An American stagehand has a thrilling hook-up with a star when some New Yorkers come to town.
One of the things Poppy liked best about hanging around theatre people was observing the many striking contrasts between their onstage and real-life personalities. The troupers with the most uproarious comic mannerisms were sometimes the deadliest bores. The women who played ‘mother hen’ characters with utter conviction could be the hardcore, unapproachable loners. The most naïve, under-the-lights innocent could turn out to be the most legendary sexual adventurer after the lights went down… and before they went up… and perhaps even backstage during a performance. The onstage straight people proved so frequently to be the offstage queers, and vice versa.
As a mere local performer, Poppy was lucky to snag an acting part at all when the New York crowd hit her town for the summer. Most of her college buddies had to be satisfied with technical or administrative functions. Even someone who was used to getting leads in winter musicals might find herself just folding programs or taping down cables come July.
But the New Yorkers seemed to like Poppy, as long as she didn’t walk between them and their audience or drag her few lines out longer than was dramatically necessary. This was the second year in a row that she’d been given the smallest available female part in a summer production, and she was thrilled. Granted, the tiny part took up about five percent of her time, while her menial backstage duties took up the rest; but at least she had the part.
Poppy had noticed Rosie Wren’s elegant radiance before the New York cast even took their seats in the theatre auditorium on the first morning of rehearsals. The pretty, buxom twenty something had a face that instantly drew the eye. Once there, a difficult choice had to be made regarding whether to study the narrow, expressive eyebrows, the impish eyes, the saucy little nose or the sensuous mouth. Her cute face was framed by a kittenish yet androgynous scoop of rich brown hair, which swooped to a soft point below each ear, as if poised to tickle whoever beheld it. Poppy wanted to eat her up.
The character Rosie played in the summer comedy was a wisecracking, big-hearted waitress named Ginny – everybody’s friend. Like Ginny, Rosie had a presence that acted like a magnet on those around her. Unlike Ginny, Rosie wasn’t sweet as pie. Oh, she was a sweet girl alright, Poppy could sense it. But she was sweet like a cocktail that knocks you on your arse and guarantees you a lovely evening – the kind of evening that, if you can manage to remember it at all the next morning, you’ll remember for a long time. Watching Ginny made Poppy happy. Watching Rosie made her happy, but it also made her wet.
It was evident before the first day was over that Rosie was that rare sort of character who was as witty in real life as in her best comedic roles. Between scene run-throughs, Rosie was the one who made the other performers, and even the director, laugh; those priceless, unscripted laughs that occur when a cast is beginning to learn to work together, building the kind of camaraderie that makes people cherish the theatre as home.
Poppy wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that playwrights had written parts specifically for Rosie Wren, just for the chance to see their own wit conveyed through such convincing lips, with their authentic, cheeky sparkle. Sometimes, in those first days of rehearsal, Poppy would close her eyes and simply listen to the crisp resonance of Rosie’s voice, delivering lines with perfect inflection and precision. This was what it meant to be a New York actress – your voice alone could bedazzle. At least, thought Poppy, Rosie’s voice could.
You Can’t Fool Me
“Where’d you get that?” It was the first time Rosie had spoken to her, and the context was typical of the ice-breaking backstage overtures occasionally made towards Poppy by the members of the imported cast. She’d noticed that the New Yorkers were capable of being quite charming when it suited them, but that they were most likely to take the trouble of talking to her only when they wanted things.
“They have them across the street, at the cafe,” said Poppy helpfully, quaking in her jeans as Rosie flashed the poised but engaging smile that had helped her win a host of off-Broadway roles and plenty of highly lucrative 30-second stints in commercials.
“Duh,” Rosie said without malice, and it made Poppy feel more comfortable to hear this gorgeous, big-deal actress talk to her without undue courtesy or ceremony, just like her friends would. “I didn’t mean the juice, I meant that stunning necklace.”
So Poppy stammered through an explanation of how she’d made her own bead necklace, and as she did so she saw Rosie smiling tenderly at her, incredibly but unmistakably, through an obligatory layer of New York actress ego. In that moment, Poppy knew that Rosie was gay, like her, and that she wanted Rosie desperately.
