A SALTED MEAT

A SALTED MEAT

I had been debating whether or not to do a part in a show that I had
been cast in. It was a good role, basically the lead in a satire that
dealt with the treatment of humanity through the different parables of
the gospels from the King George version of the Bible. It also had
touches of homosexuality, which was a bit nerve racking, being that I
thought I was a closet homophobe. I had no problems with homosexuality
or people who lived that type of sexual lifestyle or pleasure that they
enjoyed. But I wasn't one who had any desire to dabble in such an act,
even if it was only acting. Hell I never saw DeNiro, or Pacino or old
Bill Holden do any queer parts.
But that wasn't the main issue of why I had a problem with committing
to the play. I was a bit nervous at the way the director worked. He was
an old bi-sexual, Jewish, man who was married to a Vietnamese-woman
with whom he had a daughter of eight. He was tall and had a rather
animated face, bulbous nose, gray wavy hair that flopped around over
his eyes like an old shaggy dog. His potbelly protruding, stretching
out his stained shirt, his pants a bit sagging, dirty as well, and he
enjoyed airing out his sour smelling feet by taking off his slip on
tennis shoes.
Bruce was his name. He was one of the most unorganized men, or
directors I had ever come across. He auditioned me in the middle of his
West L.A. apartment one Thursday afternoon, no call back, no mentioning
that he'd get back to me, he just gave me the part right there on the
spot. He hated auditioning people. He just gave roles to who ever
showed up.
"You want the role?" Bruce asked.
I had no real time to think or decide whether I should say yes or
no.
"Yeah, I guess."
"It's yours. Be at the studio Sunday for rehearsals at eleven in the
morning."
"Eleven?" I searched my memory for anything I had possibly
planned.
"Yeah, you'll do good. You'll work out just fine," he said, as he
looked me over. "Take off your shirt. Let's see what you look like with
your shirt off."
"Excuse me?" I was taken back by the request. I knew that such things
did happen, but to women and to the cute femme, DiCaprio
look-a-like-actors that would do anything to get a part in any damn
show.
"Take off your shirt. You're not the shy type, are you?" he asked,
suddenly his voice sounding like Paul Lynde, eyeing me down his
nose.
"No, I'm not shy."
"Well let's see."
"Well, I don't know?"
"You don't know what? You don't know if you can do this part? You're
perfect for it you know, I'm telling you. I just want to see if you
have the look for the costume you'll be wearing."
"Well, can I see the costume?" I asked him.
"Oh, I don't have it here." He didn't have it because he didn't have
anything for the damn show. No full cast, no real venue, stage manager,
costumes and no money. I learned later that I would be the one who
would have to provide my own costume and ticket sales.
I walked out of his apartment a bit violated and with questions in my
mind about what I might have gotten myself into. I had never come out
of an audition feeling ashamed about what I had done to try and get a
part. This time was different. After all, the part was mine without
question.
It was Sunday afternoon. I had just gotten home from the rehearsal. I
tossed the script on my coffee table and noticed a message on my
machine. It was Jackie. She had invited me over for dinner. I found it
a bit strange, being that she had asked me to keep some distance from
her due to her trying to find herself. She said she would call me when
she thought she was over her anxieties of a solitary life. I guess she
was over them, maybe. It had been a month since we had spoken.
I arrived at her house a bit early. She told me eight. I was there at
7:30 in the evening. She was still preparing the food. She had some
appetizers set on the table and a bottle of wine. I poured us a glass.
Her place was quaint. It was a one-bedroom cottage-style house in
Highland Park, right off 46th Ave.
"I thought I'd make some Beef Bourguignon," she said. I had never
heard of it, but I wasn't going to question a free meal, and whatever
might come after it.
She began to cut away at the meat, still bloody, as she cut cubes out
of it.
"I was taken by your invite tonight," I told her.
"Why, did you have anything planned? Apparently not."
"No, no. But it has been a while since we've chatted or seen each
other."
"I know."
"So, what's going on with you then?"
"Well, I mean, I thought that maybe I needed to explain myself to you.
It's only fair to you."
I was always nervous whenever she said stuff about needing to explain
herself to me, or that she needed to talk to me. It was never anything
I really wanted to hear, but I always hoped that it would be, sometime
or another.
"I've met someone that really?" she began her explanation as she began
to salt the bloody meat.
"Wait, if you're gonna tell me about how you fallen in love with
someone else, I really don't care to hear it. Is this why you invited
me to dinner, so you can tell me that you've fallen for someone?"
"Yes, I guess so. And maybe to bury what ever emotions I might have
thought I had for you or you for me," she said.
"Emotions. What emotions did we have for each other?"
"You know, I mean, I had to get away from you for a reason."
"Because you didn't want me. I'm not na?ve, Jackie. Don't play me like
I'm some stupid fuck that comes running to you hoping to get something
from you. Hell, if anything I enjoyed the fucking between you and
I."
"Is that all it was to you? Fucking?"
"Wasn't it? You're telling me that you had feelings for me that whole
time you and I would screw and then leave right after?"
"Yes, maybe I did, and maybe you did too."
