"All right. Now, in this scene, I need you to be angry. Try to think of a time when you were so angry you could have killed someone. That's the anger I need to see in this scene. Go."
The scene continued as I had planned it, and he confronted me, menacing me, eventually grabbing me and choking me, just as we had blocked it. He actually grabbed my throat a little too hard, and I didn't have to act like I was being choked—for a brief second I was. The scene ended and I said, "Very nice. Much better. You actually scared me a little."
"I'm sorry, did I hurt you?" Dameon said, looking worried.
"No, not at all. I've had worse things done to me onstage. It was much more realistic. It's what I want. Thank you. We've had a good rehearsal today, let's wrap it up. Can I get you something to eat before you leave? We seem to have skipped lunch."
"Well, if you don't mind, and if you don't have anywhere else to be," he said, rather sheepishly.
"No problem. Let's see what we have." I went into the kitchen, Dameon following behind. As I looked into refrigerator, he stood behind me, and I was once again distracted by his cologne. During our whole scene, even though our characters hate each other, I was having a hard time staying focused, especially when he would get close to me. And every time I touched his chest to push him away, I couldn't help but feel his muscled chest under his shirt. "I guess I'm a better actress than I realized," I thought to myself, "if I can stay in character with him distracting me so." We finally decided on sandwiches and milk and sat down at the table for a late lunch. As we ate, I tried not to make it obvious that I was staring. Although I'd known Dameon for over a year, and I'd been directing him all that time, I still couldn't get over how absolutely fantastic he looked. Tall, Puerto Rican, dark hair, deep brown eyes, tight body, strong hands. And as I've already said, his smell. Whenever he walked into a room, I could smell his cologne, and it would linger long after he left. Since rehearsals had started, I would actually sit on the couch after he left and smell the pillows that he was leaning on. As much as I dreamed about being with him, (and I had some extremely vivid dreams with him as the featured star), I knew it couldn't be. One, he was 18, I was 37. Two, he was a former student, and now my acting partner. Three, I wanted us to be friends, but if I approached him in that way, I'm sure that would weird him out so much he'd never speak to me again.
When I initially asked him to do a play with me this summer, subconsciously I was looking for a play that would change our relationship, and possibly even have some sort of sexual undertones. I decided against that, for many reasons, and chose another, contenting myself with the fact that I would still get to see him all summer, get to be near him, and get to touch him, at least in the confines of my character.
"I have a serious question," he said as he finished his lunch.
"Really? Or is it your version of a serious question?"
"No, seriously. We were just working on method, right? Well, how does that work for love scenes?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if you have to do a scene with someone, and obviously, you're not involved with them, but you have to be all in love with them or all sexual with them. Do you use method for that too?
"Well, you can, but in reality, human biology kind of kicks in. Honestly, unless for some reason the person you're in the scene with just grosses you out, it's generally not that bad to have to kiss someone else, or make out with someone else. It is a little embarrassing, because all these other people are watching, and if it doesn't look right, you have to keep doing it again and again. And sometimes, you hardly know the person, and they're touching you in all the right places and . . . well, you get the idea. Anyway, why do you ask? Are you doing some love scene that I don't know about, or are you finally pursuing that career in pornography?"
"Just curious. Well, I have to get going. I'll see you tomorrow." We stood, he gave me a hug, and I squeezed him a little harder than I should, and he left. I couldn't help but watch him as he walked down my driveway. God how I wanted him. That night, I enjoyed myself thoroughly imagining us practicing a love scene together.
The next day's rehearsal went incredibly well, so much so that I ended it early. Dameon didn't have to go home yet, so we sat around and talked about acting and theatre for awhile. After a rather in depth conversation about how to survive as an actor, he said, "You know what we were talking about yesterday?"
"Method or love scenes."
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Well, I was reading through some plays like you suggested, and I found this amazing scene. It is so well-written, and so hot, but I was wondering how you would stage it, as a director." He handed me 3 short pages from a play I'd never heard of. I read them to myself, and I was shocked, but turned on at the same time—these two characters were fucking like animals—it was one of the most graphic scenes I'd ever read in a play.
