Thoughts While Having Sex

by Stephanie Lehmann

  Thoughts While Having Sex

  A New York Novel

  By

  Stephanie Lehmann

  Copyright © 2003 by Stephanie Lehmann

  Lyric excerpt of "Sisters" by Irving Berlin © copyright 1953 by Irving Berlin; © copyright renewed. International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Prologue

  I don't go to Broadway plays very often. Orchestra tickets are so expensive. And who wants to sit in the balcony? I don't see the point of going to a play if I can't see the faces of the actors. But I did want to see Betrayal at the Helen Hayes Theater because Kelly Cavanna was in it, and I used to know her before she got famous. I had this fantasy that after the show I would visit her dressing room backstage. It would be like in that movie All About Eve with Bette Davis; I'd watch her taking off makeup while a maid hung up costumes and everyone made wisecracks.

  But this was not likely to happen. Because the truth is, we didn't part on the best of terms. And I was still angry over the way she'd treated me. So part of me wanted her to get bad reviews and embarrass herself in front of everyone. I hate that, when I want someone to fail, as if that would make my own life better in any discernible way. Not that my ill wishes had any affect whatsoever. She got great reviews, ticket sales were going strong, and I tried to feel happy for her, I really did, but it was annoying to see her be so successful and have to feel jealous on top of that.

  Not that I'm an actress too, god forbid. I'm a playwright. And I wrote the play she was performing in when she was discovered by a producer who put her in a Broadway play where she was noticed by a casting director who got her a part in a sitcom which led to her first movie, which led to her second movie, which led to her being nominated for an Academy Award.

  The theater world loses a lot of good people that way. When New York actors get some success they almost inevitably go off to Hollywood. Some people even say that's the reason theater is dead. Well, maybe theater in New York City is moribund, but I don't think "theater" will ever die. It's so much a part of how we live. Every day is a performance, every conversation is an improv, every fight is a climax, and every sigh of relief is an ending of sorts.

  Maybe she would've been successful whether she was in my play or not. Who knows? And it wasn't like she was a totally rotten person. I do admire certain things about her. Kelly is a woman who is not afraid of being out there, both with her feelings and her sexuality. Unlike me. And she inspired me to stop hiding so much. And that's really at the heart of why I want to tell this story.

  Chapter 1

  Before I ever met Kelly, I'd written a play called Til Death Do Us Part, a drama about two sisters, and I was trying to find a way to get it produced. The Dramatists Guild has a newsletter, and there are always a few theaters advertising for new plays in there. When I saw the listing for a drama with a maximum of six characters and a simple set to be produced at The Renegade Theater in Chelsea, I circled it. My play only had two characters and it all took place in a bedroom. I'd been sending plays out to theaters advertising in that newsletter for three or four years and nothing ever came of it, but I kept trying. In the theater, Hope Springs Eternal.

  And so it was to my great surprise when, about two months after I sent the script in, a guy named Peter Heller called and asked if I'd like to meet for coffee. He didn't say on the phone if he liked the play. But unless he was some kind of sadist with a lot of time on his hands who wanted to tell me how bad it was to my face, I figured it was safe to assume he was interested.

  We met at the Westway Diner on Ninth Avenue and sat at a booth in the back near a brightly lit showcase of gigantic cakes and pies. I'd been to this place before and knew their desserts looked far better than they tasted, so I wisely ordered coffee and a bowl of rice pudding. Peter Heller ordered a bowl of lentil soup.

  "So what are you going to do with this play?" he asked, after the waiter finished pouring my coffee.

  That gave me pause. I wanted him to tell me what he was going to do with it. "I'd like to find a way to get it produced. And I'd be interested to hear what you think of it."

  "I was very impressed."

  "Thank you." I waited for him to tell me what was wrong with it. In the theater, people always expect you to be rewriting, as if it's arrogant to think you've actually finished something.

  He took a spoonful of soup and then said, "I think it's ready to be produced."

  We looked at each other, and I tried not to let him see my joy. I should mention, I thought he was very cute. Late 20s or early 30s. Brown curly hair that gave the impression of being blond. Not very tanned, but not pale either. I'm not good at descriptions, but in any case he was very good looking. To me, at least.

  "Have you sent it out," he asked, "to a lot of places?"

  "I plan to. The Public, Manhattan Theatre Club, Playwrights Horizons." As if just mentioning those theaters would make me sound more impressive.

  "Why should you send it to them? They'll just send it back. You have no name and hardly any credits—why should they produce you?"

  He'd obviously looked at the resume I'd sent in with my play. I had two past productions to speak of, both comedies. Reservations for One was staged at the Stella Adler Studio Theater when I was an undergraduate at Tisch School of the Arts at NYU. An online review from that production had observed how "the playwright was sitting in the back row laughing harder than anyone else."

  My other comedy, Reality Check, was produced by a bunch of friends soon after graduation at a small black box theater on East 4th Street. It ran for two weeks. I pretty much stopped speaking to any of those people after we opened.