"You're wrong there, honey. I just wanted to have some fun, nothing
more. That's the impression you gave me."
"I think you're lying to yourself."
I was getting fed up with the whole conversation. I guzzled my glass
of wine, poured another and got up.
"I don't get you. You don't want me around, then you do, then you
don't and then you invite me to dinner just to tell me that you want
someone else in your life. Why am I here?"
"I just want to be honest with you. I want you to know that I don't
mean to betray you, or lie to you," she began to add the rest of the
ingredients to her meal into a hot skillet; chopped onions, chopped
carrots, minced garlic, parsley, bay leaves, sliced mushrooms, some red
wine. The screams of the food sizzling filled the kitchen and almost
drowned out our tempers.
"Betray? What betrayal? What do you think is going on between us
Jackie?"
"You obviously wanted something from me, or else you wouldn't have
come."
"What do I want from you Jackie? Tell me."
"I don't know, what do you want from me?"
"What do you want for yourself?" I approached her tightly clutching
the glass in my hand, standing just behind her as she cooked
away.
"I know what I want, I know where I want to be, and I know where I
don't want to be anymore."
I downed my wine, threw the glass across the kitchen as it shattered
on impact against the wall. Jackie was startled as she turned to me. I
glared at her, like a rabid dog on the verge of attacking. I grabbed
her and kissed her, hard, shoving my tongue down her throat. She didn't
pull away, yet she wasn't ready to fully surrender either. I reached
down to her pant button, unbuttoned it and pulled her zipper down. I
reached in and rubbed her cunt as it began to moisten. She dropped the
wooden spoon she had been mixing her concoction with, the food still
sizzling and smoking. She grabbed my hair by the back of my head and
pulled. I pulled away from her crimson lips, tore her blouse open, she
was bra-less, and took her breasts in my mouth. I guided her back
towards the table, plopped her on it, the bottle of wine fell over and
spilt. The platter of appetizers shoved aside, but not off the table. I
went down on her, tasting her, taking her in. She panted and groped me,
clutching my hair with madness. She pulled me up to her, "Kiss me," she
said. I kissed her, her tongue meeting mine. I pulled away, her tongue
still between my lips as I sucked on it, wanting to swallow it. Wanting
to swallow her whole. She took my white shirt off and then reached down
and undid my pants. Her legs spread and I stuck it to her. She gasped.
I pumped, not with desperation, but at a medium pace as she scraped her
nails down my back and then up as she grabbed my head and dug her
fingers into my thick hair, "Kiss me," she said again. Her legs clamped
on, wrapping around me as I pumped harder, quicker. We kissed, our
mouths remaining touching, gaped, our hot breath being taken in by each
other as she looked me in the eyes. I was just about to burst when she
pushed me up, she had found the strength to push me away, grabbing me
and throwing me down to the cold linoleum. She got on top of me,
guiding my cock into her. She then went at it, excitingly. She rocked
back and forth, her neatly shaven cunt rubbing against my nest of pubic
hair, scraping my skin beneath. It felt rough, but good. It felt like
my skin being rubbed raw. She clamped on to my chest simultaneously
pinching my nipples as I grabbed her tit and took it in my mouth,
cupping it in my hands. She then closed her eyes, her head stretched
out toward the ceiling, mouth wide open and muted, her motion now
quickening, erratic. I could hear her mind screaming. I could feel the
burst just about there, in her warmness. I could feel her wetness
dripping all over my thighs and groin. She let out a restrained yelp as
I let out a loud groan of my own, pushing her body up and holding her
for moment. Her body then collapsed onto mine and I held her tight as
she wrapped her arms around my neck.
We lied there for a long silent moment, breathing heavily, regaining
our strength and minds. Our bodies glistening from passion.
"I have to go," I said.
"I know."
She slowly rose, the chill immediately hit me as she grabbed her
clothes and walked off to the bathroom. I got dressed and noticed the
stove still on, the food now burnt. The floor was covered in red wine
still dripping from the table. I turned off the stove and walked out
the front door. I got in my car and drove back home and suddenly gave
into restrained emotions. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I smoked a
cigarette. I got home and the first thing to catch my eye was the
script on the coffee table. I noticed Bruce's phone number on the
bottom corner of the cover page. I grabbed the phone and dialed his
number. He picked up.
"Bruce?"
"This is he."
"It's Henry."
"Heeeeey, kid," the flamboyant-voice ringing in my ear.
"I just wanted to let you know that I've decided to not do the
show."
"What. Why not?"
"I'm not in love with the part, Bruce."
"Why you little shit!" the tone quickly turning to rage. "What else do
you think you're going to find? Do you think you'll find another part
like this? Have you seen my reviews, have you seen the kind of people
that have come to see my shows? You're making a big mistake, big
mistake! You unprofessional little twit!"
"Sorry, Bruce. I'll go ahead and mail you back your script."
"Why? Why won't you do it? You're perfect for the role. I need you,"
the voice a bit calm again.
"I'll send you you're script back. Sorry." I hung up the phone and
turned the tube on. Bonanza was on.