First Time: Girl-Boy
Sonnet & Ash
The community theatre is draped in old velvet.
A space that has hosted too many amateur productions without enough ventilation.
I stand in the back corner of the auditorium, holding my crumpled audition sheet with damp palms, watching the woman two people ahead of me deliver her monologue with the kind of forced gravitas that makes teeth ache.
I'm nineteen, and I have no business being here.
My mother suggested it—"expand your horizons, dear"—after I dropped out of my second semester of undeclared studies at the community college.
I think she hoped I'd meet a nice boy. Get married. Have kids young.
Me! I wonder about a nice girl when I smear spit on my own nipples.
Yet I wonder about cock too, when I stretch myself out with that third finger.
"Next."
I step forward, suddenly aware of my posture, my breathing, the way my cotton blouse sticks to the small of my back.
The casting director—a severe woman with silver hair pulled back so tight it seems to stretch her face—doesn't look up from her clipboard.
"Name?"
"Sonnet Muir."
"Piece?"
"The Bacchae. Lines 116-130. The chorus."
She nods, finally meeting my eyes.
"Begin."
I draw breath.
The words come out shaky at first, Greek tragedy in a suburban accent, but I find the rhythm.
The Bacchae, the wild women, the maenads tearing Pentheus apart.
I've read it three times this week, trying to understand what possession feels like, what it means to be seized by something larger than yourself.
I've never watched myself orgasm.
I wonder how real they are in porn.
Yet, fuck it, I want to see my eyes roll in the mirror when a girl or guy takes me.
In greedy dreams, I'm taken by a girl and a guy, together.
I seek possession.
"...for he is swift, and he is terrible, and he is most gentle to the willing—"
"Thank you. Enough."
The casting director makes a note.
"Wait in the hall for callbacks."
I stumble through the side door into fluorescent lighting, pressing my back against the cinderblock wall.
My heart pounds against my ribs like it wants out.
Three other women sit in folding chairs, avoiding eye contact, clutching their own crumpled sheets.
I slide down to the floor, knees to chest, and try to slow my breathing.
That's when I see her.
She emerges from the auditorium through the same door I used, but she moves differently—unhurried, almost languid, as if the fluorescent lights don't bother her, as if the industrial carpet is something pleasant beneath her feet.
She's tall, maybe five-ten, with dark hair cut in a sharp bob that frames her face like a helmet.
She's wearing a silk blouse the colour of warm blood, tucked into high-waisted trousers that sit perfectly on her hips.
Damn, she has the body proportions.
Has to a boob job.
Still, great tits.
She doesn't sit in the folding chairs.
She leans against the wall across from me, pulls a paperback from her bag—Sappho, I notice—and begins to read, completely unbothered by the waiting, by the competition, by my staring.
I force my eyes to the floor.
The carpet pattern is hypnotic, small squares in institutional beige and brown.
I count them. I lose count. I look up again.
She's watching me now, book lowered, a small smile playing at her lips.
Not mocking—something else.
Curious.
Warm in a way that makes my face flush.
"How'd you do?" she asks.
"Okay, I think. I don't know. I've never done this before."
"Never auditioned?"
"Never anything. Theatre, I mean. I don't know why I'm here."
She laughs, and it's a real sound, throaty and unguarded.
"Nobody knows why they're here. That's the first rule of community theatre."
"What's the second rule?"
"Don't sleep with the director."
She glances toward the auditorium, where the severe, grey-haired woman is visible through the small window in the door.
"Though in this case, that shouldn't be difficult."
I find myself smiling, the tension in my shoulders easing.
"I'm Sonnet."
"Ash."
She pushes off the wall, crosses the small space between us, and extends her hand.
Her grip is firm, her fingers long and cool.
"Ash Freeborn. And before you ask—yes, my parents were hippies. Yes, I've heard every fire-related pun. No, I don't do any of them justice."
"Sonnet's worse," I say.
"Shakespeare jokes. All the time. From people who've never read Shakespeare."
"Let me guess. 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?'"
"That's the one. Or 'What's in a name?' Usually from guys in bars who think they're being original."
Ash's smile widens.
She has a small gap between her front teeth that I find myself staring at.
"I don't go to bars much. Too loud. Can't hear yourself think, let alone talk."
"What do you do instead?"
"Read."
She holds up the Sappho.
"Walk. Sometimes I go to the quarry on the edge of town, the old one they flooded. Swim when it's warm enough."
"I didn't know you could swim there."
"Technically you can't. That's part of the appeal."
The auditorium door opens. The severe woman emerges with a list, and Ash retreats to her spot against the wall, casual again, unreadable.
But I feel something has shifted, a door opened slightly that I didn't know existed.
"Callbacks for the chorus," the casting director announces. "Muir, Freeborn, Chen, Okonkwo, Reyes, and Park. Tomorrow, six PM. The rest—thank you for your time."
I look at Ash. She's already looking at me, that small smile back, something knowing in her eyes that I don't understand yet.
The next evening, I arrive early. The auditorium is empty except for a single work light on the stage, creating a pool of amber in the darkness.
