I don’t think I’d have finished so quickly, and with such force, if it weren’t for the dialogue I’d given her to say in my masturbatory daydream. I’d played on the hate she obviously had for me. I had given her words to say that would have made my ancestors ostracize me from my race.
The teacher, Miss Perkins, entered the room with a clap of her hands. She always did that. It was her way of telling us to shut up and listen. Sometimes it worked immediately, other times she’d have to give a few smacks of flesh to get the look-at-me group to pay attention.
That day, she only had to do it the once. Everyone knew what that evening’s lesson was going to involve, an audition for a student film that was being shot soon, and that was enough of a reason to keep people focused.
“Okay, ladies and gentleman,” she said as she placed her glasses on the end of her nose. “Today I’ll be auditioning you all for Mikey’s film. If my memory serves me correctly, I believe it’s titled, Schooled. The idiot has forgotten to write the name on the script pages.”
Everyone laughed but me. Mikey had a reputation for being an airhead and for an excessive amount of eccentricity, so everyone liked to hear stories that confirmed the clumsy character they’d built up in their minds.
The reason I didn’t laugh wasn’t because I had some loyalty to the guy. I liked him, but I wasn’t above laughing at him, it was because I’d become engrossed in Miss Perkins.
She had bent down at that moment to get the script pages from a drawer in her desk. She was wearing a tight, long black pencil skirt, and it complemented her figure in all the right ways.
The opaque pantyhose would have normally been enough to get me hard, but I was fighting against the twitchiness I could feel down there. I needed to stay concentrated if I wanted to make my screen début.
I’d used her in my masturbatory fantasies too. More than a few times her and Cynthia had engaged in furious lesbian action. I’d have her teaching the younger woman the sensual ways of pleasing a lady.
Miss Perkins handed out the script pages to everyone. I turned to the page that featured the only male character. He was a mute psycho killer that stalked schoolgirls with a kitchen knife and wore a sheet over his head with holes cut for his eyes. It seemed like it could be my big break. Plus my only competition was a gay actor who walked like a ballerina.
“The boys will audition first, since the girls have more lines to learn,” Miss Perkins said. “You can keep the pages with you while you audition if you wish, but it gives you a chance to get familiar with them before we start. Mikey has entrusted me with picking the best of you for his Oscar winning movie, so make sure you bring your A-game. Show me what you’ve learned so far this year.”
I was up first. All I had to do was run across the room, faking a limp, and swinging an imaginary knife while grunting. So I did just that and I nailed it. I channeled all the killers I’d seen in crappy movies through the years. My brother was a horror nerd, so I’d grown up around them. It was easy.
Next the gay actor went for it. It was very much a theatrical performance, and his grunting sounded more like a little bird with an injured wing. I had to hide my smile and swallow my laughs. I turned from him when he flipped his hair from his eyes and swaggered back to his seat.
I had unfortunately turned toward the look-at-me girls. Cynthia saw my smile break free. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and looked back at her script. My heart sank. I was so embarrassed and felt like a world-class asshole.
“Thank you, boys.” Miss Perkins sat on the edge of her desk. I had to quickly tear my eyes from her legs when she continued to speak. “You both did very well, but I’m giving the part to Zack.”
I smiled and said, “Thank you.”
“Well? What about a round of applause?” she said.
I turned in the wrong direction again. I don’t know why I kept doing it. The look-at-me group did clap with the geeks, even if it wasn’t as much of an enthusiastic display, but Cynthia kept her head in the script pages.
I moved to the side of the room and leaned my back on the wall. I let out a long breath and tried to measure how small I felt at that moment. That girl really did hate me, but my reaction to my fellow actors audition was the first time I’d had another reason to understand why. That one, I didn’t blame her for.
“Okay, first let’s have Cynthia and Kathleen.”
Cynthia carried two chairs into the center of the room, and placed them so they were facing each other, and then both girls sat on them. They each took a look at the script pages and cleared their throats, readying themselves for the scene, before they placed them on the floor next to their feet.
My eyes were locked on their legs. Both of the girls had skater skirts on, Cynthia’s was suede, the hem resting half way up her thighs, relaxing on her stunningly smooth legs.
That would normally be enough of a reason for me to start mentally fucking her, but I fought back the need once more. However, their legs were touching, they were sitting that close together. I coughed a little, not sure if I would be able to fight off the images any longer.
“I’m scared,” said Cynthia, throwing a few looks around the room, as if checking they were alone.
“There is no need to be.” Kathleen touched her knee, reassuringly. I took a deep breath.
“But I’ve heard that a mental patient has escaped,” Cynthia’s eyes went wide as she played fear. My eyes rolled at Mikey’s script. She quickened her breathing; I focused my stare at her cleavage and the rising and falling motion.
“I’ve heard that too, on the news earlier today. I have to admit, I was concerned you were scared of something else, though.” Kathleen started to lightly stroke Cynthia’s leg.
“Well, I have to admit something too, that scares me almost as much as that deranged killer.” She looked all shy, so damn cute.
“You will enjoy it, I swear.” Kathleen moved closer, leaned her body so her and Cynthia’s noses were practically touching.
I quickly flipped through the script I had, to see what the rest of the scene was. My eyes went wide when I saw what it involved. Then I quickly locked them back on the actresses.
“I’m shaking,” Cynthia said as she held up her hands. She was a great actress. Kathleen took hold of them, one in each of her own, and placed them on her legs.
“Hold onto me, that will steady you.”
“Okay.” She threw out a quick nervous smile. It was perfection personified.
“Now, close your eyes.”
