Chapter Text
one
Don't you know that I'm okay with this uptown part I get to play
'Cause I got what I need and I don't want to take the ride
I don't need to see the other side
So go and do like you do
I'm good to do like me
Ain't in a cage, so I don't need to take the key
Oh, damn, can't you see I'm doing fine
I don't need to see the other side~ The Other Side, The Greatest Showman
May 26, 2024
‘Mr. Ancunín?’ The way she says my name—so sweet, so innocent—is nearly obscene after how she’d come screaming it not 10 minutes ago.
‘Hmm?’ I try to keep to sounds, not words. It wouldn’t want to lie.
‘Sir,’ she says, and the sound of deference causes me to stir anew.
Not with this one, of course. This one needs to go now.
‘Sir, did you want to hear the monologue I prepared?’
Granted, being several hundred years old does come with a unique degrees of wisdom and shall we say, streetsmarts, however, even among mortals this one is dumber than a box of hair.
‘No, darling,’ I say, unable to avoid words. ‘That won’t be necessary, today.’
That she actually brightens at that is only further proof of a sheltered modern youth and inadequate education system.
I escort her to the door, one hand on her ass, and the other carrying her panties, which I helpfully tuck into her coat pocket when we reach the door.
‘We’ll let you know,’ I say, and close the door and throw the bolt before I have to endure any more of that.
‘Fuuuck,’ I exclaim into the high ceilings of my midtown apartment. ‘It’s hardly worth the condom!’ Which, I admit, is unkind, but who’s to complain? I live in the one and only apartment on the 13th floor of this building, as I’ve done for the past century.
‘You’re a fucking degenerate,’ a voice from the corner of my den startles me, seeing as I live alone, and have done for over a decade. The voice is familiar and I’m bored before I even lay eyes on my guest.
‘Oh, you again?’ I go to the kitchen and crouch to inspect the contents of the wine fridge. ‘I’m afraid you’ve already taken all the passable Chardonnays,’ I call in to the visitor. ‘Will a Sancerre suffice?’
It’s only 3pm, but that is already deep into happy hour for my downstairs neighbour and sometimes home invader, Shadowheart.
Yes, I know that’s not a name, but it’s the only one she’s given me. When a drunk woman with face scars and the ability to pick an increasingly complex set of apartment door locks gives a name that is not a name, I, for one, choose not to argue.
I have no idea where she came from, or why she keeps showing up. I discovered her late one evening, dozing in my armchair. When I asked what she thought she was doing, she told me that she’d come for wine with such simplicity and conviction that I was temporarily stunned.
I said something stupid like, ‘oh, ok then’, and went to bed, which unfortunately became a kind of implicit consent, I’m afraid.
I’ve learned over time and a handful of visitors that its best to just hand her a bottle of white, and hope the conversation goes quickly.
‘Why do you do this?’ she asks.
‘Why do you do this?’ I counter, having no idea what we’re talking about.
When I hand her the bottle of Domaine Hippolyte Reverdy, she crosses her arms and looks expectantly at me. I sigh, understanding that this is not going to be the quick transaction I am hoping for. I cross the light parquet floor, and open a drawer in the teakwood buffet that spans the width of the dining room. I obligingly pull the cork for my “guest”, and hand it to her again.
This time she accepts it with a tight, insincere smile.
Shadowheart takes a long pull from the neck of the $85 bottle of wine before continuing her lecture. ‘Why keep running the ads, and maintaining the website? Why do you keep putting up casting calls in Backstage? You haven’t had a show in twelve years. Why keep up this ruse?’
‘For the cunt, obviously.’
I pluck the bottle from her grip to take a swig of my own. Shadowheart seems as sharp as a banana, too. Stupid comes in all ages, I suppose.
‘Sooner or later you will have fucked your way through the Equity’s entire stable of bimbos.’
I grin at her. I enjoy a good holier than thou attitude. ‘Well, dear neighbour,’ I begin, ‘There are roughly 50,000 members paying dues at any given time, and only about 6,ooo are reporting “actor” as their occupation on their tax returns.’
I know this because I had a similar concern late one night, and googled it.
‘Which is to say, the supply far exceeds the demand.’
‘They must know that a tumble on Astarion Ancunín’s casting couch won’t get them anything—except perhaps a prescription for antibiotics.’ She gives a derisive sort of snort that withers any partial that had been lingering.
‘Don’t you miss it?’
‘Miss what?’ My patience is beginning to wane. I just want a shower and a nap.
The bottle dangles insecurely from her fingertips as she paces in front of my book case. So help me gods if she drops that on the antique Hereke rug, I’ll be cleaning blood out of the silk weave in addition to wine.
‘Don’t you miss actually being somebody?’ she asks, and I grind my teeth at the grubby little fingerprints she’s leaving on the polished surfaces. ‘Being in it.’
‘Look around you, love,’ I say with far more warmth than I possess, ‘I live in a penthouse in Midtown Manhattan. My wine fridge, as you are aware, is well stocked, these post-fucking pants are worth more than the barrista downstairs will make in a month, and—’ I gesture vaguely to myself, ‘I look like this.’
