Thoughts While Having Sex

by Stephanie Lehmann

  We still had to find the right bedspread for the bed, and Lucas asked me what kind of pictures Melanie would have on her wall. I considered telling him I could bring something from home—I had a Matisse print of a young girl that seemed perfect. But then I realized it would be creepy to see my own things on the set, so I told him to check out the posters at the gift shop at the Museum of Modern Art.

  Annie and Kelly could now muddle their way through the play without scripts in hand. Carol sat in the front row only occasionally giving a missed cue. I sat in my usual spot in the back row staying out of the way as much as possible. It was like I was a child who needed to be on my best behavior while they did the hard work of keeping the marriage together until opening night.

  Later that week, Peter took me out for a drink after rehearsal. I wanted him to be happy with how things were going, but he looked tired and worried.

  "It's going well," I said. Now he was the one needing reassurance.

  "Do you think so?"

  "Yes, it’s going great."

  "Something's not right. I feel a definite tension in the air."

  "But that's good. That's to be expected. Annie is finally coming around with her part, don't you think?"

  "Yes. It's Julia—Kelly—that I'm worried about. I'm getting some kind of bad vibe from her, but I can't put my finger on it. I gave her a few directions today that she ignored. It's not like her. Now she seems intent on doing her own thing."

  "I do like what she's doing in general."

  "But haven't you noticed she has this air of defiance now? I tell her to move upstage and she moves downstage. I tell her to pause before a certain line and she repeatedly skips the pause."

  "I did notice.” Now I wondered if something had transpired between the two of them. Maybe he'd rejected her and she was going to take it out on all of us.

  "They're small things," Peter said, "but they add up."

  "Has she said anything to you? Approached you about any concerns?"

  "No."

  I noticed he didn't mention that she'd asked him out the previous weekend. But then I didn't mention I'd been with her, either. "Maybe it's just that she has so much to think about now that they're getting off book and adding the blocking, too."

  "Nah. Kelly is a pro. She has no trouble coordinating her lines with the blocking. I think she's doing it on purpose."

  "Challenging your authority?"

  "Maybe. This is one of the risks you take working with someone you don't know. It could be her way of dealing with the pressure."

  "Or not dealing with it. And we're at her mercy. You can give her all sorts of direction, but in the end she's the one who's going to be up there, and she'll do what she wants. We can't even fire her."

  "Ultimately, it's the actors who make the play or ruin it."

  "We're totally in their hands." I dumped ketchup on my plate. "And in the end, when the play is being performed, the audience perceives the play as if the actors made the whole thing up. Not the writer, and certainly not the director, who always stays invisible."

  "Most people don't even know what the hell a director does!"

  "Awww," I said, "you're so unappreciated."

  I gave him a pretend pout of sympathy and felt the urge to lean over and kiss his beleaguered cheek. At that moment Kelly and Annie walked into the bar. They saw us sitting there cozily, nodded hello, smiled, and waved. We nodded, smiled and waved back. They went to their own table.

  "Well," Peter said, "it's good to see they finally bonded."

  "I didn't know they had." I wondered if Kelly would make some kind of move on Annie now. Better Annie than Peter.

  "They've probably got a lot to complain about," Peter said. "Especially me."

  "You're being paranoid."

  "It's not paranoia when they really do hate you."

  "They don't hate you! On the contrary, Kelly would just love to hop into bed with you. She told me so."

  That slipped out.

  Why did I say that?

  I really wished I had not said that.

  "That's interesting, but I make it a policy never to get involved with actresses."

  "But that's classic for the actress and the director to have an affair.”

  "Classically idiotic. Then she expects you to cast her in every single thing you're directing. And anyway, actresses are too flighty."

  "But they can also be entertaining."

  What was I trying to do? Get him into bed with her?

  "What are you trying to do? Get me to go to bed with her?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Good."

  We looked over at their table. They looked over at us and smiled. We smiled back.

