by Daryl Banner
I own you, something deep within whispers.
With his clever eyes burning, I feel my heart racing and my mouth going dry. He wears a smirk that suggests he’s far more in control of this exchange than I even know. In the subtle curve of his boyish lips, he seems to grasp how very much he’s got me wrapped around his finger, whether I admit it or not.
He extends a hand. “Thanks, teach.”
With great reluctance, I allow him mine and shake his hand.
Justin looks down, perplexed suddenly by our clasping hands, and he doesn’t let go. His brow wrinkling, curious, he says, “You have very soft hands.”
“What?”
I tug, but he keeps firm grasp of my hand. “Do you use some kind of lotion, or …?”
“N-No.” I swallow, flinching and antsy. Justin Brady, with his deep intensity, seems to study my hand, turning it over, feeling it as they clasp. Then, ever slightly, he lets go and starts to examine my palm like a damn palm reader. He runs his fingers down it, transfixed.
My breath has become jagged. My heart is pounding against my chest so hard, I literally worry on whether I have the paramedics on speed dial. Why am I letting him do this? Am I that lonely? Has it been so long since I’ve had anyone in my life?
Well, yes. Yes, it has. Eight years, in fact. Eight fucking years of school and work and school and work and more school. Nothing but broken dates, canceled dates, nightmarish dates and nothing. I am one lonely, bitter, hardened, sad motherfucker. A sad motherfucker who is literally getting his hand stroked by a freshman in hot jeans.
Why don’t I realize this isn’t normal?
“Give me back my hand,” I finally find the courage and willpower to say.
“I’ll give it back when I’m ready,” he says almost sweetly.
I yank, finally slipping it from his own. He looks up at me, meeting my eyes. Something is going on here and I’m not sure I trust it. I move to the door, gripping its handle. “I’ll see you Monday, Mr. Brady.” I say it dismissively, prepared to shut the door when he goes.
He does not go. He just stands there, his lips curling and curling until suddenly his teeth are showing. The wider his grin spreads, the deeper the chill that lances down my body.
“Are you sure you can’t give me lessons?” he asks again, stupidly, stubbornly … sexily.
“You’re taking my class,” I repeat, just as stupidly. “You’re already getting my lessons.”
“Private lessons.”
I stammer, unable to produce another word, wondering what he means by “private lessons” and what, exactly, those might entail.
He points out, “We got all weekend.”
He has to be punking me. This whole thing is a joke to him. He’s figured out I’m into him and now he’s taking full advantage. And I’m …
“What sort of lessons?” I ask.
And I’m letting him.
“Maybe I could meet you somewhere,” he suggests, giving an innocent shrug. “Then you can give me some pointers. I wanna do good in your class. Maybe there’s an actor in me somewhere.” He shoves his hands in his pockets again, his biceps bulging in protest.
I’m all too aware of those biceps bulging in protest when I say, “Where would we even meet?” What the fuck am I doing?
“I don’t know. Somewhere private where I could maybe …” His tongue runs along his lips, thinking, though I imagine he knows exactly the effect his innocent licking has on me. “Where I could let loose,” he decides to say.
Is he waiting for me to invite him to my place? Is that what’s happening here? This isn’t right. I should cut him off now, turn him away.
“608 Limestone Creek, two blocks east of the museum district,” I tell him. “There’s a … a park near where I live. Plenty of space and—”
“Can we just do it at your place?”
He’s really getting to the point. A hundred thoughts cross my mind all at once, turning my mind into a shockwave of fears and hopes and reasoning. I realize, Mr. Harrington has given voice lessons at his home before. I know singers who give lessons out of their home, too. It’s not unheard of. Maybe this Justin Brady character just straight up, legit wants to learn more about acting. Maybe today humiliated him and he’s really super great at hiding it.
I’m probably projecting all my sexuality onto him when, in reality, nothing at all is going on. Treat him like a student, don’t treat him like the gourmet dish of strawberry-kiwi bisque that you’re turning him into.
