested in doing right now is thinking about it.
I turn toward him and see him standing tall and lean in the flickering light of the candles. He looks pale and almost grotesque to me, and I realize how afraid of him I really am. He must see my fear now because he smiles a crooked smile and moves slowly toward me as if I'm a victim of some sort. I fight against my fear as he approaches me, and when he stops directly in front of me and so close that my breasts almost touch him I can hear myself breathing and the blood pounding in my head. He lifts one of his hands and cups my left breast and squeezes it hard. Despite myself I feel my nipple stiffen under his grasp, feel a pulling in my belly and a wobbling in my legs.
"Don't," I warn, my voice sounding hollow to me even as I say it.
"Get undressed," he hisses at me.
"Get out of here," I say to him, my tongue thick and dry in my mouth like a wad of cotton.
"Take your clothes off or I'll rip them off!"
I break down. He looms tall and gaunt over me and I feel small and helpless. I want to cry.
"Please," I whimper. "Please don't do it to me again."
He lifts both his hands and begins to unbutton my blouse, beginning up at the neck and working down until my blouse pulls open and my breasts heave inside the cups of my black bra. I feel my heart pounding as he reaches behind my back and unsnaps my bra. Then he reaches underneath it and his hands cup the full flesh of my breasts and his fingers pinch my nipples firmly. I want to run but my feet are rooted firmly where I stand; I don't even try to fight or even scream, perhaps because it has happened once before and I know deep in me that he will have his way again. Yet I hate him for what he is doing, and I hate the weakness, the fear, inside myself that is allowing it to happen against my desire. Or is it against my desire? I don't know any more. My body is on fire, my breasts are in his grasp and my flesh is hot, and I am not fighting back, am not even attempting to resist his caresses. He fondles my breasts, and lifting my bra he bends his head to them and I feel his warm mouth wash my tits and his teeth nibble at my soft flesh. Then he is pulling my blouse off, lifting my bra from my body, and unfastening my skirt and pulling it down my ankles and with it my panties and I am naked and vulnerable before him.
He begins to take his own clothes off, looking me up and down with a triumphant grin as he lets his shirt drop and unbuckles the belt on his pants and slides them down to his ankles and steps out of them, flipping his shoes off without even bending to untie the laces. He is standing before me, his huge erection stabbing the air an inch from my belly, swollen and veined, pointing at its victim like a bird dog at the soft underbelly of a frightened quail, and my flesh feels like feathers, soft and pliant before his crude hardness. His penis is his gun and he is about to blow me down, he the hunter and I the victim of his power.
"Take it," he says.
I look at him blankly, feeling his power and feeling myself cringe inwardly in fear.
"Take my cock, baby. Squeeze it like you've never squeezed anything before, like you love it and worship it."
I look at his penis and can see it pulsing alive in the light of the candles. Slowly I reach out my right hand and let my fingertips touch his swollen member. It feels slippery and hard as rock, only the swollen red tip is soft and fleshy like soft rubber. It's the first time I've ever touched a man's penis and a thrill like sparks shoots from my fingers up my arm and through my entire body and I tremble where I stand.
"Squeeze it!" Bill demands.
I clasp my hand around it and tighten my fingers with all the strength left in me and suddenly my other hand is there also, grasping and squeezing at his long stem. He pumps it into my hands and I go crazy with excitement feeling its power pushed against me, and my hands go underneath to his balls and I feel for the first time the soft squishy sensation of holding a man's testicles.
"Now suck on it," Bill tells me, and I look in horror at him.
He grabs my head between his hands and with a vise-like strength he forces it down, forces me to my knees before him, and pushes his cock into my mouth. I choke, and tears come to my eyes; I whimper and try to beg him to stop. My mind fills with odious images; I feel filthy, like a whore, a slut, like a beast, an animal, unclean and unhuman. Still he forces me to keep him inside my mouth and slowly I begin to do his bidding like a sex slave, sucking him into me and running my tongue along his penis in horror. He begins to thrust it harder and faster into my mouth. I feel the pressure building in him like a dam about to burst, and I try to escape from the terror that fills me, but he holds me to my task and his rhythm mounts. His hand clamps my head and the room spins with his thrusts. Suddenly I feel deep in the roots of his cock a quivering that is as old as man himself, a spasm of animal release that ripples forward through his shaft in wave upon wave and he is moaning and my tongue is washing him furiously. My mouth closes tight around him and I feel his dam burst into my eager jaws, his semen flowing into my taste and slipping into my throat as he ejaculates his wad into my mouth. I keep sucking, beyond any control or direction, my womanhood rising and burning all else before it, my one desire to suck his cock dry.
And then I'm on the floor wailing and moaning with disgust and shame, my belly retching with the filth of the act I've performed, my eyes still fixed on him standing victorious and dripping above me, a grin on his victor's face.
"You got a good mouth, baby," he says, and when he dresses and goes I can't remember, crumpled in a ball of self-disgust on the floor where he leaves me.