That evening, as the cast waited patiently for Doug the director’s notes, Poppy studied Rosie. ‘You can’t fool me,’ she thought, ‘with your boyish little slacks and blazer. I know what kind of soft shoulders lurk beneath the jacket, what kind of round, feminine bottom presses against the trouser seat. I know that beyond the seam where the tailor joined those mannish fabric legs breathes something soft and juicy that gapes hollowly for my tongue.’
The nice thing about summer productions was that nobody had to stand on ceremony about inviting someone out – or inviting someone in. Whether the issue was sex, love or friendly company, people simply drifted into each other’s rooms the way they did in a freshman dorm. As a local, Poppy had no need for a room at the New Yorkers’ motel, but Rosie had one. They ended up there together during a long afternoon break one day, as naturally as a couple of dorm-mates planning to tackle some homework.
Rosie kicked off her shoes. “Things are getting a bit intense on that stage,” she remarked. “Doug and Garrett, the show’s leading men, seem to be racing each other to the next hissy fit.” Poppy burst out laughing.
“I suppose this is always the most irritating phase, when we’re beginning to get into the fine points enough to be conscious of every dramatic problem, but when we haven’t yet hit upon all the brilliant solutions. And when tensions first begin to surface among all those insufferable thespian personalities. My own included.”
“I think you’re wonderful,” said Poppy sincerely. “They’re lucky to have you.” The star brushed off this compliment casually, but Poppy could tell it had been much appreciated.
“Anyway, after a morning like that, it’s a relief to be alone with someone I feel truly comfortable with,” Rosie said offhandedly, as her bottom bounced onto the bed.
Poppy laughed again, a different type of laugh this time. “You just met me, silly.” “What does that have to do with it?” quizzed Rosie. And Poppy saw that she had a point. She felt as if she’d known Rosie all her life.
One Rule
The day flowed lazily into the scheduled late-afternoon rehearsal. Poppy was stationed alone in the stage-right wing, perched on a prompter’s stool, as Act One drew towards its close. Rosie’s last exit before the interval was only minutes before the end of the act. “You look strange, like you have a secret,” she observed playfully, joining Poppy in the wings.
“Well, sort of,” Poppy explained, with a hitch in her voice that was just shy of a falter. “I was waiting for the scene to end, and then I… I really have to pee, that’s all.” She swallowed nervously. She knew that her face was flushing, but not unpleasantly.
“That explains why I saw your lovely hands pressing against your jeans as I turned the corner. I thought it was just some freakish, sexy hallucination on my part,” said Rosie. Before Poppy could digest this, Rosie quickly kissed her – whether on impulse or through dramatically-planned timing, Poppy would never know. She melted.
“Christ, I think I’ll wet my pants if you do that again.” “Does that mean you want me to or don’t want me to?” Poppy felt her blush deepening. “The kiss – any time, any place.” She was surprised by the frankness of her own answer. “As for the wet pants… it’s an intriguing possibility, but I think I’d better hit the ladies’ room. I’ll be back soon.” “Brilliant,” said Rosie, licking her lips suggestively. “You know,” she added, with a meaningful look. “Doug said that we should be able to finish rehearsals early tonight.”
Walking back from the restroom, Poppy contemplated the enchanting personality of a woman who hadn’t touched her in her motel room two hours ago but who had suddenly kissed her and propositioned her backstage, in such a manner as to almost literally leave her in a puddle. Rosie Wren was the most seductive, irresistible thing she’d ever been lucky enough to encounter, Poppy decided.
They ended up alone in the dark auditorium at the end of the dinner break. Everyone else was outside, grabbing the warm, luscious butt of a perfect New England summer day before it slipped away.
For Poppy, the erotic was all about moments. Perfect and perfectly arousing moments, when a look and a mood, a chemistry and a feeling all intersected just so, and desire shot through her like an instantaneous bolt of urgent, life-affirming reality. For that perfect moment she was nothing but a sexual being responding to a sexual stimulus. And this present instant, the moment when she felt their first full-fledged, unhurried kiss about to blossom on their lips, was such a moment. Even if another one never occurred between her and Rosie, it would be enough for Poppy to know that this one had.
Then the kiss materialised, and the treasured moment had already been surpassed by one that was somehow even more electrifying.
