she forced herself to dismiss the comparison. Why give Doug so much power? He was just a client with an overactive fantasy life, who somehow failed to comprehend that “Mistress Zara” was nothing but invention. When the curtain came down on Act II, she’d tell one of the stage hands to get rid of him, and he’d be hustled away. Maybe she should think about calling the cops, or at least getting a restraining order.
But Zara didn’t have the chance to do any of those things, because in the middle of a crucial monologue—the moment when Medea decides that the only solution to her problems is to murder and murder again—Doug rose from his place in the back row and came walking down the aisle. He was clearly fresh from work, dressed in a white shirt, dark tie, and slacks, his face handsome but a little doughy, poised somewhere between the end of baby-fat and the onset of middle-aged thickening—just another thirty-something member of the Gray Horde with a wider-than-average streak of kink. Zara didn’t let her lines falter, even as Doug continued to approach the stage, even as the director stood up and said, “Hey, you can’t be here,” even as the children broke character completely and said, “Who’s that guy?”
She continued her monologue as Doug climbed up on stage. He came up over the edge of the proscenium, just downstage of where she stood. His movements were clumsy and awkward, like a chubby kid hauling himself out of a swimming pool. “Mistress,” he said, getting to his feet.
“How weak my heart must be,” she said, still in character, “to be swayed by such pitiful pleas.”
Doug frowned, then took out his wallet. He flipped it open, took out a sheaf of bills—fifties, mostly, it looked like—and threw them at Zara’s feet. “There,” he said. “Prepaid through the end of the month. Now get out of that stupid dress and put on something good . I had a hard day, and I need you to make my night even harder.”
Zara stared down at the money on the floor of the stage, her lines forgotten. The rest of the theater was silent, even the children. “You mother fucker ,” Zara said, looking up at him. “You think I’m a whore?”
Doug grinned. “I guess so. I guess you’ll have to punish me for that.”
Zara rushed at him, put both her hands on his chest, and shoved him. He shouted, arms pinwheeling, and almost fell off the stage. He landed on his ass at the edge of the apron. “Get out of here,” Zara said, through clenched teeth. “Never come near me again, you sick freak.”
“ I’m the sick freak?” Doug said, rising, wincing as he rubbed his ass. “At least I finish what I start.” He nodded toward the stage floor. “You keep the money. I’ll see you.” Limping a little, he went down the steps and out of the theater.
There was silence for a moment after the door closed behind him. “Well,” the director said finally. “Shall we take it up from the end of act two? Unless Zara has any other visitors...?”
The other actors laughed, a little tensely, and Zara squeezed her hands into fists. The story of this would spread all over—theater people loved to gossip. By next week everyone would think she was a prostitute, when the truth was she’d never even touched any of her clients, not skin on skin, let alone had sex with them. She’d just wielded the whip, or the crop, and prodded with latex-gloved hands, and talked the talk. It was just acting , but it would get all twisted around into something else in the stories. Now when the other actors looked at her, they wouldn’t see Medea, they would see Zara, with the crazy john/boyfriend/whatever, with a wad of crumpled money at her feet. Doug had ruined the role for her, tainted the experience.
Well, fuck that. He was going to pay .
“Are you ready, Zara?” the director said.
“Yeah,” she said. She kicked the money offstage. Let someone else have it.
***
Late that night, after the director wished them luck and Zara
But Zara didn’t have the chance to do any of those things, because in the middle of a crucial monologue—the moment when Medea decides that the only solution to her problems is to murder and murder again—Doug rose from his place in the back row and came walking down the aisle. He was clearly fresh from work, dressed in a white shirt, dark tie, and slacks, his face handsome but a little doughy, poised somewhere between the end of baby-fat and the onset of middle-aged thickening—just another thirty-something member of the Gray Horde with a wider-than-average streak of kink. Zara didn’t let her lines falter, even as Doug continued to approach the stage, even as the director stood up and said, “Hey, you can’t be here,” even as the children broke character completely and said, “Who’s that guy?”
She continued her monologue as Doug climbed up on stage. He came up over the edge of the proscenium, just downstage of where she stood. His movements were clumsy and awkward, like a chubby kid hauling himself out of a swimming pool. “Mistress,” he said, getting to his feet.
“How weak my heart must be,” she said, still in character, “to be swayed by such pitiful pleas.”
Doug frowned, then took out his wallet. He flipped it open, took out a sheaf of bills—fifties, mostly, it looked like—and threw them at Zara’s feet. “There,” he said. “Prepaid through the end of the month. Now get out of that stupid dress and put on something good . I had a hard day, and I need you to make my night even harder.”
Zara stared down at the money on the floor of the stage, her lines forgotten. The rest of the theater was silent, even the children. “You mother fucker ,” Zara said, looking up at him. “You think I’m a whore?”
Doug grinned. “I guess so. I guess you’ll have to punish me for that.”
Zara rushed at him, put both her hands on his chest, and shoved him. He shouted, arms pinwheeling, and almost fell off the stage. He landed on his ass at the edge of the apron. “Get out of here,” Zara said, through clenched teeth. “Never come near me again, you sick freak.”
“ I’m the sick freak?” Doug said, rising, wincing as he rubbed his ass. “At least I finish what I start.” He nodded toward the stage floor. “You keep the money. I’ll see you.” Limping a little, he went down the steps and out of the theater.
There was silence for a moment after the door closed behind him. “Well,” the director said finally. “Shall we take it up from the end of act two? Unless Zara has any other visitors...?”
The other actors laughed, a little tensely, and Zara squeezed her hands into fists. The story of this would spread all over—theater people loved to gossip. By next week everyone would think she was a prostitute, when the truth was she’d never even touched any of her clients, not skin on skin, let alone had sex with them. She’d just wielded the whip, or the crop, and prodded with latex-gloved hands, and talked the talk. It was just acting , but it would get all twisted around into something else in the stories. Now when the other actors looked at her, they wouldn’t see Medea, they would see Zara, with the crazy john/boyfriend/whatever, with a wad of crumpled money at her feet. Doug had ruined the role for her, tainted the experience.
Well, fuck that. He was going to pay .
“Are you ready, Zara?” the director said.
“Yeah,” she said. She kicked the money offstage. Let someone else have it.
***
Late that night, after the director wished them luck and Zara
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