What the fuck is strawberry-kiwi bisque? “We’ll do it at my place, then,” I agree quietly. “512 Limestone Creek, just down the road from the … from the aforementioned park.”
“Cool.” Justin’s face softens, his eyes turning warm and his body squirming with relief. “Thanks, teach. When can I show up? Tonight? Around 8, maybe?”
“No,” I say. “No time. I have obligations. Tomorrow morning.”
“But I have nothing else today. Your class is my only one Fridays. Please, teach, can we do it tonight?”
Mr. Harrington himself told me quite recently—in auditions yesterday, in fact—that I need to just go for it. His words. The voice guru said I keep making excuses, holding back, that I just need to … let go.
But what, exactly, am I letting go of? “Your private lessons begin tonight,” I say. “Be there at 8 sharp. I don’t like to wait.”
[ 6 ]
I’m home five hours earlier than usual.
I clean off the coffee table and shove everything into the top drawer of my desk, figuring I’ll go through it another time—as in, never.
I throw the dirty dishes into the dishwasher even though it doesn’t work, just to get them out of sight.
I make my bed and pull clothes off the floor, thrusting them into my hamper without checking to see which are clean or worn.
I’m in full-blown sweat by the time I pull out the vacuum and give it a good run across the living room and down the hall. I should invest in hardwood floors, I tell myself.
Out of breath, I pull dust rags over every countertop and tabletop. I wipe my forehead and absently leave a huge clump of dust there, which I discover half an hour later when I clean the bathroom and catch sight of myself in the mirror.
“What the fuck’re you doing?” I ask the sweaty man in the mirror.
Then I clean more. Washing the toilet on my knees, I consider what sort of lesson I can give him when he comes over. I can’t do anything he’ll be doing in class anyway. I doubt he’ll have a new piece, so we’ll probably have to work with his made-up, abominable “Swag” piece. Or maybe we can pick something from my selection and he can just do it on-book.
I take a shower and give myself a pep talk afterwards. I’m experiencing all these strange emotions, worrying on what to do with my hair, or what to wear, and it reminds me of my time in college, which suddenly doesn’t feel like all that long ago. I try to fix my hair in that way where it looks like I don’t care; it takes a lot of care to make it look like I don’t care.
I put on a t-shirt and loose-fitting jeans, then check myself in the mirror. I want to look exactly enough don’t-give-a-shit, as if I’d cared so little that I forgot he was coming over. I want to be pleasantly surprised at 8 PM when he shows up. Maybe I ought to be baking something. No, that would require me learning how to bake.
Is it so crazy that, even for teaching for years and having so much experience in college with expressing my art and regurgitating words and technique, that the thought of some private in-home acting lesson freaks me out? I wonder if I’d feel this way with any other student.
Or is it just the idea of Justin Brady in my house that makes me lose sanity?
An hour later, I’m cleaned up, dressed and sitting on my couch watching TV. Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say there is something on TV, but what I’m really watching is the clock hanging on the wall near it, a clock that reads 7:29 PM. I watch it with the intensity of a hunter, every minute dropping from the wall like another innocent
bird that did nothing wrong, falling into the endless green below. Minute by minute, crawling by so slow that I cringe with anticipation and suck my tongue with impatience.
By 7:37 PM, I bring a laptop to the couch and feign calmness, browsing my Facebook and skimming the dumbest shit in my newsfeed. Mostly, videos of cats.
7:43 PM comes and I’ve tossed my laptop to the opposite side of the couch, throwing my head back and staring at the ceiling. The sound of a studio audience laughing and laughing fills the room. Punch line, studio laughter. Punch line, laughter. Actors saying lines, people acting like the actors are funny. It’s all the same. It’s all fake. I’m the same, I’m fake, I’m sitting here on this couch pretending not to be nervous.
Justin Brady, my one and only audience member. I hope he buys my performance.
7:49 PM and there’s a knock at the door.
