Private Lessons Ch. 01-04

Tommy had been the lanky actor who was the first one to sing. Why was he calling that boy by his first name while he was so formally referring to me as 'Miss Spencer'?

"I thought she was pretty good," Tommy replied with a noncommittal shrug and a smile.

"Why don't you tell her that?" Mr. C grinned. Damn, why did he finally flash that handsome concert smile right before he was going to annihilate me into bits? The nasty sadist...

"You were pretty good," Tommy smirked, looking in my direction. The entire class laughed. I smiled too, feeling a little better, even though the humor on my part was completely insincere.

"Anyone else?"

The levity once again turned to dooming silence.

"Very well," Mr C replied before turning his intense brown-eyed gaze upon me. "The song fits you very well. Period songs suit you."

I smiled like the eager puppy I was, anxious to please. Period songs suit me! Cool!

"But you must be present right at the very beginning of the song. By the time you were where you needed to be, a casting director would have already cut you off. You have to be present and focused before that first note comes out. Technically, even before the intro music. No one will wait for you to get warmed up. Understand?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

"Excellent. Bring this song back next week with that adjustment."

"Okay," I answered, my voice a little too high-pitched.

"Oh, and one other thing. You should not wear those shoes when you sing, Miss Spencer. While they are quite attractive, they throw the balance of your body out of alignment. If you are required to wear heels in a show, that is an obstacle you have to deal with. But if you are in control of your own clothing, I would advise against wearing them."

He thought my shoes were attractive!

I was on Cloud Nine for the rest of the class, relieved that the worst was over with.

WEEK TWO – VOICE PROJECTION

The next week dragged by too slowly.

Every day, I spent my time daydreaming about Mr. C. While I was mindlessly filing or copying during my boring temp job, I was humming one of his songs. When I had downtime, I would work on an audition monologue and pretend that I was talking to him. One time, I had spent a half hour just staring at my screen saver, lost in a romantic daze, not even knowing what I was doing.

After work, I forced myself to go to the New York Sports Club and work out whether I wanted to or not. After all, even if I was never going to be perfect, I should at least attempt to get in shape. I was cursed from birth with a pudgy stomach that never seemed to get flat, no matter how many sit-ups I did. I took whatever class was available at the time. Yoga, toning, aerobics, belly dancing, whatever.

During the hellish rush hour traffic home, I zoned out into an erotic fantasy world as I listened to my CD player. This was actually a nice change of pace from my usual worries about being bombed by a terrorist. I had been temping only four blocks away from the World Trade Center when it fell on September 11th. Never will I forget the sight of seeing only one tower standing, the other one having collapsed into rubble and white ash drifting in the sky. After that day, I seemed to suffer from permanent paranoia, sure that when the next attack came that I would be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It was actually a relief to have something else to think about as I rode the 9 train to Chelsea. Rather, something else to obsess about.

The fantasy would be a simple one. Next Sunday, he would ask to speak to me after class in private. Would I like a Frappucino at Starbucks? Over coffee, he would tell me about a few showbiz anecdotes. He would take my hand and say that he found me very attractive. Would I like to spend the night with him? Voulez vous couchez avec mo ice soir? We would ride a taxi together to his fancy apartment on Fifth Avenue. I would never go hungry again as every night I would have caviar and champagne. He would help me with my career. And the rest of my days would be spent in one big fuckfest with Mr. C.

Heaven on earth. Inevitably, I would go into my small rathole of a bedroom in the cramped brownstone of Chelsea. I would shut the door, careful not to disturb my cat-loving cigarette-smoking roommate across the hall.

I would throw myself under the covers of my bed, remove my clothes and rub myself into a relaxing orgasm.

But the craving for him was still there, ever present.

Every night, I worked on Time After Time for at least thirty minutes. Luckily, no neighbors complained. Sheila, my roommate, was very tolerant as long as it didn't go on for too long. For some reason, my singing tended to bother her cat, Chauncey. Granted, the shabby two-bedroom apartment was not the most ideal place to rehearse. But it wasn't easy to rent rehearsal space when you were flat broke all of the time, relying on the kindness of temp agencies and office assholes just to pay the rent.

Sunday finally came...at long last.

I volunteered to sing in class this time around. Not first. Jeez, I wasn't that brave yet. But I did go second.