  "Let's go," Peter said. "Are you ready?"

  We stopped at their table on the way out.

  "Nice rehearsal today," he said.

  "Thank you, Mr. Director," Annie said.

  Kelly just smiled. So did I.

  "Kelly and I are going to run lines together tonight," Annie said.

  "Great," Peter said. "We'll see you tomorrow."

  As we walked out of Rosie O'Grady's, I could feel Kelly's eyes on my back. Now that she'd seen me all cozy with him, I feared she wouldn't feel very much like learning her lines.

  Chapter 9

  A few nights later, Peter and I were sunk into my sofa watching but not really watching Saturday Night Live.

  "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  "How I have all these ancestors going back hundreds and hundreds of years and I don't know anything about them. Not even their names. And they don't know anything about me."

  "That would be hard for them to know something about you."

  "But we share the same genes!"

  "So?"

  His arm was over my shoulder. Our thighs touched. I couldn't relax.

  "Of course everyone has video now," I said, "so our descendants will know what we look like, and sound like, and move like."

  "If they can stand to watch. There's nothing so boring as watching unedited home movies."

  "True. Still, we're the first generation to get that immortality. My great, great grandchildren will know that I have bad posture."

  "And that you're beautiful."

  "I can't imagine myself as a mother," I said, deflecting his flirtation, even though I was ready to be the mother of his children right then and there.

  "Why not?"

  "Because you have to scold them, and I can't even yell when I'm angry. I'm much more likely to cry. How am I going to discipline them?"

  "When you actually have children, you'll learn to yell."

  "I bet you'll be good at yelling at your children after dealing with actors all the time. Not that you yell at them."

  "Just wait till the last week of rehearsals."

  We looked back at the TV. Saturday Night Live was ending. He was still there. With me. On my couch. My eyes stayed glued to the screen. Beer commercials. Jeeps. Call 1-800-M-A-T-T-R-E-S. Keep the focus on anything but us and what might happen next.

  Next. His arm around me. I couldn't focus. I felt drunk even though I wasn't—like heavy syrup had been injected into my veins and was sedating me so that I fell into every crevice of his body and the inside of my vagina (there must be a better word) was tingling with anticipation though I had no idea if he was going to make a move on me or not and even if he was I couldn't be sure I’d go through with having sex with him. I hadn't had sex since Marc, and he seemed like from another lifetime. Plus what if Kelly found out? She'd be angry, and I wasn't sure if I could take that, and the last thing we needed was an angry actress—

  "Do you mind if I turn the TV off?" Peter asked.

  "No," I said.

  "You look tense." He sat down next to me again.

  "I do?" I swallowed.

  "Would you like a massage?"

  "Okay."

  So I lay face down on the sofa and he sat on my bottom. (I almost said "butt," but that word is so unromantic, and "ass" is
even worse.)

  I'd like to say that I ripped off my shirt and bra and felt proud of my hot, sexy, little body. Obviously that would not sound authentic at this point. The truth is, I didn't want to let him see me with my clothes off. And so I felt relieved when he went ahead and slipped his hands up under my shirt and then proceeded to give me this wonderful massage. I would call it "exquisite" if I used that word, but I don't. He touched me just where I wanted to be touched, with just the right amount of pressure, very symmetrical, very reassuring. Just thinking about it almost puts me in a trance. This was easy. I could get away with staying totally passive and receive in silence without showing myself one bit.

  But the threat of impending sex loomed. And as I felt the same old inhibitions closing in on me, I felt beyond ridiculous. A freak. With Marc, I'd felt patient with myself, chalked it up to youth and inexperience. At this point in my life, the jig was up. I had to get over my ridiculous fears. And I really wanted to, with Peter; I wanted to stop laying all these trips on myself. Stop trying to keep control, like Kelly had said. But I could not imagine transforming our relationship into something so... making it... what was that word?

  Carnal.

