Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22)

by Nicolette Dane

  “Hey Mark,” I said sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry. I should have told you when we met. I don’t actually have an agent.”

  “You need to fix that, Macy,” he said. “People are going to take advantage of you unless you’ve got someone in your corner who knows what they’re doing.”

  “Yeah, I figured,” I said. “Listen, I want to retain all animation rights to the Macy Maxwell brand.” Mark laughed.

  “I can’t make that promise just yet,” he said. “We have been looking to do an animated series with a comedian.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Yeah, I know I need an agent now. It just really hadn’t dawned on me until we spoke last week.”

  “That’s okay,” said Mark. “I’ll put you in touch with an agency there in Chicago that I deal with a lot. They represent actors and comedians that you may have heard of before, people from Improv City, a couple cast members who went on to This Saturday. Don’t worry. They’ll take you on with my recommendation.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I mean, that’s really awesome of you. Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “I think you’re funny,” said Mark. “And I want to help you succeed.”

  “How did you even hear about me?” I said. “I mean, I’ve never even really toured or anything. Just a little midwest college town thing 6 months ago.”

  “Bill Howard,” he said. “Stand Up Affiliate.”

  “Howie?” I said. “He told you about me?”

  “Right,” said Mark. “I’ve got a line on the Chicago comedy scene, I know the club owners. When they see someone special coming around, they let me know.”

  “I have to be honest with you, Mark,” I said. “This whole thing feels like a crazy dream. I never imagined it happening like this.”

  “And I’ll be honest with you, Macy,” he said. “What you do is really hot right now and we want to capitalize on it. Don’t take that the wrong way.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I’m happy someone thinks I’m hot.”

  “Ever since Amy Schneider blew up,” said Mark. “We’re just chasing that dragon, you know?”

  “She’s funny,” I said. “I actually look up to her a lot.”

  “I’ll try to coordinate an introduction sometime,” he said. I shook my head in disbelief. It still didn’t make any sense. Here I was, on the phone, coordinating my own comedy special, and now this guy is offering to introduce me to a famous comic that I pretty much revere.

  “Wow,” I said in awe. “I mean, that’s insane.”

  “So look,” said Mark, moving on. “Funny Thirty is filmed in Boston at the Regal Theatre. You do a set of approximately 45 minutes,” he said.

  “How does scheduling work?” I asked. “I mean, when are we going to do this?”

  “We’ll be filming the next season soon,” said Mark. “We’ve got Tuesdays and Wednesdays booked at the Regal for two months. The audience is sort of built in. We don’t necessarily market for the individual comedian, people just know they’re coming to see someone that’s funny.”

  “But I can get tickets, right?” I said. “For my friends and family.”

  “Absolutely,” said Mark. “We’ve got reserved blocks.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “So I just give you a date I can do it or what?”

  “Well, give us options,” he said. “We’ll schedule from there.”

  “All right,” I said. “All right, I can do this.”

  “You do have 45 minutes, right?” asked Mark somewhat skeptically.

  “Yeah definitely,” I said. “Totally.” I felt like I was going to shit myself, hoping that Mark couldn’t see through my lie.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’m going to put you in touch with this agency, I want you to meet with them and get that ball rolling, then we’ll figure out your schedule for the show.”

  “And Amy Schneider?” I said hopefully. Mark chuckled.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think she has family in Chicago. This agent I’m setting you up with represents her.”

  “Thank you, Mark,” I said. “I really appreciate this opportunity and I’m going to absolutely kill it.”

  “I know you will,” he said. “We’re really looking forward to it, Macy.”

  Mark and I said goodbye and I hung up my phone, dropping it to the couch next to me. I really wanted to scream with excitement, still incapable of believing that this was happening to me, but one little point of contention hung over me and that was the fact that I didn’t actually have a full and tested 45 minutes of my main material to do for the show. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this. Most comics work for a decade before having this kind of opportunity and by that point they’ve spent a lot of time on the road, playing clubs all over the country, headlining, working on enough passable material for a long set. But me, I mean, I’d only been doing stand up for a little over two years and while I definitely felt like I was growing into my voice, it kind of felt like maybe success was coming at me too soon. You screw this one up, Macy, and you might not get another chance.