Mr. C looked delicious in a pair of khaki pants with a light blue button-down top. I must have spent an hour and a half that morning deciding on what I would wear. You can dress to show or you can dress to hide. I did a little of both. I work my green ribbed turtleneck that showed my breasts and waist off to full advantage. I wore a skirt that was so short it was a bit risqué. Although all of those step classes didn't do a damned thing for my stomach, my legs were actually getting quite shapely. Speaking of my wretched flabby tummy, I wore a control top pair of underwear in an effort to hide the hated anatomy. And I grudgingly wore a pair of black flats, as was Mr. C's dictum, who by the way, looked just as delicious this week as he did the last.

Secure in the knowledge that Mr C was no threat but my supportive teacher just like he had always been in my mind, I was relaxed and totally in tune with the song from beginning to end.

The class gave good feedback. Mr. C was not quite as enthusiastic, nodding but not smiling.

"A marked improvement, Miss Spencer. You take direction well. Just one matter. Come with me."

I felt like a squirrel cornered by a cat.

Mr C walked toward the center of the stage and gestured for me to join him. He took my arm and led me toward the side of the room. Oh, God, he's touching me!

I felt light perspiration on my brow. Was I actually shaking?

Have I died yet?

His hand wrapped lightly around my upper arm.

"Now put your hands against the wall."

Oh, your wish is my command, cruel master...

I felt the cold black painted bricks against my palms as I placed my arms out in front of me at shoulder's length. His large hands pressed hard near the bottom of my rib cage. I could not help but think just how close his long elegant fingers were to the vicinity of my breasts. And in front of all of these people too.

Damn, this was getting sort of kinky!

"This is an exercise to help you breathe deeply through your diaphragm and sustain your notes," he said. "Relax your neck and shoulders. Stand up straight. Now push against my hands when you inhale."

I did so, wondering if he could see my nipples harden through my thin green turtleneck. I felt all achy and suddenly wanted to use the bathroom.

"Now sing out the first word of your song, exhale and push your diaphragm against my hand."

"Tiiiimmmmmeee..."

I was daydreaming about a different kind of diaphragm pushing against another choice body part of his.

"PUSH HARD!" he ordered.

Trying to focus on the matter at hand, I pushed my diaphragm out against the large hands of my stern task master, feeling rather dizzy as I did so.

"Good. Now inhale."

I inhaled. He smelled of coffee and something sweet-smelling like soap or shampoo.

"Again. Breathe through your mouth this time."

I inhaled deeply though my diaphragm again.

Mr. C's hands pressed hard against my ribs. He was so strong that he could smash my chest into bits if he wanted to. And I became aware of how tall he was. I thought of the big bearish weight of him on top of me, resting between my open thighs.

"Tiiiimmmmmeee..."

"Good. Again."

I did it again. Press me, baby, press me. I would do anything he ordered. Anything.

"Good. Now practice these exercises every day when you rehearse. Ten repetitions. And bring in a new song next week."

Rather disappointed that the close encounter was over so quickly, I returned to my seat.

"Okay."

When I went to the bathroom during our ten minute break in the middle of class, I realized that my panties were absolutely soaked. How would I survive the following ten weeks without going crazy?

WEEK THREE – STAYING IN CHARACTER

Another week in a haze. This time, I got my hair done and had a very painful facial.

Also, I agonized about the new song. I finally settled on My Ship, a song from "Lady in the Dark" and another one I wouldn't fuck up. I bought a pair of boots that were sexy with very low heels. And I wore a solid black dress with a wrap artfully draped around my waist to disguise that stupid hateful stomach.

Mr C was delectable in a denim jacket, jeans and brown boots.

The response to my song was a tepid one.

"I really have nothing really negative to say," Mr C started with an apologetic smile. "Sorry. The piece that you have chosen this time around is fairly simplistic, not that there's anything wrong with that. One thing to work on is that it is a 'laundry list' song. Make every description on the ship mean something special. Paint a picture with your words that we can see. To be honest, this song is a silly piece of fluff. It is your job to make a sensation out of fluff. I remember once I was in this really horrible Made-For-TV movie. I don't even remember the name of it. Something to do with a pilot having a romance during World War II. A really silly story. Lord, I'm going to spend the rest of the day trying to remember the name of it..."