I sit in the front row, running my lines in my head, trying not to think about Ash Freeborn and her silk blouse and her cool fingers and the way she looked at me like she could see something I couldn't.
She arrives early too; as if she's been waiting outside, timing her entrance. She's in a different blouse tonight, cream-colored, still silk, still tucked into trousers.
She sits next to me without asking, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something woody, something that reminds me of the cedar chest my grandmother kept her winter clothes in.
"Nervous?" she asks.
"Yes. You?"
"Always."
She crosses her legs, and her trousers pull tight across her thigh.
I look away, at the empty stage, at the work light, at anything but the shape of her.
"But I've learned to use it. The nervousness. Channel it into the performance. Let's find a back room to practice. "
An empty room, easy, the first.
A makeup table, a chaise, hooks with costumes.
Ash grazes my cheek.
"I don't know what I like. I know I like you." I say.
She swipes her finger along my chin.
Then Ash says: "The Bacchae knew. They knew exactly what they were when the god seized them. Maybe that's the point of the play. That we spend our lives trying to name ourselves, and the divine doesn't care about our names."
"That's either very wise or complete nonsense."
But I feel the heat between my thighs.
"Both. Usually both."
She steps closer.
'Start with the top button of my blouse," she coos.
God, her tits are great, wasted inside a bra.
"Unhook me."
I was already there.
"Wow!"
Perfect tits exist.
Rounds orbs of flesh.
Perky nipples seeking attention.
"Suck them."
The invite was nice, but I was intent, my tongue licking my own lips.
I sucked each teat in turn.
Drawing out her mini-pink erections.
I cupped, fondled and cradled her boobs.
God, Ash had my top off.
She buffeted her breasts against my small athletic tits.
I gasped at the tingles as nipple met nipple.
I cooed as Ash snogged my teats to firm pebbles.
Her tongue dabbed my points with generous spit.
God, I loved her buoyant, flouncy, quivery roundness.
"Fuck, you're all woman," I moaned.
"Yes," said Ash, "and more for you too."
"Oh, My God! Corr! Yes! Yes!"
Ash pressed between my thighs with a stiff length.
The Oh My God was not a response to her sexuality but the flesh portion. Christ, my private dildo wasn't this size.
"Drop my pants." Says Ash.
I was already on my knees.
The Corr.
The moment I was face to pecker, with serious meat.
In the range of nine.
But by then I was slurping along its amazing length.
The Yes, yes.
Ash had my clothes off.
We slid to the carpet.
Ash had two fingers in my pussy and one in my crack.
I was trying not to gag on a huge stiff boner.
Geez, I'm wet, and Ash's spit adds to my pussy's leaking.
We luxuriate in the spooning sixty-nine.
I feel the need. The tingles spreading.
"Fuck me, Ash. Fuck me now."
I'm doggy.
Ash enters me slowly, agonisingly slowly, and I feel every inch, the thickness of her stretching me open, the curve of her finding places no one has touched.
I'm moaning, I realise, continuous sounds I can't control, and she's watching my face, reading my reactions, adjusting her angle until—"Ahh!"
The cry tears from me, sharp and sudden.
"There, right there, oohh, yes! Aahh! —"
She doesn't stop. She sets a rhythm, deep and steady.
Raised over my back, finding spots of pleasure, really, really deep.
"Oohh! Yes! Fuck! Aahh!"
Swift and wild.
And I am the willing.
God, could pleasure be ratcheted higher?
Amazingly yes.
Ash turns me over.
"Wrap your legs around my back," she instructs.
I wrap my legs lewdly high, pulling her deeper, wanting more, wanting all of her massive dick.
Her breasts press against mine, soft and firm together, and I realise I'm getting everything I've ever wanted—the softness of a woman, the hardness that fills me completely, the best of both worlds in a single body, a single person who sees me, who wants me, who is making me feel things I didn't know were possible.
Fuck it's strange, yet humanely addictive.
Stiffness pummelling into my enveloping folds.
My nipples brushing soft teats at the same time.
She fucks me harder, the floorboards creaking beneath us, and I feel the pressure building, the orgasm approaching like a wave I can't outrun.
Her hand finds my clit, circles it in time with her thrusts, and I'm screaming now, not caring about the cast along the hallway.
In the coupled moment; this pleasure, this perfect union of everything I am and everything she offers.
"Hnnghh! Orrghh! Arragghh!"
I cum.
A mother-fucker of an orgasm.
Convulsing quivers.
A feeling of flesh dissolved.
Mind lost.
Easily amongst my best.
Maybe my favourite.
Still, it's the one just complete.
Ash follows, filling me with jolting, thrusting grunts.
We are maenads.
We are possessed.
Maybe even transformed.
We lie together, hands resting on one another's breast.
There is warmth as our eyes meet.
Where does this lead?
We hear others arrive for rehearsal.
We dress speedily, comb our hair.
See each other furtively in the mirror.
I go to open the door.
Ash pats my butt.
I return the tap.