Rosie spoke in a frail whisper that would never have carried across the stage. “One rule, dear girl: you can get me hot, but you can’t wreck my focus. I don’t mind walking out there with moist panties, but I will not fluff a line. After the rehearsal, you can wreck my focus all you like. In fact, I’ll be quite disappointed if you don’t. My focus hasn’t been properly wrecked in weeks. When I’m finished with you tonight, I expect to feel so thoroughly well-fucked and satisfied that I’ll barely be able to concentrate on flossing my teeth, never mind anything else.”
In response to this inspiring declaration, Poppy was overcome by a wonderful queasiness. Then, as if by a sort of comic relief that was in itself effervescently sexy, she suddenly found herself fascinated by the cuteness of Rosie’s nose. She kissed and nibbled at its adorable little bulb until Rosie, giggling like a high school girl, reached out and delicately tweaked one of her nipples through her jersey.
A Raw Woman
It was only an Act Two run-through, and the director, true to his word, did not keep them afterwards. But to Poppy, the session had been interminable. All she had been able to think about were Rosie’s mischievous eyes, her full lips, and the feminine charms that lurked beneath her androgynous outfits. She had tried to make the clock hands move faster by entertaining herself with mental images of Rosie in Ginny’s fetching waitress outfit, which thus far had been put on display only on the costume rack. This, however, had proved to be a rather poor choice of diversion, as she’d ended up watching the last few scenes with the acute impatience of a throbbing heart and a dripping pussy.
Now, she was finally alone with Rosie at the motel. The room was quiet, but Poppy’s head was spinning with the emotional equivalent of crashing waves, and the larger-than-life reverberations of Rosie’s earlier words. Then the Rosie in her head was shoved aside by the Rosie sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“Penny for your thoughts, pussycat.” Poppy hesitated, unsure what to say. ‘I love you’ seemed so abrupt, but anything else seemed insufficient. Fortunately, Rosie did not wait for a reply. “Actually, never mind about your thoughts just now,” she said waggishly. “Let’s have your pretty lips.” And Poppy felt herself drawn into another time stopping kiss.
Rosie was sure of herself, and was engaged in a very natural, yet utterly sensuous process of undressing almost before Poppy knew what was happening. She watched Rosie slither out of her European-cut trousers, to reveal a round bum in crimson bikini briefs. In a moment, this bum was in her hands.
Though she knew it was idiotic, Poppy couldn’t help thinking, “This is the kind of sexy underwear that a professional theatre star from New York wears.” She was grateful that Rosie couldn’t read her mind, at least at that particular moment. Then she laughed as she began to nibble at the small of Rosie’s back and saw, from the tag, that these were the same brand of bikini briefs that she herself wore.
In the theatre, you saw everyone in their underwear on a regular basis. Poppy knew that these weren’t Rosie’s ‘you can all have a look at me in my underwear in the dressing room’ briefs. No, this was significant underwear, ‘undress me and feast your eyes upon me intimately’ underwear. This was ‘get your beautiful face in here and fuck me with your tongue until I scream’ underwear, not ‘be a doll and help me with my make-up’ underwear. After several years of hanging around in theatre circles, Poppy could tell the difference. And this thought made her laugh too.
“What’s the funny line, prompt-girl?” queried Rosie, but Poppy pulled the star’s panties off and silenced her question with the beginnings of an extended sojourn between her thighs. No girl could possibly want Poppy to answer questions now, if it meant removing her tongue from where it was currently occupied.
Rosie’s poised perfection melted away as Poppy ate out her pussy. Layer upon layer of sophistication, wit and finesse opened up for Poppy’s tongue, to reveal a raw woman whose yearning desire was as tangible as the succulent, sweet flesh of her c**t lips. A voice that normally tossed off sharp-witted one-liners and scintillating backstage banter now wrapped itself around throaty moans and statements as elementally articulate as “lick it, yeah, lick it”. And when she delicately nudged her tongue against Rosie’s clit, Poppy felt a flood of sticky moisture against her face that spoke more eloquently than pages of cleverly-scripted dialogue.
It made Poppy feel a little foolish, but pleasantly giddy, when two thoughts – ‘I love you, my sweet angel’ and ‘I’m making a New York actress cream her ass off’ – began to compete for what remained of her attention. And she thought it was interesting that it was the sound of Rosie’s voice screaming an orgasm that triggered her own. Just the sound.
