Thoughts While Having Sex

by Stephanie Lehmann

  "I hope you do. And then we'll celebrate, okay?"

  But we never did. Because she didn't get the part. And there was nothing to celebrate.

  I tuned back in just as Annie and Kelly reached the end of the first scene.

  Julia: "Why don't you come over to my place later? We'll order in some Chow Fun and rent a movie."

  Melanie: "My own apartment in New York City. This is going to be so fun."

  Julia: "Here's an extra key to my place, by the way. In case I ever lock myself out. You're my insurance policy."

  Melanie: "Good idea. I’ll make you an extra key for my place too."

  Julia: "My little sister. My most favorite person in the world. I'm so happy you're here."

  Diana actually said that to me when I moved to New York. "My most favorite person in the world." I could still hear her saying it. "I'm so happy you're here."

  The actresses continued on through the rest of the play. They were doing an excellent job. In the last scene, which takes place after Julia has died, it was so heartbreaking I shed a few tears. I even saw Annie shed a few. If they did this well in performance, the production would be a success.

  Not that I had any inflated ideas in my head. The lack of splash generated by my first two modest productions had been humbling. I was beyond assuming the world owed me a chance to make it. And I was not going to be overly optimistic like Diana. So it was way too soon, I cautioned myself, to celebrate.

  Chapter 4

  About one week into rehearsals, Peter asked me if I'd like to get a bite to eat. "I think it would be good for us to talk about where we're at so far."

  "Sure," I said, delighted but nervous at the idea of being alone with him.

  We went around the block to Rosie O'Grady's, a pseudo-Irish bar with huge TV screens on all the walls, each one tuned to a different sporting event. We settled into a booth and he asked me, "So how do you think it's going?"

  "I just have one worry. Sometimes Annie doesn't seem to be turning the heat up enough. Melanie has to be a match for Julia or the audience will lose interest. She can't be totally dominated by her."

  "I noticed that myself. But it's too soon to worry. I'm sure she'll find her way there."

  "I'm just glad to hear that you agree."

  "Especially in the last scene," he said. "That's her big moment of catharsis. The whole play hinges on her reaching that moment."

  I felt relieved. I was in safe hands. He would make sure the play would be realized.

  We ordered some food and talked about publicity and the horrible task of getting audiences in and printing up postcards and getting press. For a theater this size this was all done on a small scale, but it still had to be done. Carol was getting students from NYU to help out with lighting and props and box office. Mind boggling to think of all the people involved to make a play happen.

  "I hope you approve of what I'm doing so far," Peter said, after the waitress left us a huge plate of curly fries.

  "Of course I do."

  "I just wanted to make sure. Sometimes it's hard to tell what you're thinking."

  It hadn't even occurred to me that he might be feeling insecure about his work.

  "I think you're doing great." I dipped a fry in some ketchup. "I know it's going to be really good."

  "Good."

  "I thought that was obvious to you," I said. "I always think I'm totally transparent."

  "That's probably why you work so hard at hiding things."

  We both smiled at that.

  "Except in your writing," he added.

  "But you should know I want you to know that I feel really good about the fact that you're doing this."

  Not for the first time, I wondered why he was doing this. What had attracted him to this material? A sibling who had died? Something equally upsetting? "You know that I feel lucky, don't you? That you picked my play?"

  He looked pleased. "Now I do."

  "Can I ask . . . why you did?"

  "Pick your play?"

  "Yes. I mean, beyond thinking the writing was good. I'm sure lots of the plays you get have good writing."

  "Not as many as you might think."

  "But you must have some kind of personal connection to it."

  "Yes, I do. Of course I do."

  I waited for him to go on, not sure if he would.

  And he said, "You're very pretty. Did you know that?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes."

  I realized that whatever the reason was, I wasn't going to find out. At least not then. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  "Kelly," I said, "is so incredibly beautiful, don't you think?"

  As soon as I said that, I wished that I hadn't. It slipped out.

  "I suppose she has a conventional beauty, but it doesn't really appeal to me."

  "I don't think it's conventional at all!" I said, still wondering why I was championing the cause of her physical attractiveness.

  "Someone like that," he said, "who knows how beautiful she is—she reeks of herself. She exists so that everyone will admire her. She has to have all the attention. I find that very unattractive."

  "I don't think she has to have all the attention. I think she just gets it because she is so attractive. As a matter of fact, it probably bothers her to always be looked at like that."

  "Why are we talking about her?"

  "Because I brought her up."

  "Because I told you how pretty you are. And it made you uncomfortable."

  "Yes."

  "Would you like to go to a movie?"

  "Now?"

  "Let's walk to the Angelika and see what's playing."

  "Okay."

  It was wonderful getting to sit right next to him for a whole hour and a half. Occasionally, our shoulders rubbed. I wasn't sure if this was something he deliberately made happen, or if I was making it happen, or if it happened by itself, or some combination of all three. But each time, I felt this jolt through my body. Desire. I wanted him. It scared me.

  All through the movie I kept salivating. And I felt like he heard me swallowing so he knew that I was salivating, so he knew that I wanted him. And I didn't want him to know my body was capable of such bodily excretions, because any evidence of stimulation suggested that I was capable of losing control, which was not to be desired, because loss of control seemed downright dangerous.