  That's the word. I couldn't make it carnal with him.

  With myself.

  Come to think of it, I don't know exactly what that word means. Carnal. But it does seem to mean what I felt I wasn't. I'm going to look it up.

  Carnal. French. That figures. Fourteenth century. Marked by sexuality. FLESHLY. ANIMAL. SENSUAL. Yes. Even more to the point: relating to or given to crude bodily pleasures and appetites... often connotes derogatorily an action or manifestation of man's lower nature.

  Exactly. I had lost that carnal lower nature thing somewhere along the way. Snuffed it out of myself. Because my sister had more than enough for both of us?

  Except lots of people had it, and they were happy and well-adjusted. I knew that in an abstract way, and yet I couldn't know it enough to really believe it. If I could get my body to know it (and forget about my darn head) then maybe I could get over this problem. My lower nature had to be somewhere in me, and I wanted it. I wanted my lower nature back!

  After awhile he stopped the massage and lay down sort of half on top of me and half on the couch. My eyes were closed, but I could feel his breathing on my nose. Nothing to get all worked up about; he just wanted to give me a nice massage. Then he'd go home. The one he wanted to have sex with, that would be Kelly. Not someone with a zillion hang-ups like me, which he must’ve realized. If hadn't yet, he certainly would soon.

  He slid down, wedging himself between me and the back of the couch. I started to turn towards him—I couldn't help myself—and then he kissed me. Softly. Warmly. And our bodies pressed right up against each other. I wanted to melt into him. (It's hard to avoid cliches at moments like this.) And I could feel his erection (makes me think of erector sets) pressing up against me (!) and my leg went over his leg, and I wanted him inside me (as they say) and his lips were like (can I think of one more lousy cliche here?) velvet, flower petals, some kind of mushy fruit… I don't know—they were like lips!

  I hate sex scenes. I mean why should anyone try to conjure up a sex scene? Everyone who's had sex knows what it feels like, and anyone who hasn't (is there anyone left?) can certainly imagine what it's like (it's always better the way you imagine it anyway, isn't it?). So in any case. The point is. We kissed.

  And there, as if on cue, was my sister hovering over me. "You think you're going to enjoy yourself? You think I'm enjoying myself? How dare you try to enjoy yourself!"

  Which made it hard to relax.

  But I did my best. I tried to get her out of my mind. Blank my mind, just think about Peter, focus on the here and now, the him and me, physical sensations, nothing to feel guilty about, just two bodies feeling good, making each other feel good, nothing wrong with that. And I really thought that we were going to go "all the way" (and that I was going to let myself) but then he stopped. And sat up. And said "excuse me." And went to the bathroom.

  So I sat up too. And I tried to collect myself. As if my body had spilled all over the couch and I had to stuff myself back into my clothes to make a solid mass again.

  A few minutes later—which I spent staring at the television set trying not to think about the fact that when men pee they need to hold their penises—he came out of the bathroom. He sat down next to me and put his arm around me and leaned towards me like he was going to kiss me again, and my anxiety overtook me and I said, of all things (and I know what an idiot this makes me) "Maybe you should get going."

  "Really?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "I just think that maybe we shouldn't at this point right now."

  I was aware that I was disappointing myself, him, the world.

  "Why shouldn't we?" he asked. "At this point right now."

  "It seems like the director shouldn't get involved with the playwright."

  It was a moment before he answered. “I had the impression that we're already involved. Aren't we?"

  "Well,” said the stupid jerk who was me (if I may judge myself impartially), "I don't know."

  "Okay. Well, then. I don't know either."

  Pause. Silence. Interminable length of time during which I should've said something that would've fixed the situation but failed to.

  "I'd better go,” Peter said.

