by Dixon Carter Lee ©
I'd escaped high school ten years earlier, and was living in Manhattan, doing the acting thing; a few showcases here and there, a Broadway production of "Godspell", and living well off some commercial residuals. Then, suddenly, the friggin' commercial went off the air, my agent started using word like "unmarketable" to describe me and my roommate decided to move to back to Rhode Island to sell lobsters with his Dad, and I had to goddamn pay the whole rent for six months. I was broke, feeling like a fuck-up, and needed a job, so when my little sister told me that my old high school was looking for someone to stage their Spring musical production of "Godspell", and that they'd actually pay me $800, I dumped my crummy apartment, jumped onto a Greyhound to Connecticut, and went back to my teen alma mater.
I walked through the puke-green cinderblock hallways of the school to the theatre's enormous backstage loading doors, pushed them open with a woosh of air, and took in that wonderfully familiar sawdust and glue smell that rose from all the sets and flats and twisted lumber stacked in the wings. I took a peak behind the lumber rack, where I'd written my name on the wall freshman year. My scribble was still there: "Mark Venetti". Also there, stuck on a nail, way back in the corner, was a photo of me in high school. I had placed it there, wondering how long it would be before someone found it. I guess no one ever did. Now it was something like opening a time capsule. That photo was an artifact. Proof of my youth, and my tutelage in this high school. God I looked young and cocky. I put the photo in my pocket, but thought "What the hell?" and tacked it back up on the wall. "Let's see how long it lasts."
I walked out on stage where a hundred pimply kids were waiting to audition. God they looked small. Tiny, even. I wondered if I should have worn a tie or something, 'cause suddenly I felt way old. I made my way to the back of the house where it was nice and dark, took a chair behind a production table and began the audition.
After an hour my mind drifted, and I began to remember my own time in high school. I'd spent four years pretty much running around with a perpetual hard-on, and I couldn't help think about all the girls I knew back then, and what a dopey, sexy bunch they were, all giggles and boobs. I was thinking of a particular junior girl who was my "first" , when a young girl came out for her audition. I immediately perked up because she was seriously cute, a tiny thing in jeans and T-shirt and with an angel face. "What's your name?" I asked from the back.
"Patti Cielo." she said, not too loudly.
"What are you going to sing?" I asked.
"Um, 'Day by Day'." she said. "Is that okay?"
Geez! Girls had been singing that all day, and badly. Mr. McCoy, the music teacher, started playing, and Patti launched into a sweet rendition of the song, a little warbly, but she was so genuine and warm that she made innocent sentiment of the lyrics work. I liked her. "Very good." I said, when she finished.
"Thanks!" she said brightly, flashing me a relieved smile before skipping away. She was the last to sing, so we moved on to the dance auditions. For these a few girls had put on tights, including Patti, who had changed into a black leotard with white stockings, and ballet slippers. She looked light as a feather, dancing and twirling very nicely. Her body had a nice line. I guessed she'd had some dance training; probably been taking ballet since she was four years old.
Now, every guy dreams, and I wished to dream about fetching little Patti. I mean, what else could I do but dream? She was way too young to contemplate anything other than a good late-night jerk-off fantasy. Problem was I knew that I'd never be able to lay back in my bed later that night and conjure up her pretty, young body in my mind, without having first had some actual emotional contact with her. That's just the way I am. I must talk to the girl, flirt with the girl, see that look of interest in the girl's eyes, before I can fantasize about her later. Something about "the plausibility of the scenario" and all that. But this girl was a high school student, and I knew there was no way I could come up with a plausible storyline that ends up with us in bed. But I wanted very much to have that jerk-off session, so I had to try something a little dangerous. I would have to touch her. And not just a brush or two. I would have to touch her for an extended time, feel her skin, maybe even smell her, so I could bring up the sensations later and become aroused. What I came up with was somewhat innocent, a little dirty, and definitely perverted. And I had to be real careful.
I ran up to the stage, pointed to Patti and said "You! Come here!" she nearly jumped out of her skin, and the other kids hooted like she was in trouble. She froze, like I knew she would, so I made like it was a big deal for me to have to go and get her. This was important, because it meant I could take her hand without it funny. But I wasn't going to just take her hand, I needed more than that. So I reached out and took her upper arm. Her leotard came to just above her elbow, and I could feel it's stretchy nylon texture. As I pulled her across the stage I slid my hand down her tony limb, which was wet with perspiration, over her elbow, down the to her hand, and pulled her downstage. She was about five inches shorter than me, and she had a shapely bosom. Her teeth were white and sharp. I hated to let go of her, but I did, and stepped back saying, "Everyone watch this girl, here. She knows what she's doing Okay, ready?"
"Who, me?" she asked, terrified, biting her lip and hunching her shoulders in terror.
"Relax." I said, placing my hands on her damp shoulders and pushing them down. "Close your eyes and take a breath." I continued, closing her eyes, my fingers brushing across her smooth cheek. She inhaled deeply, her bosom rising and falling nicely, then opened her eyes and smiled. "Better? Okay. Now dance." I said. Mr. McCoy, the music teacher, began to play, and Patti slid into the routine, dancing well, her leotard stretching taught against her curvy frame. I was feeling very perverted, letting my eyes dance all over her. My fingers were still a bit damp from where they had touched her. I held them up to my nostrils and breathed in a bit of her sweat. It smelled like beautiful, young skin. My cock rose a little at the odor.
When she finished dancing I said, "Everyone do it like that. Patti up front. Here we go...!" I went back to my desk in the back. As the music began I unbuttoned my jeans. No one could see me in the back, it was too dark, and I was behind a table, and I very much needed to readjust Mr. Happy, who had grown considerably since I made contact with Patti. I swear that's all I was planning to do, but the moment I touched the old P-man, he jumped up and grew another inch. Oh yes, I was aroused, and I knew I had to do a little stroking. So I looked around. No one was near. It was dark. I was feeling -- anxious. So I did it. I pulled my cock out. Jesus, I was so scared someone would come running back to ask me a question and catch me! But no one did. So I kept on stroking. Hidden behind the table I was able to stroke myself off while watching Patti dance.
She had a shapely, heart shaped bottom, the leotard tucked inside her crack, her soft little mound pushing out in front. I closed my eyes, smelled her sweat again, and I found I could fantasize about her. I imagined the two of us rehearsing, with me touching her arms and legs, telling her to stretch this and point that, and how turned on she'd feel after an hour of being touched, and how one of her shoulder straps would accidentally slip off, and how she'd look me right in the eyes as I slipped off the other one, and how I'd pull her leotard down, and lick her moist breasts. I squeezed my cock hard and let out a little sigh, which no one could hear thanks to Mr. McCoy's loud piano. I placed a T-shirt from my rehearsal bag over my stomach and jerked off harder. I saw myself peeling her tights off, turning her around and entering her tiny pussy from behind, fucking her right there on the stage, spreading those little sweaty little legs, pushing my cock into her and listening to her moan with her first orgasm, and gabbing my ass and pulling me deeper into her cunt. I put my finger up to my nose, smelled her sweat again, and came all over the T-shirt. God!
Needless to say I cast her. She was a good dancer, and a pretty good singer, and she deserved to be cast. I'm a good guy, not a creep, I was a little embarrassed by what I'd done, and I had no thought of trying to get into her pants. But I knew if she were around I could work up some good jerk-off fantasies. So I cast her. I wanted another chance to touch her, to smell her, to watch her in her rehearsal clothes, to be around her vibrant, youthful energy. And so it began.
End Chapter I (of VII)
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