She pokes at the line of statuettes in the display and gives each coin a tap to set it spinning. I tense when her finger hovers an extra second over the gap at the end of the row that stands out like a missing tooth.
I snap the bolt open on the door and hold it open for her.
‘I am somebody, fuck you very much.’
Shadowheart sways slightly on her way to the door.
‘If you say so.’
She stands in the hallway and looks at me, slightly unfocused, but still with a disdain that makes me want to slap her. That idea does somewhat restore the semi. ‘It just seem odd, that with all that going for you, you still go to this much effort just for a shtup. Don’t you think?’
I shut the door in her face and relock it—this time adding the chain.
She hasn’t figured out how to beat the chain.
Yet.
I return to the kitchen, and choose a bottle for myself from the back of the fridge. I consider heating my lunch, but instead put the mug away and pull down a stemless wineglass instead. I down the first glass in a few loud gulps, then pour a second of the dark red, viscous liquid before wandering into my bedroom.
While the steam shower comes to temperature I strip and stand before the full length mirror opposite the bed. First up close; I check for wrinkles, blemishes, errant nose hairs, and the whiteness of my teeth. I find no issues, of course. Stepping back, I turn slowly, appreciating my shoulders; muscled, broad, and the perfect ratio to my narrow hips. I trace the taut muscles that run in two distinct hemispheres down my torso. Looking over my shoulder I clench each cheek, one at a time to ensure nothing sags. Finally, I lift my flaccid cock, and test it’s weight in my hand. Even my balls hang at a pleasing drop. It all looks very good.
Look at my ass, look at my thighs. I'm catnip to the guys
They chase my tail, they drool and pant. Wanna touch this, but they can't1
I’d fuck me.
Steam curls from under the bathroom door, reminding me that my shower is ready. I pick up my glass and pop into my custom spa to do precisely that.
I sniff at a couple different vials lined up on the bench inside the steam shower. I choose a lemongrass/rosemary scent and add it to the diffusion chamber, hoping I don’t come out smelling like a roast dinner. I was upsold on the chromatherapy lights and the stereo as well, so I might as well get my money’s worth. I fiddle with the controls until the chamber is bathed in a dark teal glow, by which time the steam has turned my skin care back into an unctuous sheen on the surface of my skin. I choose a playlist and set my phone on the counter.
Who exactly did this Shadowheart think she was, anyhow, and why should it matter to her how I find my gash?
She implied I was some kind of predator.
Everyone knows what they’re getting—we’re all adults. They come willingly, with their headshots and their prepared monologues. And they leave satisfied, having been perceived, and validated, which is exactly what brought them to this voracious maw of a city in the first place.
They can say they read for Astarion Ancunín.
I push her from my mind, and lean back, letting my hand wander over my thigh as I think.
Sure, it’s been a few years since I had a show of my own. The last one closed under unfortunate circumstances. Circumstances that snowballed from an event beyond my control, and for which I will not be held responsible.
I was the victim, despite what the Reddit threads might suggest…or the youTube video.
That I haven’t picked up a new project is unrelated. I don’t need the money, my caricature still hangs on the wall at Sardi’s, and dropping my name will still get me opening night tickets.
I assume.
I did my bit. I had my moment, and it’s time now to reap the rewards of decades in the business. Why should I want the hassle of a job?
I shift a little, bending one knee and letting it fall open against the wall.
I do miss the first steps, sometimes.
Those early days, when there is nothing but an idea, then two, then twenty. Then it’s 4am and you’re lying with your legs up the wall, clutching a bottle of cheap merlot by the neck and it hits you. You’ve found the hook.
And buried in your bones, there's an ache that you can't ignore2
My hand closes loosely around my cock, and I tug at it a little, nudging it back to life.
You rush to the piano, tripping over take-out cartons. You shake awake your collaborator, asleep where she fell at the kitchen table, to help nurse the spark into a flame, to confirm that you’re not insane, that this is an idea. That it is brilliant, inspired,....marketable.
I drizzle a bit of oil over myself and watch the paths it takes as it trickles down my shaft.
Rarely did it ever start with the overture. You don’t get to choose where the muse drops you off, and the best stories don’t start at the beginning anyhow.
It is potential. Raw, pulsing, promise. By 5am the hook becomes eight bars. Then a verse. Add in a bridge. Play with some lyrics.
She was always better with the lyrics.
Before long you have a complete tune—usually something second act, and supporting character—but a start!
You begin to understand your show, the characters, their motivations. You can see it, but only if you soften your vision. Look too hard for too long, and it slips away again.
My thumb nudges the ridge of my glans on every upstroke, and my hand works faster as the memories flood in.
She likened it once to hatching a bird. You can encourage, and hope, and cheer the little fucker along, but even pulling a small piece of shell away— you mean to help but you risk weakening it.
It has to emerge on its own to be strong enough to survive what follows.
My hips cant upwards into my fist, and my other hand massages my sack, kneading and tugging in a gentle rhythm. I modulate the tone of a gutteral groan to harmonize with the music.
From there the ideas snowball. Overtures, Patters, In Comment numbers—should the ballad be a duet? Does this need a villain?