  "You don't have to go." Just because I'm too freaked out to have sex doesn't mean you have to go. You could sleep here and not have sex. Or whatever. Because I'm in love with you. I know it doesn't seem like it by the way I'm behaving. Everyone wants to have sex, right? Morning, noon, nighttime and every time in-between. So what’s wrong with me? Why do I have to be me? Why can't I be anyone other than me?

  "Well,” he said, “tomorrow is a big day. I should get some rest."

  He got his things together, and I walked him to the door.

  "The last few days of rehearsal are going to be rough," he said.

  "I hope Annie and Kelly are working on their lines.”

  "Don't worry, it always looks bleak just before you're about to open."

  "Like nothing's going to come together."

  "And then it does."

  "Hopefully."

  We stood at the door. Tell him you're totally falling for him, a little voice urged me, or something to that effect. My mouth didn’t move.

  "I have to make a lot of phone calls in the morning," he was saying. "A bunch of producers. It's important we get them in to see the play. We don't want to do all this work and have nothing to show for it, right?"

  "That's the hardest part,” I said. “Getting people in to see it.”

  "Especially the people who can do something for you."

  Tell him, the little voice said, you didn't mean to stop him, it was just those pesky irrational fears.

  "Yeah,” I agreed, “it's a drag."

  It's especially a drag, the little voice said, since you didn't have sex with him.

  "I want to see this thing get moved as much as you do."

  “Thank you for all the work you’re putting in.”

  I met his eyes. Maybe he could read in my eyes how much I wanted him. "So I'll see you tomorrow."

  "See you tomorrow.”

  I shut the door behind him. My little voice, resorting to the silent treatment, said nothing.

  Chapter 10

  We were set to open in three days. The theater was hot despite the air-conditioner, which only seemed effective at making noise. Cast and crew worked together with an underlying tension while trying to coordinate the lighting cues with the blocking. Everyone made mistakes; nothing worked. Kelly's performance, in particular, fell flat.

  It was hard to say if it was because of the tedium of having spoken the words of the play so many times over and over, day after day, with no audience there to respond. Perhaps, once there were people in the seats, she’d raise the level up a few notches. Or maybe
it was some kind of residual weirdness between the two of us. Or frustration over Peter. Maybe she was self-destructing because that's what she did. Or all of the above.

  I watched as Peter tried to direct without antagonizing her in the process, but he was losing his patience.

  "Could you take this scene again?" he asked. "And this time, Kelly, could you put some energy into it? I know it's hot today and you're all feeling tired."

  "I'm not tired," she said casually.

  "You were slow with your cues," he snapped back, "and your volume was too low."

  He usually took care to talk calmly to the actors, but now, just as he had predicted, his equilibrium was starting to crack.

  Kelly pretended not to notice. "Fine," she said pleasantly.

  They took the scene again. This time she went to the opposite extreme, rushing her lines and almost shouting them out.

  "Kelly," Peter interrupted. "Are you not feeling well today?"

  "I thought I was following your instructions," she responded, feigning innocence.

  Annie was looking distressed. Nothing she could do. I considered leaving. Done well, the scenes could be emotionally wrenching. Done badly, they were intolerable. But if this was going to turn into a good fight, I didn't want to miss it.

  "Take it from the top of the third scene," Peter said.

  The actresses reluctantly took their places and began again.

  I decided not to listen. I didn't want to think about Melanie and Julia. I wanted to think about Peter. He'd basically ignored me all day. In his case, I had no doubt it was because of residual weirdness from the other night. But of course, he was also preoccupied with the play and once we opened, I hoped, we would continue where we left off. And I would do better the next time, I told myself, I would have to make myself do better.

  It occurred to me that in the past couple weeks I'd managed to reject the overtures of the two people I was enamored with.

  Finally, they were onto the fourth and last scene of the play. This scene would stand alone after intermission. Julia has killed herself and comes back to haunt Melanie. It was the same scene that had seemed so heartbreaking in the very first read-through, when they had acted it so well I was brought to tears. But today, Kelly wouldn't have made the first round on Star Search.