  I hate the word salivating. It makes me think of salamanders, which make me think of tongues, which I don't like to think about. It's odd having this slab of meat in your mouth.

  In any case, my mouth kept watering during the movie.

  And then he walked me home. On the way, I wondered if he might invite himself up to my apartment, and if he did, would he want to have sex, and what would I do if he did, and how would that interfere with the production?

  At the entrance-way to my building he said, "Well, goodbye."

  "Bye. Thanks.” When I'm nervous I tend to thank people even if there's nothing specific to thank them for.

  "Thank you," he said, a slight smile on his face. I thought he might kiss me right then. He started to walk away. Then he came back. Then he kissed me. Lightly, on my cheek.

  Then I walked up the five flights to my apartment. I was so light on my feet, I flew up without evening noticing.

  But as soon as I faced my room—my little box of a room with four walls two windows and nothing but a TV set to cozy up to—I wondered how I'd get through the evening. If only Sarah hadn't moved to Florida. I needed her now. It was only 9:30, and I was too revved up. I would have to go out walking, or something. Something.

  Before going back out, I went to the bathroom and then checked my machine. There was one message. I played it back, thinking crazily that maybe it was Peter even though I'd just left him. A woman's voice started to speak. "Hi there, it's Kelly. I just came from the gym and I don't want to go back to my apartment for a dreadfully boring evening so I'm wondering if you might like to get coffee with me. Give me a call. By
e."

  I felt a thrill at getting this message from her. Flattered that she was interested in my company. She seemed like a mystery to me, and I longed to know her secrets. I was ready to think she knew everything about the world and how to get anywhere in it.

  So I immediately called her back, and we arranged to meet in an Italian cafe in the West Village for coffee.

  It was good to get back out into the hustle of the night. As I snaked my way through the throngs of people in Times Square to the subway station, I thought, this is why I came to New York. I wasn't referring to the assault of noise and weirdos and traffic that existed right outside the haven of my apartment. I wasn't even referring to the plush Broadway theaters that were all within blocks of my doorstep. (Broadway was too much of a long shot—I couldn't let myself take it seriously as a possibility.) I was referring to the fact that I loved hanging out with actresses. And there was an endless supply of them in New York City.

  I got off the train at West 4th and walked to

  Bleecker Street. The bakery, which I'd been to once before, had rows of fruit covered pastries in the window. I stepped inside the brightly lit shop. Kelly was already there. I felt honored to have the chance to sit across from her. She was so beautiful, no matter what Peter said. There was no question that every heterosexual man in sight wanted her. I couldn't even be jealous. Just proud to be the one who got to be with her. We both ordered coffee and then Kelly suggested we order a piece of cheesecake.

  "Cheesecake?" I said.

  "They have this incredible ricotta cheesecake here."

  I didn't mention about how my sister and I used to eat cheesecake at Larry's Diner. I hadn't eaten a piece of cheesecake since she died. "How about some assorted butter cookies?"

  "That's too boring. How about one of those big pieces of chocolate cake?"

  I have to say. There is something wonderful about an actress who will eat cake. Most of them are always starving themselves and even though they'll pretend to look twice at some tempting thing smothered with buttercream frosting, their ambition tells them they would be fools, and it's hard enough out there without being a fool.

  Not Kelly. She surveyed the glass showcase with intent to consume. "That one with the big pink flower; it looks totally sinful."

  "Sounds good to me."

  To make it even more sinful, we both got tall glasses of lattes, and I didn't even ask for lowfat milk since Kelly didn't. The waitress took our order with a conspiratorial smile, and then Kelly leaned forward onto the table. "So. I wanted to tell you how good I think your play is."

  "Thank you," I said.

  "Good" was not the prize word. Great, wonderful, fantastic would be more like it. But still, praise from her was like, well, buttercream, and I savored it.

  "It's not often," she went on, "that an actress finds such a meaty part like Julia."

  "I'm glad you feel that way because I know your agent wanted you to get a part on that soap."

  "He can take that soap and shove it up his ass," she said, flicking her hair behind her shoulder.

  I smiled at her evil grin. If I had an agent, I would be so grateful, I'd probably do everything they told me.

  "It's tricky," she said. "You kill yourself to get an agent to represent you, and you want them to help you get parts, but they've just got their eye on the dollar. They don't necessarily have your best interests at heart."

  "Yes," I agreed. "It's absurd."

  Everyone always complained about their agents. But if you didn't have one, you were desperate to find one. As if when you got one, they would legitimize your entire life. Having an agent was proof that you were a marketable commodity—and isn't that all any of us want to be? A good product?

  I once had an agent. Sort of. He was actually an assistant to a real agent. He sent a play of mine out to three theaters. They weren't interested. Maybe they even told him it was terrible. Because then he stopped returning my calls. It was over a year since we'd spoken. So I figured he wasn't my agent anymore.

  "But the fucked-up thing is," Kelly said, "my agent asked me out on a date."

  "That's creepy." I was jealous. My agent had never asked me out on a date.

