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From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The View From Inside (MF) {Alexis S.}
Date: Sat, 31 Aug 2002 06:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "The View From Inside - Final.txt" begin>
The View From Inside (MF)
By Alexis Siefert
(ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)
This is a work of adult fiction and should
be read only by adults. It is also my work.
Although I receive no compensation other than
your comments, it is still my work. Please
respect this and do not repost it somewhere
else without talking to me first about it.
If you are not allowed to read works with
sexual content, either due to your age or
by virtue of the laws in the geographical
location in which you reside, please do not
continue.
Alexis (ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)
****************************************************
The View From Inside (MF)
By Alexis Siefert
When things got really bad, Nathan used to bring me a cocoa,
and we'd sit by the fire, wrapped together in a blanket.
It wasn't always cocoa--he used to bring me an Irish
coffee or maybe a glass of wine. Eventually we both
realized that it was becoming more Irish than coffee or it
was a bottle of wine instead of a glass, and by slow mutual
consent he stopped bringing it, and I stopped needing it. I
never stopped wanting it, but as long as I was wrapped in
his arms and could feel the strength of his chest against my
back, the need was never quite as strong as I remember it.
I still sit by the fire. I still drink cocoa, and I still
wrap myself in the blanket and watch the flames flick their
orange and red tongues against the charred brick.
But without the feel of his heart against my back, I'm
starting to feel the need. And it scares me. A little bit.
Back in the beginning we met. We were both in the
University Theatre Department. I was there to perfect my
craft and emerge the next Dame Judi. He was there to
revolutionize technical design and theatre management. We both
fell a bit short of our dreams, but we always joked that we
weren't dead yet--so who knows what could still happen?
That became our catch phrase. When I'd fuck up an audition
and convince myself my career was over, he'd tell me, "Lucy!
It's not over. Stop playing dead!"
That was back when I was Lucy. I hated the name, but when I
was just starting out it seemed to fit. I was the wide-eyed
innocent, blonde-blue-thin-pale-fragile, and it played well.
I could play "Our Town" without breathing hard. I was
brilliant as the ingenue.
Nathan and I got married the day after graduation, and we
moved into a tiny apartment --a third floor, non-air-
conditioned walk-up that cost us more than our University
tuition, books, and housing combined. But we loved it. We
were there to fulfill our dreams.
We were young, ambitious, and in love with the idea of
struggling for our goals. The starving artists--noble and
admirable. Nights we weren't working we spent up the roof,
under the stars. We'd drag a cheap folding lawn chair to
the roof and lie together, side by side. The apartments in
the building all had fire-escape balconies, and we were the youngest
tenants by 30 years or so. Most of our neighbors spent their
evenings sitting outside their own windows. We had the roof to ourselves.
We took advantage of the roof-top breeze and the isolation,
and we discovered wonderful ways of making each other come
using our fingers, our lips, our hands, our tongues. He'd
press his mouth against my pussy and tease, nibbling with
his lips, flicking my clit with his tongue, until I'd forget
the heat and bury my hands in his hair and tug him up, over
me, desperate to feel him inside. He knelt between my legs
and held his upper body over me. He watched me as we
fucked. Our eyes locked together, and he always held off
his own climax until I had mine. My hand worked between us,
hard on my clit. No matter how slow or comfortable or lazy
it started, I couldn't come without the rough friction of a
finger or his tongue. And always, as I clenched around his
cock, he'd thrust three or four more times, hard. Deep into
my pussy, intense thrusts. And we'd finish together.
Sweaty and slick, sliding against each other as the lawn
chair creaked and groaned under our combined weight.
Being married was easy, but living in the city was hard. I
waited tables and rode my bike as a messenger to keep my
legs slim and my waist fat-free. I got an agent and a
portfolio. I went to auditions and did staged readings for the
exposure. Nathan got on with the union and started in gofer
jobs in the off-Broadway theatre houses.
Then I started really getting roles--stage roles and small
film roles. Commercials that highlighted my innocence and
sweetness. Off-brand shampoo and dish soap. Paper towels and
toothpaste. Fast food. All-American Girl stuff. There are hundreds
of actresses at my level. I was the middle-management of
actresses.