  But like Mark had said, my kind of material was pretty hot right now. Slutty girl sex comic. And I could ride that wave to a career in comedy, maybe even acting. Maybe I’d get a sitcom deal. I’d call it, “Oh Crap, It’s Macy!” and it would be about me flitting around Chicago, getting into trouble, executing harebrained schemes. It could star all the weirdos in my life, like Lucy and Petra. Oh Petra. I found myself missing her. Normally, if something like this was happening to one of us, some sort of crazy life development, the two us wouldn’t be able to shut up about it. She would love to brainstorm about my sitcom. I could just hear her now. She’s probably say something like, “we could probably get someone much younger and funnier to play you.” And then I’d smack her. Violence is so funny, ain’t it?

  A little niggling voice popped into my head during all this daydreaming. You’re a lesbian, Macy, but you’re about to go on TV and play the lusty straight girl role. Shut up, voice. I’ve got to reach for my star.

  I knew I had to get my shit together. I had to start working out a longer set, something cohesive, something using only my best material. I couldn’t let Mark and Comedy Junction down. If I did well for them, they could absolutely catapult me to fame with a wave of the hand. This is everything I’d ever dreamed of and it was happening so fast. It didn’t feel comfortable on me just yet, but I’d read about this feeling before. You get so used to not really feeling like a success that when it begins to happen, you question it and almost deny it. Like, “no way this is happening to me, I’m so used to being mediocre.” But I was determined not to fall into that trap. I deserved this. I’m funny. I’m talented. And I was going to blow everybody away with my act.

  That night at the club, while my friend Darnell was up on stage making Chicago’s Southside sound funny and not, you know, scary, I slithered up next to Howie as he hung around backstage, sucking on an unlit cigar. Howie had started the Affiliate back in the 80s during the comedy boom, back when he himself was trying to get big in the comedy world, and eventually found out that there were plenty of people who were way funnier than he was and that he rather enjoyed running a comedy club in Chicago. It gave him pull, it gave him respect. One time he told me with a raise of his eyebrows that his position had gotten his dick sucked many times, once even by a guy. I told him I was allergic to dick and couldn’t help him relive his glory days.

  “Hey babe,” said Howie as I closed in on him.

  “Bill Howard, ladies and gentlemen!” I intoned in my best announcer voice.

  “Oh, am I on next!” said Howie, looking around frantically, mock-panicking.

  “Get out there!” I exclaimed, giving him a light push, not moving him in the slightest. He chuckled and removed the cigar from his mouth.

  “You ready for your set?” asked Howie, scrunching his forehead. His eyebrows were grey and he had lines around his eyes from smiling so much.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Of course. But I’ve got a question
for you.”

  “Sure,” he said, replacing his cigar and crossing his arms.

  “Can I do a middle soon?” I said impishly, slightly embarrassed. “Like a Saturday middle for a bigger act.”

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” he said. “You think you can handle that?”

  “Well, look,” I said, kicking my foot a little and looking down at the floor. “I know you told this Mark Feinstein guy about me. I didn’t tell you that last week he approached me about doing something on Comedy Junction.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Howie. “You think Feinstein is gonna come to my club and I’m not gonna know about it? C’mon Macy.”

  “So you understand why I need this gig,” I said. “I’ve got to start working on longer sets.”

  “Nah,” he said. “We’ll just throw you to the wolves and see how you do.”

  “Howie!” I protested, smacking him on the shoulder. He grinned at me and rubbed his shoulder mockingly, like I had hurt him or something.

  “Cool your jets, babe,” he said. “That smacking. You got some anger problems.”