And the next thing you know its 10pm, and you haven’t slept since yesterday morning—or was that two days? Your clothes are wrinkled, you smell bad, and your wiring is fried from ingesting nothing by coffee and liquor.
I’m humming on the downstroke, and find a pleasing counterpoint rhythm between the slapping of wet skin and my breaths. I tighten my grip, and arch my back off the bench.
But you’re ecstatic and giddy. Half-mad with fatigue, half-mad with knowing that it’s only just started. Next comes the hunt for backers, and actors, and a venue. You write, and rewrite, and block the scenes, and pray that the lead gets his shit together and doesn’t fuck this up for you. You find a venue, you book opening night. You endure tech-week with its missed lighting cues, lost props, and torn costumes.
White hot pleasure shoots up through my centre, and I’m about to rip my godsdamned cock off I’m pulling so hard. The music ceases to make sense, and it’s all just noise.
You feel so godsdamned alive you’re drunk with it. The orchestra tunes, and the audience takes their seats, and it's too late to do anything else. All you can do is watch while everything you’ve poured your entire soul into for months comes to a head.
Finally the lights go down, and the curtains part.
I snarl and clench my jaw closed tight when my nerves finally snap. Eyes screwed shut, and hips off the bench, I come hard. My spend painting halfway up my chest.
Three hours later, when the crowd jumps to their feet and applause roars through the theatre, you exhale the breath you’ve been holding for months—sometimes years.
How can you get so far off thе track?
Why don't you turn around and go back?3
And then it’s done. It’s all over. And you just want to cry.
My phone chirps the three note tone reserved for the front desk.
I answer, and the high nasally voice of the weekend doorman comes through.
‘Mr. Ancunín, your 8:30 appointment is here for his audition.’
I hesitate.
I can’t even recall the face or name of this young actor. He is an amalgam of every young actor. Every hopeful, innocent, bright, and naive face that thinks that their shot is just around the corner. That ambitious and hungry overacheiver who will tell you, head high, that they’re prepared to do ‘whatever it takes’ to get their shot as though it were a point of pride.
I catch my reflection once again in the bedroom mirror.
Still beautiful. Still talented. Still somebody.
That hopeful man downstairs is proof of it.
I'm gonna live forever
Baby, remember my name4
‘Send him up.’
Aug 1, 2011
She absently traced the shadows that fell across my chest, and I wriggled and twitched at the light touch.
‘You’re going to get your fingers bitten if you keep that up,’ I warned.
She laughed, but it was still a nervous sound. Hours later and still nearly every sound from her was either a nervous giggle or a sob, and completely unpredictable as to which it would be.
She buried her face in my shoulder, and made one of the two noises, though I couldn’t tell which that was, and I pulled her in tight against my side.
‘Shh-shh-shh,’ I whispered. ‘You’re ok.’
She nodded without looking up, but I felt hot tears running into my armpit, and I rubbed her back and smiled at the ceiling. The champagne we’d celebrated with on the day we finalized opening night had opened so violently the cork cracked the century old plaster. I considered having it repaired, but decided I quite liked memento living on above our heads.
‘How are you so calm?’ she asked.
‘I’ve done this before,’ I reminded her. ‘You’re the virgin, not me, darling.’
She laughed, and wiped her eyes on the pillowcase. I reached to the nightstand and offered her the tissues instead.
‘They stood,’ she said, her voice thickening again.
I kissed her on the forehead. ‘They sure did!’
‘I’m just so…..ugh…I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to crack open.’ She propped up on an elbow to look at me in the dark. ‘Do you get that?’
‘Every time. Writing is letting us be vulnerable, putting our souls out there. Like saying "this is my heart, you can now do whatever you want with it." I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it and yet I can't stop doing it.’5
‘They liked it.’ She whispered like the reality was a fragile thing that would break if she spoke of it too loudly.
‘They liked you,’ I clarified.
‘We did it,’ she said through a yawn. She was tired. No shit—so was I. It was a tough 20 months to get the show up, and while I didn’t mention it then, the work had barely begun. I didn’t have the heart to tell her this was only day one. I’d break that news in the morning.
Besides, she knew.
Tonight what mattered was that Pros & Cons was now officially a show on Broadway. The audience had gotten to their feet and applauded until long after the curtain closed.
I craned my head to look at her, now finally nodding off. Her breath warmed my neck, and though she still had the comforter twisted mercilessly in her fists, she slept with a smile on her lips.
She’d had a taste of it now. From this night, and for the rest of her life she would crave the sweet agony of this feeling.
Just as I do.
My eyes won’t stay closed, so I pluck my phone off the charger to check the time.
3:12am - Someone once told me that nobody can lie to themselves at 3am.
I stare at the ceiling, my eyes tracing up and down the crack that ran through the molding around the ceiling light.
Well, shit.
I unlock my phone, and text a number I haven’t tried in years.
1. Bend and Snap, Legally Blonde. return to text
2. The Greatest Show, The Greatest Showman. return to text
3. Merrily We Roll Along, Merrily We Roll Along. return to text
4. I'm Gonna Live Forever, Fame. return to text
5. Wisdom from poet, beautiful soul, and friend NoCryptographer (check out her writing!!) return to text