I literally hop off the couch and am on my feet like a cat at the sound of a vacuum cleaner. My eyes wide, I feel my mouth turn into a pot of sand. I’ve made a mistake, I tell myself. This was a mistake. I’ve let my cock make an important decision for me. When have I ever let my cock have a say in important decisions? I force my feet to bring me to the door. I take a deep breath. I take a deeper breath. I open the door.
Some stiff kid’s standing there with a book. “Hello there, sir. Do you have time to speak about our Lord and Savior?”
I gape. I’ve nursed half a boner in my jeans, there’s images of pink nipples dancing between my ears and a kid’s at my door wanting to tell me about baby Jesus.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he assures me, reading my expression. “I just want to discuss with you—”
“It’s 8 at night!” I blurt out.
“God never rests,” he assures me with a smile, gripping his book—his bible—tighter.
“Joke’s on you,” I spit back. “I’m gay.”
“A true Christian embraces and loves his gay neighbors.”
Great. A gay-friendly Christian and a bible at my door on a Friday eve, and I’m the asshole.
“To be really honest,” I say, “I’m expecting company. Do you mind, like, coming back in a week or something? Then you can talk to me all about your baby Jesus.”
“God bless,” he says, then leaves. I watch him go, then shut the door and, with a tired sigh, I return to my couch and stare blankly at the TV. For some reason, that little exchange at the door just broke all my nervousness in half. I feel eerily calm and wonder if the whole world’s punking me, or if bible boys really do visit houses this late in the evening on a Friday night.
The next time I bother to look at the clock, it’s 8:07 PM. I experience a sudden sinking feeling in my stomach. At first I think, Maybe he’s lost. I think, Maybe he doesn’t drive and he had to get a ride, and maybe his ride fell through.
Of course, the more obvious thing is, maybe I’ve been stood up. Maybe he was never really serious, and he’s already dropped my class and I’ll never see him again. Already, I’m a puddle in his stupid, freshman hands. A fool. Mr. Brady is making me wait, if he’s making me wait at all.
8:13 PM and the world still turns.
When the exact minute of 8:40 PM touches the clock, I turn off the TV and lie down on the couch, studying the ceiling. I’m still so eerily calm, like nothing can touch me, not even another knock at the door. I feel the cool touch of my laptop resting beneath my left foot, reminding me it’s still there.
I remember one time back in college when I was waiting in the rehearsal room for my acting partner to show up, a semi-attractive guy with whom I was quite excited to be doing a scene. It was something between childhood friends from a boring-ass play, but I was so excited to act with him. I waited and waited for an hour and fifteen minutes. I waited more.
I remember the long walk back to my dormitory, furious that he’d not come to rehearse. When I grabbed lunch on the way back, I snapped at the server, feeling entitled to be rude and horrible because my wonderful, highly-anticipated rehearsal never happened. The sinking feeling in my chest that day, if only I knew it’d never leave me.
Every disappointment I experienced after that, it just added to the weight. Each cast list I looked at that didn’t have my name. Every time my directors criticized me in front of the cast. Each victory that someone else experienced that I could’ve had.
I’m about five foot nine and weigh about a hundred and forty pounds, but sometimes the weight of disappointment that has dragged behind me over the years makes me feel like I weigh four hundred. I think that’s the weight that keeps me from getting out of bed on the weekends. If I didn’t have shows to direct, I’d probably sleep the whole weekend through. I’m such a depressing, miserable person.
Fuck it. I want pizza. I push myself off the couch, pull my phone off the kitchen counter and call the local delivery. A handful of minutes later, I trust some teen on the other end of the line with my credit card info and a pizza is now on its way to my humble abode. I pull a bottle of beer out of the fridge, pop it open and take a swig. I haven’t kicked back a bottle in months; I’ve lost track. The familiar, bitter sting takes my mouth and throat, seeming to blur my eyes instantly.
My doorbell dings me at 9:22 PM when I’m drinking my third beer. I strut to the door, proud of the night I’m about to have, and swing it open to greet my dinner.
Justin Brady stands there instead.