"A Heart Denied...?" I chirped up. The story had not been a raging success, but I had loved it. I even had my own videotaped copy of it that I had bought off of EBay.

Mr C raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised at my knowledge of its existence.

I suddenly felt sick. Hello, numbskull? You are an actress who is a student of his. The lovesick girl who plastered photographs of Mr C all over her dorm room walls disappeared in Texas, got it? If he thought I was a 'fan' of his, the cool teacher-student bond would be obliterated in seconds.

"Don't tell me that you actually watched that piece of dreck, Miss Spencer!" he smirked with curiosity.

I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.

"I must have read it somewhere. I like to know the experience of my teachers."

"I see," he answered skeptically. "I am quite sure that particular phase of my career is not common knowledge."

The class started to titter and whisper.

"Well, I don't know what to say," I laughed with an innocent shrug.

"I see I have a Number One Fan in this class. I'm flattered."

Oh! To be compared to Kathy Bates in that Stephen King movie was just too horrible. I suppose that he thought I was going to try to chop off his foot with an axe or something. It was humiliating. I felt like I was some pathetic freak. Perhaps when I was younger, I was lonely and desperate, but not now! No, I was a different person now! Why couldn't I have just kept my damned mouth shut? Here I was, constantly being criticized all of my life for not being outgoing and talkative enough, and then when I do talk, I have to be a blasted idiot about it!

"You know how I hate to be ignored, Dan."

The class laughed at my quote from "Fatal Attraction". He did not.

"Bring in the same song next week with my adjustments," Mr C said, mercifully skating over the subject. "After that, I think you should pick something different. Maybe an upbeat song. Something that is going to challenge you. You should always try to take risks, Miss Spencer. Remember that."

"Okay."

Idiot! I cursed. Idiot, idiot, idiot!

WEEK FOUR – PREPARATION

I spent the next week in a gray state of depression.

That beautiful Irish voice tortured me with those words: Number One Fan...Number One Fan...Number One Fan...

Everything was ruined. Things had been going so well. And now he probably thought I was just a pathetic loser. I had to distance myself from him. The pain was just too intense. It was not healthy to feel this way. It was bad enough to be obsessed with a star, but when it became a sort of dysfunctional teacher/student relationship, it was even more unhealthy.

Being a classic movies lover, I had read my share of Marilyn Monroe biographies. Some of them claim that she became so dependent on her acting teacher, Lee Strasberg, that she lost all objectivity and it destroyed her career and what was left of her ego. One minute she was hanging on every word of Strasberg's like he was God. The next, she was lying dead and naked from a suicidal overdose. I could picture myself in her place wrapped with a sheet, an empty bottle of pills beside the bed and my telephone receiver off of the hook, dead as a doornail. Funny, I couldn't imagine myself as a blonde though.

I just had to think about something else for a while which was hard to do since I had probably thought about Mr. C at least once every day for the last ten years.

He was not God. He was just a man. And a bastard at that.

So out of sheer bullheadedness, I did not practice my singing lessons once all week. I did not do my diaphragmatic exercises. I didn't even work out. Instead, I went shopping for clothes that I couldn't afford. I went on a Turner Classics Movie film jag. I hung out in Barnes & Noble for hours. I did anything but rehearse for class.

I even stayed up until 2:00 AM on Saturday night, watching one of the 'Thin Man' movies on TCM. And I paid the price when my alarm went off at 9:00 AM after I had pressed the 'snooze' button one too many times.

Rolling out of the bed, I decided that I would not even make an effort today. I would be just like all of the others in class. I threw on a pair of jeans and a raggedy plaid shirt that completely hid my figure. I put on very little makeup. I wore my workout shoes. I grabbed my sheet music and headed for the subway station.

I still went over the words of my song though. I was not so uncaring that I would wait until the very last moment to go over the words, although I certainly knew my share of students who did that all of the time. As I stared at some indecipherable scribbling of graffiti on the window of the train, I went through the words, whispering them out loud.

"My ship has sails that are made of silk, the decks are trimmed with gold and of spice and jam..."

Fuck! That wasn't right. It was 'jam and spice'. It was imperative that I get that part right as the next lyric rhymed with it.

"And of jam and spice, there's a paradise in the hold..."