One day my agent had the paperwork for my
Screen and Stage Actors' Guild card, and she told me I had
to pretty much decide who I wanted to be for the rest of my
life. Fuck. The rest of my life. No pressure.
She said that I was going to have to lose 'Lucy.' Too many
associations. "You're not a comedienne. You're not funny.
Don't let it go there."
I was in the middle of an off-off-Broadway production of
Othello, and I was drawing packed houses and getting rave
reviews. Nathan suggested 'Desdemona.' "It's a new life
for you, Lu. Desdemona was beautiful. She's the ideal of
womanhood."
My agent thought (and I privately agreed) that it was too
dramatic. We settled on 'Lydia," although now I can't remember
why or where it came from, but it had a nice ring to it. Nathan
still called me Des when we were alone.
My parents still called me Lucy.
My parents never wanted me to act, and I know that they
secretly assumed it was a phase. Something I'd get out of
my system and grow past. Do something sensible. Move back
home. I'd send them clippings, reviews from the trades and
the New York Times theatre section. They'd send me
clippings from the local newspaper back home. Every week
there was a 'phone call, and every week there was something
new.
"The high school is looking for a drama coach, Lucy," Mom
would tell me. "You'd have to teach a couple of English
classes, of course, but you'd get to teach a drama class and
run the drama club. Doesn't that sound perfect?"
Next week, "Lucy? You remember Martha Preston, don't you?
The community theatre director? She's hurt her back, and
the theatre company is looking for someone to take her
place. You'd be perfect for it, darling. It doesn't pay
much, but you'd be back at home, so you wouldn't need much.
It would be enough to hold you over until you found a real
job."
I was 25, and I had three names. Fuck. No wonder I started
drinking.
That's not completely fair. I started drinking long before
I had three names. You can't spend time around actors and
not drink. It's part of the scenery. It's one of your
props. A bottle of champagne on opening night, frozen
cocktails at cast parties after the show closes, beer in the
dressing room after rehearsals, wine during casting
meetings. It was inevitable.
There are two groups of theatre people who don't drink:
children and the "recovering" ones. The children were
ignored, and the recovering ones were revered. Not admired,
really, but looked on as oddities. Respected, but not
really a 'part' of things.
Actors are unbelievably selfish creatures. They're shallow
and petty and jealous and vindictive and phony. They love
you as long as you're not upstaging them, but the minute you
look better or have more lines or more camera time, they
start looking for ways to cut your ankles out from under
you. The booze was pretty much the only thing that held
most casts together. The booze and the back-stage, backstory
affairs.
God, the affairs. The tabloids hint at the torrid and steamy sex
that happens during movie shoots or theatre runs, and most
readers seem to accept that the tabloids exaggerate. They don't.
If anything they miss half of what's really happening.
You can't work in close quarters with 16 other actors and not
have sexual tension. And since most actors are shallow, ego-
maniacal beings, they jump at any chance to prove their
sexuality, their attractiveness. The cliché of the casting couch
is wrong only in that it doesn't stop at casting.
Anyone who could possibly have any positive influence on your
career is fuckable. You want to show up the other actresses on stage?
Give the costume designer a quick, sloppy blowjob during a fitting.
Let him come in your mouth, and you're guaranteed to look 10
pounds lighter and a thousand dollars better than your female
co-star. Worried that the late nights are starting to show as dark
circles under your baby-blues? Stroke the head make-up artist through
the fabric of his Levi's, and you're guaranteed to glow under the harsh
stage lights.
I know I said that being married was easy. Being married WAS easy.
Being married and faithful was hard. Too fucking hard. I had three
'affairs' during my marriage. They were all work-related; they
were all over once the production closed. It was expected. I didn't
particularly like it, but they were baggage-free and they didn't
reflect on my relationship with Nathan at all. I know he must
have had his affairs as well. I would expect nothing less. He
spent his days surrounded by beautiful people looking for
self-worth through the admiration of others. They offered their
bodies, he'd have been a fool not to accept. But we never talked
about it.
So we fucked and we drank.
That was fine, as long as it all stayed professional. But
actors are also obsessive. They have so little personality
of their own they become brilliant at 'borrowing' the
personality of others. That's why the good actors are so
convincing. They don't have any of their own "selves" to
get in the way of the character.