  “Look at these arms, Howie,” I said, showing off my little stick arms. “You’re old, but you’re not that old.” He laughed knowingly at me.

  “Okay, you want a middle?” he said. “Macy Maxwell, little miss big shot, she wants a middle now?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I want a middle, like, soon!”

  “Okay,” said Howie. “Show me tonight up there,” he said, pointing off to the stage. “You show me up there why you deserve to middle.”

  “You bet your fucking ass I’ll show you,” I said, nodding, starting to get pumped up. “The audience is going to be pissing themselves, it’s going to be raining piss out there tonight.”

  “If it starts raining piss out there,” said Howie. “You can forget the gig. You know how much it would cost me to clean all that up?”

  “Okay, not piss,” I said. “It’ll be raining money. I’ll have everyone laughing so hard, they’ll forget they ordered a drink already and order more by mistake.”

  “That I could handle,” said Howie. He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. We stood there in silence for a moment together. I was so grateful for the guidance and opportunities that Howie had given me, even after I refused any sexual favors. He was a good guy. He really loved comedy.

  “Howie,” I said, searching for the words, rocking my head back and forth. It’s difficult for comedians to say things in earnest sometimes. We’re so used to living our lives as though everything was one big joke, when it comes time to be serious it can be a bit like a fart at a funeral. I mean, still really funny but you can’t hang around the casket for too long. “Thank you,” I said finally.

  “Yeah,” he said. “No problem.”

  “No, I mean, thank you for everything,” I said. I smiled at Howie, stepped up to him, and wrapped my arms around him. “It means a lot to have your support.”

  “Just don’t forget us around here,” he said, patting me on the back. “Don’t forget where you came from.”

  “Never,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said as I stepped back from our hug. Howie looked down to his watch. “You’re on in about 45 minutes,” he said. “I’ll give you 15 tonight. Can you do 15 minutes?”

  “Definitely,” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”

  “All right,” said Howie. “Do a good show.”

  “I will, Howie,” I said. “Thanks.” I smiled at him and then wandered down the back hallway and made my way toward the bar.

  “Hey,” said George, smiling up from me at her table in the audience. She lifted her cocktail glass up toward me. Oh God, her hair was gorgeous. Short and blonde and greasy and just totally fucking cool.

  “Hey,” I said, pulling out the chair next to her and sliding down into it. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No problem,” she said coolly, leaning over and kissing me on the side of the head, then slinging her arm around me and resting it on the back of the chair. I felt a happy warmth inside of me as George kissed me. A soft wetness from her lips lingered on my head.

  “You’ll get to meet my friend Lucy,” I said. “She should be here tonight to watch my set.”

  “Nice,” said George.

  “And I’m doing 15 minutes tonight,” I said. “Howie, the club owner, says if I do well he’ll give me a middle soon.”

  “What’s that?” asked George absently.

  “Um, a middle?” I said. “It’s when you open for a headliner. Like, you’re on just before the headliner. It’s a big deal because the place is usually packed, people are excited to see the headliner.”

  “I see,” she said. “I mean, there’s people here now,” said George, looking around at the room. Although there were indeed people in the club, a good portion of the audience were the usual comedians and their own friends and family and such.

  “The weeknights are hit or miss,” I said. “There’s a lot of familiar faces here tonight. It’s a supportive crowd but a lot of them know me and my act pretty well already.”

  “So a middle puts you in front of more eyes?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And for more time. I’ve got to get some more experience with these longer sets if I’m going to do well on the Funny Thirty.”

  “And you’re still doing this straight stuff?” she asked. “Still pretending you’re something you’re not?”

  “All my friends know I’m a lesbian,” I said in an annoyed murmur. “The straight sex stuff just fucking works on stage for me, okay?” It was becoming a hot button for me and I tried not to show my frustration.

  “Got it,” said George. “Makes sense. I tell you what,” she said, grinning and turning toward me. “You do well tonight and I’ll fingerbang you real hard afterwards. Maybe we’ll do it in the bathroom!”