Good thing I was at least rehearsing this much. Mr. C would crucify me if I got that simple lyric wrong.

Not only was I not early this time, but I was the last one to enter the class. Not quite late, but almost.

Mr. C glared at me as I sat down.

"Nice of you to join us, Miss Spencer."

"Sorry," I smiled with a shrug.

He perused my appearance with visible disdain.

I did not volunteer to go first. In fact, I waited until the very end of class to get up.

The problem was that I couldn't get into the song this time. Not even playing my little mind tricks worked. I just felt like I was going through the motions.

"My ship has sails that are made of silk, the decks are trimmed with gold and of spice and jam..."

Fuck. Fuck! FUCK! I DID NOT JUST DO THAT!!!

All of the sudden, I felt like throwing up.

"Sorry, can I start again?"

Mr. C looked not only disappointed. He seemed furiously angry with me. His face was so red that it looked rather sunburned. He scowled coldly, his arms crossed against his chest as he leaned back in his chair.

"Please do."

I went through the song again, still feeling nothing but at least getting the words right.

When I sat in the hot seat, none of the students volunteered a comment. Killing me with quiet kindness.

"I don't think I need to say anything, do I, Miss Spencer?"

"Sorry," I said sheepishly, quite ready to die in shame. "It's been a hard week."

"Do you think that Andrew Lloyd Webber would give a flying fuck if you had a hard week, Miss Spencer?"

The room was deadly quiet. I wished that I were anywhere else but here at this moment.

"Well, do you?!"

"Um...no...probably not..."

"Do you think a casting director or an agent will care? Will an audience care? An audience who paid at least $50 a pop just to hear you fuck up their favorite song? But it wouldn't matter because they wouldn't be able to hear you anyway. Would they?"

I wanted to cry.

"No."

"I can't hear you, Miss Spencer."

"No," I said more loudly.

"Please remain after class, Miss Spencer. I wish to speak with you in private."

So this is what Hell felt like. My idol, Mr. C, was about to banish me out into the cold for being such a monumental fuck up. How would I be able to endure the next five minutes? How would I be able to look in the mirror again? I worked so hard to get into this class and now I was going to be unceremoniously thrown out of it.

Some of the classmates took their time gathering their belongings, hesitant to leave the torrid drama that was about to unfold in the basement theater in Tribeca. But at last, they were all gone.

We were alone. I was still seated on the hot seat. Mr C was still at his desk.

Speak, damn you...get it over with...say something!

"I expect my students to work hard, Miss Spencer. I believe I made that clear on the day of the first class. Did I not?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"What do you mean 'what'?" I asked with confusion.

"You will address me with respect, Miss Spencer."

Christ, this was too much! He was taking the overpowering guru teacher act just a bit too far for my taste!

"Yes, sir!" I sniped bitchily, making it clear that I meant no respect with that word whatsoever. "Is that what you want?"

His brown eyes narrowed.

"Shall I have you removed from the class, Miss Spencer? I can do that quite easily, you know."

"You'd do that to me?!" I asked, outraged. "Because I messed up the words with one song I sang in one class, you'd have me kicked out?!"

Mr. C pulled out a sheet of notebook paper covered front to back with handwritten names.

"You see this, Miss Spencer?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," I sighed out with disgust.

"Do you know what this is?"

"No, sir."

"It's a waiting list of names of all the people on standby for this class. There is nothing to stop me from saying that you do not have the appropriate talent and discipline necessary to remain here. Do you think that the admissions office will question me about that, should I choose to do it?"

I knew that they would not. He was Mr. C, a famous star of the Broadway stage. This class was probably making the acting school more money than it had seen in years. Of course he would get whatever he wanted.

I said nothing, feeling like I was just waiting to be escorted to my own execution.

"I shall give you a second chance, Miss Spencer, if you do everything I say without question."

What was that? A glimmer of hope? I waited breathlessly for him to continue.

"Lean over my desk, Miss Spencer."

"What?" I asked dumbly, not believing my ears.

"Lean...over...my...desk..."

He placed the waiting list down on the table top emphatically, making his point.

What the hell was this? The principal's office in high school? I should report him for sexual harassment. I should call him an asshole. I should get a refund for the class. And then I should throw away all of my Mr. C paraphernalia so I would never see his face or hear his wretched voice ever again. I should blight him from my life!