One of the ways I’ve justified being broke most of my life is that I like to think of myself as an artist. Not quite starving, although I’ve skipped a few meals here and there, but enough that I’ve struggled. And I’ve deluded myself for the past 100 years that one day, I’ll hit the mother lode. At 44, I’m still waiting. If you’ll notice, this blog is free and the $35 I made when I was 22 and sold Penthouse a story, only covered a night of drinking.
That said, I like to consider myself more of a literary and performing person, by trade. As you know from 190 blog entries, one might say I have a way with words and with my overly dramatic personality, a bit of a love of the stage. It’s no surprise that while I lived in New York, I tried to combine the two and write a vehicle for myself. And since Ex-Husband #1 was also pursuing an acting career, I decided to write something for him. For us.
A play. A porno play.
I was working a temp job and like most temp jobs, I had nothing to do. The internet wasn’t around so I had some time on my hands. And a good imagination. And an over whelming sex drive. It was a match made in heaven.
There were only two characters in the play and it had to be performed in the bedroom; on the bed. The lines were appropriately cheesy and the stage directions, specific. There was a copy for each of us and the dialogue was highlighted in yellow. When I gave him his sides, he started to read through them. I guess he was trying to get into character. I just wanted him to get in my pants. (Which according to the story, they would be coming off in the middle of Page 2).
We didn’t make it through the whole play. He was a method actor and soon went off script. I didn’t mind. I was never good at reading upside down with my legs behind my head. I liked how the papers crinkled while we fucked on them.
Moral of the story, live theater is sexy.