  "It was disgusting," she went on. "He'd just spent half our meeting talking about his wife, who is dying of cancer, and then he had the nerve to ask me out."

  "That is so disgusting!"

  "I hate him. But he has some good contacts so I can't dump him yet."

  "Has he gotten you any good auditions?"

  "The Importance of Being Earnest at the Roundabout."

  "That's good."

  "And something Off Broadway that opened and closed in a week. Thank god I didn't get that. The playwright got totally trashed. Too bad, cuz he seemed like a nice guy."

  "I live in fear of that happening. I don't know if I would be able to go on."

  "You'd feel like shit for a few weeks but it would pass."

  "A few weeks?"

  "Okay, a few months maybe, but you'd get over it. You're a resilient person."

  I was aware that she didn't know me well enough to know if I was resilient or not. Though hearing her say that I was made me feel like I could be. In any case, it was pretty unlikely that we would get reviewed. We maybe had an outside chance with papers like the Village Voice and Time Out. But the New York Times rarely reviewed a showcase. And Peter's theater didn't have much of a reputation. And it was unlikely his publicist would have much success getting anyone down to see it. But the possibility still loomed enough to make my stomach curdle at the thought.

  "So," Kelly leaned forward. "I wanted to ask you something."

  "Yes?"

  "I've wanted to know, ever since that first day, when I auditioned."

  I looked at her, my eyebrows raised.

  "And," she continued, "you absolutely do not have to answer me if you don't want to."

  "Okay."

  "And I really have no right to ask."

  "What is it?"

  "Your play. Is it about you and your sister?"

  "What?"

  "Is the play about your real sister?"

  I blinked. "Not really."

  Just then the waitress came with the cake.

  "Here you are, ladies. And two forks."

  Ladies. As if we weren't about to pounce on that piece of cake like two rabid dogs mauling a piece of mutton.

  "Thank you," we both said, and Kelly immediately started in.

  And I was about to. But my mouth felt dry. I didn't like it that Kelly had asked that question. I sipped my coffee. Now I wished we'd ordered pie. At least the fruit would've had some lubricating qualities.

  But if I didn't act fast, Kelly was going to eat the whole thing. She was eating with gusto. I was impressed. Not one word about how she shouldn't be doing this or how she'd have to work if off later or go the whole next day without eating. I couldn't help but wonder if she was bulimic. I don't mean to say that she was, or to start any dirty rumors. It's not like I ever caught her in the act. But with actresses who have great bodies, you can't help but wonder, when you see them eat cake, what happens to all that buttercream.

  "Better have some before it's all gone," she said.

  "I guess I better." I took a bite. It was good. I took another.

  "I know I'm being nosy," she said, "But I can't help but wonder how much of the play is true," she went on, "because it's—I'm sorry—but it's just so sad."

  This was not what I wanted to hear. And not what I wanted her to be asking. It was clearly out of bounds. An actress should never care what's "true" and what's "not true" about a script, and a writer should keep her mouth shut about it. And I didn't want to hear that my life was sad!

  "The play is fiction," I said.

  "I know. I didn't mean—"

  "Made up. Nothing that happened in that play happened in real life."

  "It's just so—"

  "All the action and dialogue are imagined."

  "—devastating. The relationship betw
een the sisters. I find it fascinating. I'm sorry if I'm being obnoxious. It just made me so curious to know about you. That's all. But you don't have to tell me anything, of course."

  "I will say that the emotional journey that she takes in the play... that is true in the sense that I have felt all those feelings. But none of the events happened." I laughed a quick, nervous laugh before continuing. "Except I did have a sister who died. That did happen."

  She looked at me with pity, and I felt like I was going to cry.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  Don't cry, I commanded myself.

  I was not going to cry.

  People die all the time.

  It was not that big a deal.

  Don't you know that by now?

  It did not have to be such a big deal.

  I hated it—that it was still affecting me like this.

  "Can I ask," she asked, "how it happened?"

  I eked out a smile. "Not like in the play."

  Was she trying to trap me? I didn't have to tell her anything. Not a thing.

  "I'm sorry, I'm being incredibly insensitive."

  "No—"

  "We hardly even know each other."

  "It's fine—"

  "And here I am trying to worm my way into your private life."

  "It's nothing, really."

  I looked at the cake. I'd lost my appetite. She must've read my face.

  "Do you mind?" she asked, her fork poised.

  "Go ahead, please," I said, though at that moment eating all that butter and sugar seemed kind of obscene.

  She took a generous bite. "I have such a sweet tooth. I really shouldn't. My agent says I have to lose ten pounds."

  "I hate your agent."

  "Me too." She laughed and took another bite, and I saw chocolate buttercream on her tongue, on her teeth.

  "I think it's so wonderful that you don't starve yourself," I said, glad to change the subject.

  "You probably think I'm bulimic," she said, taking the last bite—the pink buttercream rose.

  "No I don't."

  "Well I'm not," she said. "If I were, I'd make myself lose ten pounds."

  "You look great just the way you are."

  "Thank you. And you know what? I think so too."

  I raised my eyebrows in amazement. "A woman who likes her own body? Someone should put you in the Smithsonian."