The week prior, Ms. Mahoney, the play's director, had brought in a gay actor, Sean, to talk to the cast about the unique issues of sexuality raised by the script. With the two lead actors both being straight, they would have been remiss not to try to get some perspective from someone who could relate to what they were portraying.
Sean was a senior at the college, and had a role in another production, but he had made time.
He was a good-looking gay man: neat hair with just a little product, a tasteful vest, sharp-looking shoes, bright eyes and an engaging manner that drew attention.
Both Mark and Barry listened, and tried to improve their acting skills by learning from him. Somewhere in their minds, though, they both wondered:
Am I gay like him?
What would it take to make me gay like him?
What would it be like, having sex with him?
Sean knew they were straight. But he approached Barry after the rehearsal, catching up with him as he walked home, talking with him on the sidewalk.
And when he said: "If you ever need any special instruction, give me a call"...
Barry said: "Uhh... what kind of... instruction?"
And he said: "Use your imagination," and walked off.
Barry watched him go, and when he was gone, realized he had a standing invitation to a no-strings-attached gay experience.
-----
He wasn't planning on using it. When the next week rolled around, after Wednesday's rehearsal, he thought he might have found the alternative he was looking for.
A friend of Ms. Mahoney's, a mother in her mid-30s, was hanging around the theater with her son, 7, a quiet tow-headed kid who wandered around looking at displays on the walls.
Barry didn't know why he was struck by her. It might have been her ordinary charm. She seemed a sensible, stable, older and more down-to-earth woman. He might have wanted something like that after his disastrous bar experience. Also, under her modest blouse she was very womanly, and something about her seemed more than just friendly, perhaps willing to consider... something.
When rehearsal ended, Barry went up to her on impulse, and chatted her up.
Her name was Rachel. She was getting a divorce. She was technically still married, but had removed the ring. She was living on her own. She was busy with her son and her job. She hadn't had much time for herself lately.
She spoke of lawyers and teachers, a world far outside Barry's. He spoke of classes and internships, a world she'd left behind.
She was flattered by the attention from the masculine college kid a decade younger.
She was going out with Ms. Mahoney and some of the girls on Friday night. She already had a sitter.
When Barry asked her to break the date, and go out with him instead, something inside her twinged. It was the first hint of passion and desirability she'd felt since her husband cheated and ran. The first invitation to a date.
His impossible youth, and the ridiculousness of any relationship, made it feel safe.
But his smiling persistence, and the obviously sexual vibe she got from him, gave her a tingling thrill.
She told him maybe. Then called him late that same night to accept.
Two days later, Rachel left her son with the sitter and went out with a college boy.
Both of them were on a budget. They got to know each other over upscale fast-food.
Then he drove her out of town, to a hilly, wooded nature preserve. They walked until it got dark. As the sun went down, he talked about the quirks of the show's rehearsals, and being a straight man playing a gay character.
"I envy you," she said, after a pause. "You're so free. You can pursue anything you want to, do anything, try anything. Your life is so full of opportunities."
"Yours is too," he replied. "All you have to do is reach out and take them."
She shook her head, about to say something about a child and responsibilities, when he took her hand in his, and she was filled with anticipation.
She'd been in college once, and had thought she could never go back. But just for one night...?
They sat in a wide clearing at the top of a hill and watched the moon and stars for a while. He pointed out constellations; she complimented him.
Then they were sitting closer. As if for warmth. Closer still.
He took her chin in his hand, and she melted as their mouths met.
Fast would have let her feel safe, in control. She'd almost wanted to share a lustful, greedy groping with him. She'd almost hoped he would be an impatient, needy lover. He wasn't. He took his time kissing her slowly, caressing her hands and arms, putting his hands on her neck, side, belly -- oh-so-inappropriate but not -- yet -- sexual.
Her breasts were large, and had the normal shape of gravity and an infant. When he unbuttoned her blouse, and looked at them with open lust, something old and familiar returned to her.
When he slipped a hand inside one cup and gently pinched and tweaked her hard nipple, she flushed. The rush of sexuality was returning for the first time in a long time. Their yearning bodies; the power of his youth; the forbidden rush of passion out-of-doors: she felt like a woman, now, not a mother, and she wanted that.
But it felt wrong. And she was a mother. She did the mature thing.
Her blouse was mostly unbuttoned, and his hand had taken a hot, naughty trip up her skirt. He'd rubbed her panties once before sliding one finger just barely under them. He'd felt the incredible heat of her.
As always for him, it was an animalistic excitement, touching a woman's hairy pussy, feeling it ready. He knew from her intense kisses and the stifling sauna hidden in her panties that she was going to be putty in his hands. He was ready, so ready.
But it was then that she pulled back, looked away, and put a firm hand on his shoulder. His hand was gently squeezing her inner thigh as she explained that it was just too soon. He couldn't bear to move that hand away. He felt so close.
But she was saying how much she had to work through, the emotional trauma of her breakup, and her need to watch out for her real needs, as he gave that thigh a last pat. She explained the responsibility of child-rearing and legal appearances, barely able to look at him, as he slid his hand down her leg and out from under her skirt.
He said it was all right, but his mind seemed frozen, and he barely knew what he was saying. They didn't hold hands on the way back to the car.
Rachel and Barry didn't kiss good night.
And when he got home, late, he was closer to masturbating than he'd been in years. He could have cried.
He paced.
He'd already made up his mind. But he couldn't make himself dial his damned phone.
He stopped. Sighed. Pulled out his phone and looked at it.
He dialed Sean.
"Hi there. It's Barry, we met a couple weeks ago," he said into it.