When the show is over it's hard not having a personality to
fall back on. For me, that's when the booze became personal
as well as professional.
Nathan had become a success faster than I had. Within a couple
of years of coming to the city, he had proven himself to be the
backstage Superman that he knew he could be. He worked hideous
hours -- longer than mine. Stage managers have to organize
everyone, from actors to lighting to the clean up crew. He was
made of energy and never seemed to take a breath that wasn't
directed towards furthering his career. Soon he was the sought-after
one. It was, "call Nathan if you're anticipating production problems."
I had climbed nicely to the top of my fighting class, and I
was at the upper range of my Golden Age. I could play
anything from an innocent 17 (admittedly with some extra
help from makeup) to a sexy 20-something, a sultry early-30s
and (with extra help from makeup) a convincing
matron/mother/unmarried older aunt. I had range. And I was
hot. No longer was I stuck in off-off-Broadway. I had a
Name. Casting directors called my agent first. I got to
"review" scripts. I wasn't a top headliner, but I could
play the supporting lead, and I was damn good at it.
And I was struggling with every fiber of my being to hold on
to it. I was about to turn 29. A death and dying, make-or-
break age for actresses. I had made the transition from
Ophelia to Lady MacBeth, from Desdemona to Queen Elizabeth.
And I didn't know if I could keep it up. This was a trial
production for me. I was playing Hedda Gabbler in an Ibsen
revival. It was huge. It was all over the trade papers.
The director was taking a massive risk casting me. And I
was terrified.
Rehearsals were not going well, and someone had leaked that
little tidbit to Variety. It wasn't a large paragraph, as
publicity goes, but don't believe what you hear. There is
such a thing as bad publicity, at least for an actress in
her mid-twenties (fine, late twenties) who is struggling
with her "identity." I wasn't getting along with the crew, and I know who
leaked it. My understudy was slavering for a chance to play
opening night--which was two weeks away--and she'd been
purring up against the director any chance she could get.
So when the bit appeared in the Friday morning trade paper,
a little "we hear that Lydia is having difficulty melding
with the supporting cast." I knew where it had come from.
Fucking petty little bitch.
So, when 'someone' left the article at my dressing room door,
I did what any good actress does. I screamed at the prop master,
locked the door to my dressing room, and opened the bottle of
wine that was, as always, chilling in the mini-fridge.
Nathan had moved from off the program to the first listed name under
"Production Management." He was running things wherever he went,
so, when I threw my temper tantrum, he was one of the first to
know --even though he was working in a different theatre on a
production of 'Cats'. It must have taken all of 96 seconds for the gossip
lines to start ringing, because he knocked on my door about eight
minutes after my tantrum started, and about half way through the wine.
"Des? Let me in. We can make this go away." That's my
Nathan. Always the calm one.
There was some discussion on the other side of the door. I
recognized the stage manager's voice. He must have been
giving Nathan a key to my door, because when I turned to
answer, he was standing there.
"There's nothing to fix, Nate. She's a bitch. She wants
this role so bad? She can have it. She'll fall flat on her
face, and they'll be begging me to come back." I must have
been drinking faster than I realized. The bottle was empty
and I reached for another. "She knows it, you know it, and
that piece of shit director out there knows it as well."
"Enough, Des. Let's go home. This will all have blown over
by Monday. Wait and see."
Nate always knew what was right. I went home, and we hid
out for the weekend. We stayed by the fire and Nathan held
me. He stroked my body and he stroked my ego. He convinced
me that I was still young and beautiful and talented and
desirable. I cried as we made love. But it helped. I
forgot my understudy as Nate's fingers twisted and pulled at
my nipples. I clawed at his back as he thrust between my
spread legs. I dug into his biceps, leaving deep
fingerprint bruises on his skin, and I wrapped my legs
around his hips holding him tightly against my body,
trying desperately to mold our bodies together,
And when it was over, he brought me cocoa, with a shot of
whiskey, 'to help me sleep.' And it did.
By Monday it hadn't blown over, but things were quieter. I
finished rehearsals, the play was a success, Ibsen was
popular again, and I was on my way to being a headliner
instead of an "also starring." I started splitting my time
between stage and television. I took a recurring role on a
nighttime crime drama -- not a regular, top billed name,
but one that earned me an "also starring" or
"special guest star" billing whenever I was in an episode.