  “You’re so thoughtful,” I said in a mockingly serious tone, gently placing my hand on her shoulder. “Maybe if I’m lucky you’ll even squirt your pussy juice in my hair.”

  “Only if you’re funny,” she warned, holding a finger up, a smile cracking through her deadpan face.

  “Only if you’re funny,” I retorted with a hard look in my eye, quickly reaching down to her jeans to pull her belt out of the first loop and playfully fumble with the buckle.

  “Hey hey hey!” she said, squirming, batting at my hands. “C’mon Macy, what are you doing?”

  “I need that squirt in my hair for good luck,” I said, still fussing with her buckle amid her hands trying to prevent me access. “Just one little squirt, right up front here so everyone can see it.”

  “All right,” she said, giving my hand a snappy smack. Taking hold of her belt buckle, she refastened it all and pushed the leather through the loop.

  “That smarts!” I said, rubbing the back of my hand. It did kind of hurt. “A wise guy, eh?” I said, evoking that familiar Stooges charm.

  We both sat there quietly for a moment. I felt kind of bad, as I had obviously embarrassed George a little even though nobody was really looking at us. She was a bit image-concerned. My fault for taking her out of her comfort zone. A thousand apologies, m’lady. George picked up her glass and took a sip just as Petra came walking up to us.

  “Hey Macy,” said Petra, looking back and forth from me to George. “George, how are you?”

  “Just dandy, Paula,” said George.

  “Paula?” I repeated incredulously. “Straight up now tell me you didn’t just say that.”

  “Huh?” said George.

  “Petra,” I corrected. “This is Petra. That was Paula Abdul,” I said, but George didn’t seem to get my joke.

  “Oh man,” she said. “Petra. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Right,” said Petra.

  “How ya doing, Petty?” I asked with a smile, trying to exude friendliness, though definitely feeling a bit like a chump for how I’d let my and Petra’s friendship tank lately.

  “Not good,” she said with a serious look o
n her face. “I started seeing this girl and all she can talk about is scissoring scissoring scissoring. I mean, c’mon, I’m open-minded, I could use the core workout… but when you’re both totally shaved down there, well, scissoring scissoring scissoring becomes burning burning burning!”

  I began laughing and smacking the table. George kept a fairly disaffected look scratched on her face.

  “I should have known I was in for trouble when I saw she already had some road rash between her legs,” said Petra.

  “Funny,” said George without cracking a smile. I could tell she had something against Petra in that moment. I looked toward George and narrowed my eyes, wondering if she had actually forgotten Petra’s name or if she’d just played dumb. “But at least you’re telling lesbian jokes.”

  “I like it,” I said, looking back to Petra and offering her a tender smile, trying to ignore George’s barb at me. “You know how I likes mah sex.”

  “Dry and painful,” said Petra. “Just like your set.”

  “Did you take a comedy class, Petty?” I said, wanting to just leap up and poke her side. “Or did you just go to the library and borrow a joke book?”

  “Nah,” said Petra. “Darnell left his notebook backstage and I swiped it.”

  “So the big black dude from the projects likes to write lesbian humor?” I asked. “Just please, Petty, don’t drop any n-bombs on stage.”

  “I’ll just scratch out all the n-bombs and write in ‘dyke,’” said Petra. “Should work, right?”

  As though he had heard his name, Darnell walked up next to Petra and placed his hand on her shoulder. Darnell was a large guy, a bit overweight, with a shaved head and a bushy beard. His belly jutted out as he saddled up next to Petra.

  “This lady botherin’ you, ma’am?” asked Darnell. “If she is, I can eject her skinny ass.”

  “She is, Darnell,” I said. “She’s offending my girlfriend and I with gratuitous use of the d-word.”

  “The d-word?” said Darnell in disbelief. “This woman calling y’all dykes?”

  “In my defense, Darnell,” said Petra. “If there ever were dykes, I mean, these two definitely fit the bill.”