My eyes right themselves and my lips part. Justin is wearing a snug black button-down and jeans, bunched up around his signature red-and-white high tops. His hair’s styled perfectly, spiky and flipped up in the front as though he’d come from a fucking salon. He’s a model, hopped right off the cover of a magazine.
And I’m quite suddenly very self-conscious of the beer in my hand. “J-Justin,” I finally manage to say.
“Had a tough time getting here,” he says. “Missed the bus and had to walk six blocks to catch another one. I’d call you to pick me up, if I had your number.” His high cheekbones are flushed adorably, his hazel eyes shining and his teeth so white it hurts to look at them. “You gonna let me in?”
“Yeah. Yes.” I step aside, letting in my guest. My heart pounds, pounds, pounds.
Just like in my office, I watch as he looks around, turning his head left, right, up. His eyes drink in my little house. The kitchenette to the right. The living room straight ahead. The blunt hallway to the left that leads to my bedroom, the spare room, and a bathroom. His eyes drink it all in in a matter of seconds.
I shut the door. He turns to me, his eyes bright and curious. I have just under three beers in me and I never drink. The effect this has on my decision-making process is one I fear.
“Ready for your lesson, then?” I ask, setting whatever’s left of my bottle on the kitchen counter. I stumble over the change from tile to carpet as I move to the living room. I swear I’m not as think as I drunk I am. “We’re going to start off with your horrible monologue.”
“Can I have a beer?”
I look up at him, incredulous. “You invite yourself over for private lessons, and now you want me to promote underage drinking?”
He shrugs. “Legal age is eighteen in most countries.”
“Legal age is ‘none-of-my-students’ where I’m concerned,” I spit back. “Are we going to keep discussing legalities, or may we begin with the lesson?”
His eyes on me, fierce and piercing, I watch as he slowly, patiently leans against the kitchen counter. I’m confused until he reaches for the half-empty beer I’d left there. With a firm grip, he brings the bottle to his perfect, puckered lips, takes a swig, then meets my eyes again, a smug look of victory on his model boy face.
“My beer,” he says, and those two words send a white-hot chill down my body, straight to my cock.
“I … I didn’t—I don’t condone that.”
But Justin Brady couldn’t give two fucks. He kicks the bottle back again, deliberate, and this time, his eyes stay on mine, staring at me from around the bottle that hangs upside-do
wn at his mouth. When he’s done, he taps the bottle with a fingernail—tap, tap, tap—then says, “Why don’t you get me another?”
I laugh. It might be the first time I’ve laughed in months. I recover and say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Nah,” he decides, tapping the bottle again. “I want you to get me another.”
“What do I look like? Your bitch?” I laugh again at the gall of this sexy-as-fuck freshman in my house. “Here to do what you say?”
“Pretty much,” he says.
Then, we both laugh. There’s a twist of doubt in my gut though, because I can’t quite tell if he’s kidding or not.
“Alright,” I mutter, playing the part. I come around the couch and take the empty beer from him. His eyes never leave me, watching my every move. Our fingers touch for a second when I take the bottle, and it makes me shiver. Ignoring said shiver, I deposit the bottle into the recycle bin, then grab another from the fridge. Bringing it to Justin, I humor him and say, “Want me to open it for you, too?”
He says, “Yeah, I do.”
I pop open the beer, then hand him the bottle. He takes it from me and, never breaking his intense stare, he kicks back the beer and chugs, chugs, chugs. The way his throat works to swallow, the muscular way his lips connect to the bottle, it gives him such an air of dominance. It’s like he’s consuming me, chug by chug. It’s like he’s … swallowing me whole.
He sets the bottle back on the counter, half-drank, then focuses on me for far too long without saying a thing. I resist my usual urge to express or break the awkward silence and just let it happen, returning his stare.
Then, quite abruptly, he breaks from the counter and moves to my couch. A strange confidence has filled him from toe to spiky hair. I don’t have to be some expert in body language or a movement professor to see the command and authority in just his strut. Maybe you’re an actor after all, I muse.