"Well, Dameon," I said, trying not to blush, "a play like this would be really tough to stage. A scene like this, played in front of a live audience—very intimidating, and many would find it offensive."
"That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking how it would be staged. Show me."
I stared at him. What he was implying was that he and I would "act" out the scene, with me serving as the director, and the character. "Dameon, I'm not sure this is appropriate for us to work through together." I was so hot and flustered, I could barely speak, and although what I was saying was the truth, I didn't want it to be.
"Well . . . you're only 18, you're a former student, and . . ."
"I don't care. Please show me."
"But . . ." I could feel myself getting wet as I thought of us doing the scene together. I started to protest again, but he took his shirt off and said, "doesn't it start like this?" I looked at his smooth chest, his slender waist, his darkened treasure trail, and my heart started beating too fast.
"Well, yes . . ." I stammered, "then they kiss." I stared at him and decided that I would wait for him to make the first move—if he did, I'd go with it. If not, we'd simply talk through it.
"So, what kind of a kiss would it be?" he asked, his brown eyes staring at me, looking me up and down. I swallowed hard and said, "Well, I think it would start out very hesitant, just a touch, his hands on her arms. Then, as they kissed, and realize their passion, it would get more forceful, deeper. Her hands would slide around his waist, he would pull her close . . ." In my mind I was visualizing all this, and I thought I would orgasm just from imagining it.
"Like this?" Dameon stepped towards me and put his hands on my arms. I almost jumped at his touch and I had to fight the urge to pull him closer. He moved in slowly, kissed me lightly, then pulled me close, pressing me into him, slipping his tongue between my lips, trying to probe as far as he could go. I slide my hands around his waist, then down to his ass, and squeezed, bringing him closer to me. As we kissed, I felt his cock pressing against his jeans, and into me, and it made me even more wet than I already was.
We parted for a moment, he smiled, and he led me down the hall to the bedroom. "Dameon . . ." I started to say, but he simply turned and kissed me again. My control was gone. We laid down on the bed and he pressed himself down on top of me, kissing me again, as deeply as he could. As we kissed, I felt him pressing against me even more, and I spread my legs slightly to give him more room. He ran his hands all over my body, caressing and touching every inch he could reach. He left my mouth and began covering my body with kisses. He gently removed my shirt and my pants, leaving me in my panties and bra, and continued to kiss every inch. As he moved closer and closer to my wet slit, I arched my back, spread my legs and ached for him to touch me there. He went lower and lower until his face was buried in my wet pussy, and I almost came immediately. He backed off, slid my panties off, then began to work on my clit with his tongue. "This is not in that scene," I thought to myself, and I realized that the scene was a charade—he just didn't know how to approach me. He continued to work my clit with his tongue, sliding two or three fingers inside me, and I writhed and moaned underneath his touch. I wanted to cum so badly, but I also wanted to do it with him inside me. I fought the urge to cum and said, "Fuck me, Dameon, please!"
He stood and dropped his jeans, and what had been poking at me earlier sprang free-9 inches, beautiful and rock hard. As much as I wanted him inside me, I wanted to taste that thick cock. I sat up and took it my mouth. He gasped and jerked, and he came immediately. "I'm so sorry," he said, blushing, "it's been a really long time." I showed him that I didn't mind by cleaning him thoroughly, and then saying again, "Fuck me, please!"
As before, he pressed himself on top of me, spreading my legs, and kissing me deeply. As his tongue entered my mouth, his cock entered my pussy, and I came instantaneously. I cried out and dug my nails into his back. He lay still for a few moments, kissing me gently, and when he sensed that I had relaxed and come down from my orgasm, he began to move rhythmically inside me. I met each thrust with my hips, urging him on faster and harder. With each thrust I moaned louder and louder, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, holding him deep inside me as much as I could. We continued to move together, meeting thrust for thrust, him thrusting as deeply and as hard as he could, the bed creaking with each thrust, until we both shuddered again, screaming out loud and clinging to each other. He slid out of me and then moved next to me, smiled and said, "I like this method acting."