I crossed my legs. My heart was trying to beat out of my chest and my dick was trying to burst out of my jeans. My breathing was quick and shallow, but that wasn’t an act like Cynthia’s, although I was very much in the moment. My mouth was dry too. I wanted to cough again, to clear it, but resisted. I didn’t want anything to draw attention to me at that moment.
Cynthia had her eyes closed. Kathleen moved closer. She closed her own eyes and leaned her head to the right. Their lips touched lightly at first, both open ever so slightly. Then Kathleen took hold of the back of Cynthia’s head and pressed her in, forcefully.
It looked like Cynthia was fighting it at first, shocked by the sudden added pressure. Then she relaxed into it. She opened her mouth at the same time Kathleen did and let out a little moan. I was able to see little moments of tongues interlocking when they changed the positions of their heads, and a little string of … what I can only describe as sexy spittle.
I placed my hands over my crotch, tried to hide my erection. I was so nervous someone might see it. But having my hands on it only made it get harder. I adjusted it a little ways, to make it more comfortable, but just that small amount of movement added to my arousal.
Both the girls screamed. They were looking over at me. I panicked. Then they got up from their chairs and ran out of the room. I swallowed, hard.
“Scene,” Miss Perkins said, followed by an uncomfortable cough of her own. I let out a massive breath; thankful it was all just part of the act.
As Cynthia and Kathleen came back in the room, to a round of applause, I slid my back down the wall and sat on the floor. I positioned my legs to hide the tent pole my jeans had propping them up and I settled down to watch the rest of the girls auditions.
I loved my acting class.
NINA
I had put in a load of laundry, and when the machine started, Freddie began screaming. I ran from the kitchen and into the living room. He sat in the corner of the room, banging his head into the wall.
“Freddie, what’s wrong?” I knew what was wrong. I’d made another stupid mistake. I forgot that the machine, the sound, seemed to always set him off. Sometimes it didn’t though, and that’s what led to my error, expecting the result that had the least chance of happening.
I sat next to him and placed my arm around him. That was my second mistake. It was like I’d forgotten everything I’d learned. He’d jumped as soon as my arm had touched him; he screamed, placed his hands over his ears, and started to bang his head again.
“Make it stop, Mom.”
I placed my hand on the section of the wall he was hitting his head into, so he was bashing into my flesh instead. I couldn’t stop the meltdown, I had to let it play out, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him hurt himself.
“I can’t now it’s started. I’m sorry.” Panic was rushing through me. My breathing was fast. It always was when he had a meltdown, no matter how many times it happened.
“Now what’s started?” he asked as he kept hitting his head into my hand. I was sure I’d have a bruise there when he’d calmed. It was a small price to pay. The cheapest of the costs involved in having an autistic son.
“The machine, honey. I’m sorry, I put a load in.”
“It hurts. My head hurts. My skin hurts. Make the banging stop.”
“It will finish soon. Why don’t we do something to make it easier for you while it spins?”
“Help me!” He was sobbing, rocking in between the banging of his head, his knees pulled into his chest. “I want it to go away.”
“Is it the machine?”
“What machine? My skin feels funny. I can feel it on me.”
“Feel what on you?”
“The air. It’s on my skin. It’s stinging.”
“Is it too warm, cold, do you want me to turn the heating up?”
“NO!” he screamed. He intensified his rocking and his head banging. My hand was going numb. I so wanted to remove it from the wall, to rub some life into it. I couldn’t risk that though. I was so concerned when he did the banging routine that one day he would cause too much damage, do some harm that couldn’t be easily fixed with a cold compress or Band-Aid. Not that he ever let me put something cold on him anyway.
“What should I do? You tell me, Freddie, and I’ll do it. Tell mommy what she should do.”
“I don’t know. Help me, please. Please help.”
“What’s stinging your skin? Can you tell me that?” I could feel tears welling. The meltdowns really took it out of me. It was the most difficult part of Asperger’s Syndrome, for the both of us. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally. The social awkwardness and inappropriate language, the routines, the repetitive behavior, the obsessions, the literal thinking, and even the sensory sensitivity, when they didn’t lead to what I was dealing with at that moment, were nothing in comparison.
“It’s the air. It’s on my skin.” He stopped banging his head.
“Good boy.” I removed my hand from the wall. I had a bruise there already. I rubbed it with my other hand. It didn’t ease the ache.
Freddie rocked a few more times. Then he started pulling at the neck of his jumper, stretching it out. “Please, take it off, Mommy.”
I went to help but he slapped my hands away. “I can’t help if you won’t let me touch you.”
“Don’t touch me. Help me!” His voice was cracking. He always had a sore throat after a meltdown. Once, he’d sounded croaky for days, as if he’d had the flu.
“I can’t help, if I can’t touch you.”
“It fucks.”
I was able to smile a little. “What do you mean, Freddie?”
“It fucks me.”
“What does? I don’t understand.”
“The air.”
“I don’t think you’re using the word right.”
“Fuck you! Fuck you, Mommy. Fuck the air.”
“I stand corrected.”
“You’re not standing, you’re sitting.”
“That’s right, I am, isn’t Mommy stupid?”
“The air is stupid.”
“Do you want to take your jumper off?”
“I want to take the air off my skin. Please, Mommy, take it off.”
“Can you wait here, while I get your cards?”
He just nodded as he continued to pull at the neck of his jumper, tears running down his face, fear etched into his features, desperation plain to see. A tear managed to sneak from me as I stood and ran into the kitchen.
I grabbed his cards from near the microwave and ran back to sit next to him. I held the first one up, a cartoon drawing of a light blub. He shook his head. I threw that to the floor and showed him the next one, a drawing of a radio with illustrated music notes sounding out of the speakers. He shook his head again. The next picture was of a roaring fireplace.