Another Shindig

I don't often get deja vu. The feeling I experience far more often is one of being an observer to my own actions, wondering just what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it. It's somewhat disconcerting at times. However, that's neither here nor there.

I don't get deja vu, and so when things happen again in a remarkably similar way I don't get a shiver down my back and wonder if the Matrix just suffered a glitch or something. I usually take it in stride. After all, most things recur. Life tends to fall into patterns, at least my life does. Patterns of boredom, mostly, but others as well.

So when I say that there was another party at the theater tonight, that is the truth. Not quite the same type of party; lower-key for the most part. And I had a beer and then quit drinking, so I was pretty much sober the whole time. Which is good, because had I not been I might have doubted my previously-stated stance on deja vu.

Down I went to the bathroom, walked in, expecting nothing because as I said, much lower-key, and there were the technician and the actress again (consult the manual if you're confused), only this time up against a wall, him behind her, pressing up and into her, her bare breasts crushed into the wall, his pants around his ankles. He looked around and saw me and sort of smiled. She looked around, saw me, and made a little squeaking noise, pushed him away from her and rushed out, half-clothed. So no deja vu there.

He looked pretty sheepish, standing there in the ladies' room with his cock hanging out. I made a point to maintain eye contact even though his dick was a tremendous draw; not badly hung at all. "Sorry," I said.

"Nah, it's okay," he said, pulling his pants up. "I get the feeling she was hating herself."

"Why?"

"She's super Catholic." This was the first I'd heard about this. I can't say that I'm that surprised; she has, as I said, a bunch of kids, and this isn't exactly the show which would strain one's religious leanings. It's a fun, family-oriented show, and I know we have a few actors who are fairly religious in the casting pool. But if she's so all-fired Catholic, getting blitzed and then doing extra-marital activities isn't exactly something you do, unless I missed that part of catechism class. No, never mind, I went to fucking Catholic school, I sat through all that shit, I know: she's going to spend a lot of time in confession saying rosaries.

"Still, sorry. I mean, for blowing it for you. She's got a nice body and looks like she's a decent lay." I was saying this as one of the guys. I don't say "bro" but if I did, I would have thrown one in.

"She's hot," he conceded, fully clothed now. I could see out of the corner of my eye though that he still had a tent in his pants. I don't think he was entirely sober at the time. "But confidentially, I've had better."

So we sat down on the floor of the bathroom and talked shop. It was a little surreal in hindsight, but hey, it wasn't a bathroom likely to be frequented, and we weren't doing anything but talking. This guy has indeed had better. From his description, it sounds like the Catholic actress is a wild ride but not much to ride in. By that I mean that she moans and flails drunkenly, but her cunt isn't all that interesting.

He's worked other places too, just recently moved to the area, and he's had much better actress poon. We swapped a few stories; I had him on numbers, but he had me a few times on quality. He worked a beauty contest, nothing national but important enough, and fucked three different teenaged contestants in one evening. Or so he said, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. Frankly, the fact that he wasn't in a hurry to pull up his pants in the first place was something of an indicator of his confidence. He's definitely got more of that than I do. I was a bit jealous, I don't mind admitting.

But on the whole, I was somewhat turned off by him; it seems like it's all about conquest for him. He fucks the Catholic actress because she's a MILF (a term, by the way, I'm not all that fond of, but I use here under advisement) and because she's forbidden fruit. Had he been different, at the start I was turned on enough to offer to finish up what she'd rudely abandoned. As it was, I just sat and enjoyed talking a bit of shop.

I probably shouldn't have, but I did get him to concede defeat with the story of me having sex on stage for an audience in college. Not a story I really ought to trot out to people with whom I work. Particularly as my rationale for not fucking the guy was that I didn't want him to treat it like it was a trophy and erode my professional cred. But it was a bit of a guys' boasting match at that point, and I just had to beat him at something.

We eventually went back upstairs separately. I said I had to use the bathroom (and I did) but really I just didn't want anyone to think that I'd had anything to do with the situation no doubt brewing with the Catholic actress. Sure enough, by the time I'd done my business and waited a few minutes to be on the safe side (guys, you really don't know how long women actually take to go to the bathroom, do you?) Catholic actress came creeping back in tears looking for her shirt.

I felt really sorry for her, not in a sexy kind of way but in a, "sister, I know exactly how it feels to want to have some sex without a lot of complications, and boy am I sorry you're restricted by your religion from doing what comes naturally" kind of way. Plus I felt sorry for breaking it up before the conclusion. Mostly the latter, truth be told; if you're going to cheat on your husband, you at least don't want to be interrupted while doing it.

I kind of wanted to go back upstairs and get the fuck out of Dodge at this point, since I was tired and had to wake up tomorrow morning (well, come to think of it, I still have to wake up, so that excuse won't fly) but instead I sat her down, helped her stop crying and wash off the smeared makeup and tears, tried to get a bit of the red out of them, and then we sat down in the ladies' room and... well, not really talked shop, because she seemed mortified of the subject, but I tried to make her feel better.

I don't know how successful I was. I'm not a therapist, and I'm a bit of an emotional sponge, so when other people pour out their souls to me, I tend to suffer. She loves her husband. She loves her God. She loves her kids. Why does she get drunk and do these things?

I would argue that the things she's doing aren't mutually exclusive with loving her husband, kids, or God, but I didn't say any of that. I just told her that I wasn't planning on telling anyone (which wasn't really a lie, since if someone who knows who she is is reading this, I'm way more screwed than she is) and that I'd try to make sure he didn't spread it around either (which was a bit more of a lie, since there's not a tremendous amount I can do about it). And that she was better than him. That if she were going to get drunk and do things, she should tell me first so I could make sure she wound up with a better class of person. That okay, maybe he was kind of hot, but that he wasn't a good choice.

I managed to make her laugh a few times, which was nice because she really is very pretty and usually spends her time beaming. I wasn't about to introduce the idea of lesbianism at this point, but had that been on the table I think I was much more interested in making her happy than in making him happy. Then we went looking for her panties. I expect they've been added to a trophy case. I just hope no one finds them later; she might have taken them with her unawares when she made the precipitous exit.

I have no idea where she was hiding the whole time; she didn't go back to the party with no top on, that's for certain. By the time we were finished with everything, everyone else had gone home, so I made sure she'd be okay to go home herself, then went back in to check everything was cleaned up and shut down. I don't know why I'm always the last to leave.

In this case though, I found a soft spot to plant my ass and rubbed out two sharp Os in quick succession, just because I had nothing better on offer. If they ever hang that curtain again, there may be a small stain on it. I hope CSI never arrives to investigate a crime; they'll wonder just what the hell was happening on this curtain. Then I locked up and left.

I confess that the ideal outcome of the evening for me would be that the technician went home and wished he'd had the balls to try to get me to fuck him while masturbating sadly, and that the actress feels better about herself and maybe stops getting so drunk and doing things she regrets. Maybe she could stop regretting some things too, but a lessening of regret is the ideal end result. And as long as I'm dreaming, I'd like a pony.

And now, speaking of which, sleep. I hope. No, probably one more session of find the tamale, then sleep I hope. I have a number of other things brewing to talk about, but not now. Perhaps Monday. Night all.