Monday, May. 16, 2005 - 12:37 p.m.
~ Captive Audience, Interactive Theatre, Dysentery Improv ~
Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the floorshow. How can she not? It is being held just for her. A one-man show for one night only held right in front of her. She is front-and-center for this theatrical production. It is a story of an erotic nature, of how desire can manifest itself in so many physical ways. She sits, enthralled, unable to completely face the performance but compelled to catch every cue and stage direction.
Act One: He is prone on the bed, shivering beneath the scratchy weight of the electric blanket turned up high. His legs, long and bent to one side as he curls into himself, shift invitingly, a slow seismic movement that repeatedly disturbs the cat trying to sleep near his feet. Occasionally, a sigh or low moan escapes him as though a pornographic poem is forming in his throat but can only get out in bits of breath. His eyes are closed; they have been for most of the morning as he slips in and out of an uneasy version of rest. One hand is curled near his face, the long fingers cupping a palmful of heat caught from his reddened cheeks.
Act Two: It is late morning and he has roused himself enough to attempt food. The popsicle is rhythmically lowered, lifted, lowered to his lips. His mouth reaches up to catch the syrupy drips of frozen sugared juice. An irregular orange circle stains the neckline of his thin, white t-shirt; popsicle juice had escaped his questing tongue and had pooled near his warm neck. He suckles at the dwindling treat, eyes gazing vacantly up at the ceiling as he affects disinterest in his audience. He is still weak and pillows help keep him propped upright. When the last melting bits of popsicle have been torn from the wooden stick, he casts it away from him and falls back onto the bed, exhausted from his oral exertions.
Intermission: The curtain falls as he lurches from the bed toward the bathroom in a flurry of bedsheets, indignant cat meows, and pillows tumbling pell-mell.
Act Three: As a toilet flushes offstage, he makes his weaving entrance, pausing in the doorway in a pose designed to elicit sympathy. His pajama bottoms are hanging low on the jut of his hips, waist-ties swinging suggestively. He leans his forehead against the doorjamb before mustering up the strength to make it the few feet across the room to the bed. He flings himself down onto the bed and shoves the nest of blankets away from him. It is too warm for him now and he breathes heavily. His thin t-shirt is damp from his recent exertions offstage and outlines him in translucent, cotton lines. Oversized ice packs are produced and laid upon him, their cold weight bearing down steamily through his heat. He is vulnerable and invitingly open, his feet tangled in blankets and his head sunk deep into a mound of damp pillows. If he were to try to fend off any advances, he would be unable to do more than protest hoarsely. But before an amorous threat can materialize, the cat vaults up onto the bed and settles nearby to purr and protect.