I did voice-overs for luxury car commercials. I signed a
contract for cosmetics print ads, and I started seeing my
face on billboards and the sides of buildings. Yes, I was
out of middle management, into the corner office stuff.
There were no longer hundreds of actresses at my level.
Dozens, yes. But not hundreds. I was a Top Name.
But I was now a Top Name with a reputation for
being difficult.
I moved on from Ibsen in a theatre at Montgomery and Grand,
to Sondheim at 44th and Broadway. Three miles, double the
cost of ticket prices, triple my nightly performance pay,
and quadruple the size of the crowd outside the stage door
after performances.
That's when things started to get bad.
At first I relished the attention. Groups clamoring for my
autograph on Playbills -- I learned to sign my name with a
delightful flourish. Flowers from anonymous admirers
delivered to my dressing room. I could get a good seat in
any restaurant with a phone call. I loved it. I basked in
the attention, and passed out smiles and waves like the
Queen of England during a procession.
Of course, the attention brought its own problems. No
longer could I run to the corner store in sweats and ratty
hair for vodka and a loaf of bread. Now I called down to
George, the doorman, before getting on the elevator to find
out if I'd be better going out the front door or the back
door.
"It's like living in a fish bowl, Nathan." I whined to him
over dinner one night. "Everyone looking through the glass
as I swim around, showing off my colorful fins. And there's
glass all around. There's no place to hide."
The next night I found a small box in my dressing room. It
was wrapped in gold foil paper and tied with a silk ribbon.
'To Des, my angel(fish). Here's a place to hide when you
need it. Love, Nate.' Inside, nestled on a square of
cotton, was a castle. One of those plaster castles that
sits in the gravel at the bottom of a fish tank.
I kept it in my jacket pocket and wrapped my fingers around
the pointed spires whenever the crowds surrounded me. If
Nathan wasn't with me, his castle was there. I hid my mind
in its windows and smiled at the fans gawking at my colorful
fins.
Every performance became life-and-death for me, and I was
drinking almost non-stop. Never enough to lose control, but
always enough to keep a soft buzz happening. I had
convinced myself that was why I was drinking. To soften the
edges. "Actors feel things more deeply than regular people,
Nathan. You know that. That's why people come to see us."
Normal egomaniacal performer bullshit.
Then it got very bad. I missed the second half of a show,
and to this day I can't remember why.
It was a Tuesday night performance. Tuesdays are usually
sedate, quiet shows. Minimal crowds, not the tourists. The
tourists are there on Friday and Saturday, maybe Sunday if
they waited too long to get their tickets. Tuesdays are
almost always local crowds. City residents. Tough crowd.
Actors feed off the audience's energy. Their laughs, their
gasps, their spontaneous applause. That's what keeps the
stage moving. Tuesdays are tough.
It was a dead audience, and I was thrown off. My timing was
bad, I missed a cue, and I stepped on my dance partner's
toes. As the curtain closed for intermission, I stomped to
my dressing room, ignoring the berating the director was
yelling at my back. I locked the door, pushed a chair under
the knob, and opened the mini-fridge.
I woke up on Thursday.
I was in bed, but not my own bed. It took a few groggy
seconds to realize it was a hospital bed and that Nathan was
there beside me. I should have stayed there. The doctor
and the nurse and the psychiatrist and the social worker and
Nathan all wanted me to stay and sober up. "Six weeks, Des.
That's all it would take. Six weeks then you can have your
life back."
The theatre has a short memory, and in six weeks my life
would be gone. So I didn't stay. I checked out AMA and
went crawling back to my agent, who made me go crawling back
to the director.
My bitch understudy (an understudy is always a bitch) had
taken over my role with gusto, and the director was
reluctant to take her out of it. But I did have a contract.
So he took me back, with the provision that I stay sober
all the time. Even when I wasn't at the theatre. Even on
days when I wasn't performing. I did the role for five of
the eleven weekly performances, gradually building back up
to nine, taking two performances a week off. And it seemed
to be working.
That's when Nathan started bringing me cocoa. Just cocoa.