  In any case, Til Death Do Us Part was my first drama, and I considered it to be my most accomplished writing yet.

  "They shouldn't produce me," I said magnanimously. Peter Heller should know I didn't deceive myself about the difficulties of getting a play done.

  "It's tough to get audiences," he said. "Even one by a well-known writer. So why would they risk five hundred thousand dollars for a first-class production on you?"

  "They wouldn't."

  "Especially since there's little hope for investors to make that money back."

  "It would be crazy," I agreed.

  "And that's why you can't take rejections personally."

  "Because it's hopeless. And I'm insane to be doing this, and the sooner I go back to school and get a degree in accounting, the better."

  "That's not what I'm getting at, Jennifer. I'm saying that it's not a reflection on your talents when you keep getting rejections, and that's why you have to keep sending things out."

  "To make my odds better," I said, now trying to sound upbeat.

  "And to get them to know you and your writing."

  "Because you never know what may happen down the line."

  "That rejection letter may be the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

  I looked at him and wondered. Was this was going to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship?

  "So," he continued, "you still haven't answered my question. What
are you going to do with the play?"

  "Send it out to hundreds of producers and theaters all across the country and feel good about getting as many rejections as I can?"

  "Once again," he said with a smile, "you have not given me the right answer."

  "Which is?"

  "You're going to give it to me to direct."

  I was very happy to hear this. But I didn't want to presume too much.

  "Direct, like, a reading? So you can hear it in front of an audience?"

  "No. I'd like to direct a full production."

  I tried not to look at him as if he was insane. Hadn't he just gone over all those reasons why you'd have to be crazy to produce a play by an unknown nobody like me?

  "Nothing fancy," he added. "We're talking about a fifty-seat Off Off Broadway theater on the seventh floor of an office building in Chelsea. Are you interested?"

  Interested? I would've been glad to be produced in Off Off Podunk—especially with a cute guy like him. I said, very casually, "Yes."

  I might add that my heart was beating very fast at that moment and I didn't know it then, but I was not going to be able to fall asleep that night because my mind would be racing with thoughts of him and my play and him and my play...

  "Good. Then let's say we'll plan on putting up an Equity showcase. It'll run four weeks, sixteen performances, and we can open in about two months. If that's okay with you."

  I said, as matter-of-factly as I could, "That sounds fine."

  "And I'll put an ad in Backstage for the two actresses."

  "Great." An ad in Backstage. That in itself seemed like a measure of success. But I had one worry. "I think it might be hard to cast the younger sister. It's hard to find an actress who's good at holding things in emotionally."

  "You think so?"

  "Holding things in is not what an actress does, or she wouldn't become an actress." She'd become a playwright, so she could watch actresses express all the emotions that she could only put down on paper in the safety of a silent room.

  "But if she's a good actress, she should be able to. They aren't playing themselves, just like your play isn't an autobiography."

  "I suppose.” My play, actually, was extremely autobiographical.

  As a matter of fact, my older sister Diana would've been perfect to play the part of Julia, the older sister. But she would've been too difficult to work with. She had a lousy temper. And she was not reliable. And then there was the fact that she might not like the way she was portrayed. Not that any of this mattered. Because she was dead.

  That sounded blunt. I didn't mean to sound so emotionless about it. I've gotten used to saying it that way. Her death was so upsetting, so I've gone to the opposite extreme and taken the feeling out when I mention it. Which I try not to.

  I knew I'd have to mention it at some point, but I wanted to think it would be done casually later. I like to humor myself that her death doesn't always have to be the most important thing about my life.

  But she is dead. That's what she is. Killed herself. Dead.

  Peter took out his wallet to pay for the bill. "Don't worry. We'll find a younger sister. Now I can't promise you much more than a budget of ten thousand dollars," he said, leaving money on the table, "but I think we can do a nice job. The technical demands of the play are minimal, and we'll do our best to get some critics to come."

  "Great." I began to reach for my purse but he shook his head and I complied.

  "And with any luck we'll get some other producers in, too. Because my goal is to help us get this moved to a larger theater. We want this to be the first production of Til Death Do Us Part, not the last. That's how I make my money back and get a reputation too."

  "Thank you for having faith in my play."

  "Thank you for writing it."

  I smiled. It felt good to hear that. Though I did wonder why a guy would be drawn to a heavy duty drama about two sisters.

  At that moment it occurred to me that we should've actually talked about the play to see if he saw it the same way I meant it, to avoid any potential artistic differences down the line. But I sensed that he would do a good job, and I didn't want to ruin the positive vibes going – especially when he stood up and I saw that he was nice and tall, about six foot one, and a bit slim, though not too slim, just the way I liked. Right then, I couldn't imagine having a problem over artistic differences with Peter Heller.

  It's not surprising that after meeting him, I started having insomnia. Not only because of the giddy anticipation of seeing my play produced. Also the giddy anticipation of the possibility that he'd take me home one night after rehearsals and make love to me. He would put my play on its feet—and sweep me off mine.

