"Racing is rubbing.", "She loves me- she loves me not", 1925, A Christmas Carol, Centenary Celebration, Charles Dickens, Christmas, Daisy Buchanan, Dazy, East Egg Theatre, George B. Wilson, Lupinotuum Pectinem, NASCAR, The Great Gatsby
The darkest days need sunshine, the coldest hearts need warmth, and in dreary December guiding light of heaven’s not Polaris in the north.
Dazy, filled with nectar and sprinkled in dew, stood before me, naked save for panties as we both faced the closed door of the cramped closet that the East Egg Theatre generously called a “dressing room.” I was, as usual, attracted to my co-player, a shapely and vivacious youngster for whom I should have felt paternal partiality rather than lustful longing. With a score of years behind her Dazy was young enough to be my daughter: If one stipulates that I had sired her while a high school sophomore, a most befitting title for a wise fool such as I who could confuse the amorous, endorphin fed attraction of castmates’ with that of a relationship grounded on firm fundament.
Speaking of firm fundament, my mind, which should have been fully engaged on our Sunday matinee, was instead distracted by the simultaneously amazingly alluring while decidedly demure woman who stood a mere six inches distant. My eyes, whose job was to locate my costume pieces for my quick change from Act I scene ii to Act I scene iii, could focus on nothing but Dazy’s delicious derriere.
As is so often the case with love affairs our amorous encounter started with a plumbing problem. Not mine! The theatre’s.
The East Egg Theatre, which was in the planning stages for its upcoming Centenary Celebration, had been forced to make some heat of battle accommodations to our Sunday show when, upon arriving at noon for our one o’clock holiday matinee of Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol, we learned that a pipe had burst directly over the tiny, just off stage cubicle that had been Dazy’s. Given the space, costume and time restraints of the play and working madly to ensure that the show did go on Dazy and I had agreed to share my tiny but dry and secure cubicle for our quick change scenarios. “It’s fine by me,” Dazy had said with a smile and a shrug. “We’re troupers and Wilson’s a peach. I trust him,” she concluded, winking at me.
I trusted me too, just like Little Red had trusted that wolf in Grandma clothing.
The basement of the East Egg had one large communal dressing room for men and another for women. Theatre folks tend to be pretty unconcerned with defining people based on plumbing, lot of co-players using the pronoun them rather than him or her, they as opposed to he or she, but even in the sex segregated dressing rooms it was considered gauche to flash one’s castmates with a full frontal if avoidable. Dazy and I applied makeup and slipped into our costumes in our respective communals before she poked her head into Men’s Dressing, asking me to join her in the tiny space we would be sharing.
“I just wanted to show you where I put my things?” Dazy asked as we ascended the stairs. “Make sure we won’t be stumbling over one another? We both have quick change at the end of scene two, right? We’ll be packed in pretty tight.”
“We do, don’t we?” I’d said, nodding my head. “I forgot about that,” I conceded, sighing. “Yeah. You’d better show me what you’ve done.”
Dazy stepped into our dressing room and pointed out where she’d stashed her bits and pieces as I observed from just outside the door. She’d done a great job of disturbing my costume as little as possible, segregating hers from mine as the cramped space allowed, but seeing how much of the cubicle was filled with costumes and diminutive Dazy I asked, “Are you a fan of NASCAR?”
“What?!” She’d replied. “No. Not really. Why?”
“Because there’s a saying in racing that goes, ‘Racing is rubbing.’ I only mention it because when we’re in here racing to change we’re not going to have much room. You okay with that?”
“Me? Sure. How about you? I could change in the wings. Get a dresser to help me?”
“Would that be better for you?” I inquired.
“No. Not really. I drop down to just my drawers and while I’m not shy about people seeing me naked I just get creeped out being touched by a bunch of hands when I am; especially in full view of others. I’d rather share, if that’s okay with you?”
“No. That’s fine,” I replied, accidentally brushing against her as we exited the closet. “We’ll be good.”
Descending the stairs I contemplated the swelling in my pants that had arisen when Dazy described hands all over her naked body, a visceral, reflexive reaction that should have alerted me to the likelihood that I might have the same gallant response when we two rubbed and bumped in my dressing room. I should have been alerted, but I wasn’t. Maybe I wasn’t thinking, maybe, subconsciously, I was hoping for a little bump and grind of the nether region kind. In any case, the curtain rose, we finished our bits in Act I scene ii and hurried to my, er, our dressing room.
Dazy’s dress was unzipped before the door was closed and as she lifted her arms upward her hair got caught in the zipper. “Shit,” she whispered. “Help me? Sorry!”
“Got it,” I replied, freeing her hair and lifting her dress off of her. “Here,” I added, handing her the dress and unbuckling my belt and letting my pants slip to the floor.
Dazy, dressed in underwear and shoes, bent at the waist and bumped her butt into my groin. A tiny part of me stiffened, then all of me did. “Sorry!” I said too loudly. “Sorry,” I said again softly, pushing back to the far wall to the extent the room allowed and continuing in my disrobing.
“It’s okay, Will,” she replied, turning toward me. “Things come up. We really are cramped aren’t we?” she continued, unclasping her bra.
Bare breasts are like magnets to my eyes, and try as I may, I could not avoid stealing a quick glance before turning away and pulling pants up and over my at attention extension. Daisy spun back toward the door and we both finished dressing with only a minimum of bump and no grind.
Clothed and smoothed, hand on the doorknob Dazy paused and asked, “You ready?” before twisting the nob.
“Yes,” I replied. “Let’s hit this thing!”
She turned to me, smiled, said, “My sentiments exactly,” and then opened our door to the rest of the world, a world where fantasy and reality merge and melt. As we step onto the stage I realize all I want for Christmas is to pluck sweet Dazy petal by petal until we end in sweet satiation with the words, “She loves me,” echoing in our ears.