But it was okay, as long as he was there. As long as he
had my back.
I worked hard. I stayed sober. I went to quiet AA meetings
in remote parts of the city. Nathan drove with me in the
cab and stayed outside. I never went to the same meeting
twice, and I rarely spoke. I don't think anyone ever
recognized me.
I finished that show and moved on to the next. Back to
leading roles and full schedules. Back to crowds and late
nights and parties and cast backstabbing. Rehearsals and
performances started taking the place of meetings, and it
didn't take long for me to convince myself that I was
'cured.' I could control it, and a little sip, a small
glass here and there couldn't hurt. It was just to smooth
out the rough edges.
Nathan knew. He had to know. But he never said anything.
Maybe if he had spoken up earlier. Maybe if he had gotten
angry or if he had called me on it, I might have stopped. I
was convinced that he didn't see it. We worked in different
houses, and we only saw each other at night, after the shows
and after the parties. Late nights.
And then I forgot to come home. It was silly, and he never
should have been angry. I had spent the week rehearsing for
a guest spot on a television drama. Rehearse Monday and
Tuesday, shoot Wednesday and Thursday, off on Friday.
Thursday night after the wrap I went out with the cast for
a celebration. We'd worked well together and the show was
flawless. Emmy-winning episode stuff. I was hot again.
One restaurant closed, and we moved the party to the bar.
When the bar closed, the party just flowed out to the
street, into cabs, and over to the star's apartment. I
meant to call Nathan, but I forgot. At least I convinced
myself that I forgot. Tequila shots will do that to you.
So, Friday afternoon I came home, wanting only to shower and
collapse. I didn't have to work again until Monday, so I
knew I had the weekend to recover and get my glow back.
Nathan was waiting for me. His back was to the door. He
was sitting on the sofa, facing the fireplace, shoulders
set square. He had to have heard the key in the lock, but
he didn't turn around when he spoke.
"I was worried. Where were you?"
I don't know why I blew up. I shouldn't have been angry.
He had every right to be mad and worried and furious, which
is probably why I yelled first. He was so calm. So stoic.
So rational. He didn't give me anything to work against, he
just stood there, silently accusing. He had no real idea how
to work a scene. I screeched. I threw things. He listened and
watched me and was just so fucking mature and calm. And I
stormed out.
I knew he'd follow me. It was the carpet or the molding or the
edge of the step or my anger or my still-drunk fuzzy vision, but
something made the floor slip under my feet just as I was
stepping off the landing onto the stairs. The wall shifted, and
I could see the floor rushing to hit my face. Nathan caught me
around my forearm, and I was suddenly even angrier. I knew
that would bruise, and I'd have to suck up to the make-up artist
to get it covered decently. But despite his hand on my arm, I
was already heading down, and instead of him stopping my
fall, I pulled him down with me.
And we went down. Fast. Sliding over the rough edges of
the stairs to the bottom. I hit the landing on my side.
Bruised and battered. Bloodied but not broken.
Nathan hit the bottom step with his head. The blood
splattered on my arm and chest was his, not mine. "One of
those things, ma'am," the coroner had explained. "He just
hit at a bad angle. Two more inches in either direction and
he'd have had a concussion, maybe."
The police released his personal effects to me today. They
ruled it an accident, and they told me I could go home.
They gave me his things in an orange and red bag marked
"evidence." It was heavier than I thought it should be, but
I didn't open it until I got home.
I made my own cocoa tonight, and I made it just like Nathan
used to make it. I had to stop by the liquor store on the
way home though. That's okay, I enjoyed stopping. It felt
like I was on my way home again.
The fire is burning. It's hot and smoky and I can feel its
power on my bare skin. I sit naked under the blanket, cross-
legged, with the bag of his things in my lap. One piece at
a time I take them out. His wedding ring, his wallet, and,
finally.
I hadn't even realized that it wasn't in my pocket.
I turn the little castle over in my hands and watch the
reflection of the fire play on its surface.
I wonder if I'll still be able to hide behind its windows.
Nathan's not here to protect my back any more.
I put it back into my pocket and poke my fingers with its spires.
My cocoa is gone. Time for an Irish coffee.
Maybe just an Irish.
<1st attachment end>
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