  Of course, I knew it wouldn't be a good idea to get involved with him that way. We needed to maintain a working relationship that was totally based on our mutual desire to make the play as good as it could possibly be. Nevertheless, in my fantasies, we were maintaining a working relationship mainly for the sex.

  A director, after all, is the ultimate authority figure. He tells everyone what to do. And I wanted that in bed too. I wanted someone who would know exactly how to bring my body to life. Someone needed to, because I didn't have a clue.

  At this point (I was twenty-five) I'd only had sex with one person. Marc. And it wasn't even good sex. I know that sounds pitiful and it's really embarrassing to admit. But I just couldn't figure out how to do what everyone else seemed to know naturally. And I was starting to wonder if I would ever become a full-fledged sexual person.

  I'd been with Marc my last three years at NYU. He was a fellow playwright who brought hot and steamy one-acts to our writing workshop. His ability to fictionalize would turn out to be more impressive than his expertise in the sack.

  Not that the relationship was all bad. We did a lot of studying together at Bobst library and drinking cappuccinos at Pain et Chocolat and going to movies and plays when we could get cheap tickets. And there was lots of lying around in bed cuddling and kissing and chattering in baby talk. But as soon as things turned genital, we shut our eyes and became silent strangers who happened to be naked and pressed up against each other rocking in sweaty unison until he came. I don't know where his mind went, but I had an unfortunate tendency to imagine my sister hovering over me, watching the show. She'd be there like a little devil, laughing hysterically and almost screeching, "Look at Jennifer! She's having sex! Who does she think she is? She looks like an idiot!"

  In any case, our sex life was doomed. Because soon after we both graduated, Marc decided to come into his gayness. I'd been a beard without realizing it. It may seem odd that I didn't catch on, but I swear, he never had trouble getting an erection. Not that I was the most demanding lover in the world.

  After Marc admitted his true leanings, at least I knew our lousy sex had been a collaboration. So I was very intent to see what it might be like with a man who was also actually attracted to me. I was very hopeful that man would be Peter. Unfortunately, it was going to take weeks for the production to gear up.

  I was facing weeks of insomnia.

  In the meanwhile, I was getting hooked on this "non-habit forming" homeopathic "sleep aid" from my local health food store.

  Something had to be done. One day on the way home from my word processing job, I stopped in my grocery store to get an avocado and I saw a Cosmopolitan on the newsstand by the checkout with a blurb on the cover saying, "Wake up to the Best Way to Fall Asleep!" I don't usually buy Cosmopolitan – had always thought of it as a magazine for women who prided themselves on being “tigresses in bed.” I bought this one, though, hoping it would help me with my sleeping problem.

  When I got home, I opened the magazine and discovered the technique they had in mind for a good night's sleep was a nice calming session of masturbation.

  I hate that word. Masturbation. It was ruined for me ever since the third grade, when I had a teacher named Mr. Bates. Diana, who was in the fifth grade and knew everything, called him Master B
ates. This would always launch her into a paroxysm of belly laughs. I had no idea what was so hilarious, but it stuck in my head for years until I knew what that word meant, and then it finally clicked. In any case, I didn't feel like the "master" of anything, least of all my own body, and I had never, to my knowledge, masturbated. I know that sounds odd.

  I'm not counting my fantasies, by the way, because they were all in my head and never involved actually touching myself.

  The idea of touching myself seemed laughable. Like asking myself out on a date. I didn't really know if I wanted to date myself. I can be pretty annoying.

  So this article described how to set the scene for "pleasuring yourself,” and the release of tension sends you right off to sleep. Added bonus: the only way you can really find out what your body likes is by exploring yourself. I decided that if there was any hope of me becoming a tigress, I should give it a go.

  Like the article suggested, I turned the lights down low. Not a bad idea, since my apartment wasn't exactly a "romantic" setting. I lived in a fifth floor walk-up on Ninth Avenue a few blocks from the Theater District in Hell's Kitchen. Sarah, an old high school friend who had lived on the floor below helped me get it (helped me bribe the super). She'd since moved out of New York.

  I couldn't blame her for leaving. She'd been a dancer. And she was sick of dieting and auditioning and being rejected by her favorite company because she was too short. So she took some science classes at Fordham and got herself accepted into medical school in Florida. I thought she made the right move, but we'd been like Rhoda and Mary with our separate places in the same building. Who expected her to pull a spin-off? I missed her.

  Anyway, even though my apartment was just one room with two windows facing smack into a brick wall, it was a great deal at $650 a month and I knew I was lucky to have it. But still, as my sister was fond of saying with her Bette Davis voice: "What a dump."

  Next, the article suggested taking a bath. This wasn't really possible for me. My bathroom had an old tub that was only big enough to stand up in. The article said to light a candle or incense, but I didn't have either of those, so I took a shower and then sprayed some Glade honeysuckle air freshener around the room. Then I got under the covers. I have to say, it did feel nice being naked in bed. But after that point, I found the whole thing really awkward.