Dear Friend and Reader:
We met backstage at Julia Morgan Theater. I was in an opera in four acts, and would not come on until two-and-a-half hours into the show.
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For anyone who performs, backstage is your lesson in managing ennui. There are lots of pranks going on before an entrance, generally to goose you up before you go up on the boards. And if the weather is right and you’ve got chemistry, a little backstage quickie is not unheard of, particularly for daring-doers.
So when we met each other’s glance, I knew we were going to hit it off. I took a piece of him, a small piece of him in my mouth, and let the liquid ooze onto my tongue. I rushed onstage for my entrance, vivified and electric, raring to go.В We did it like that for four nights of the run. It was furtive, secret and intoxicating.
It happened again, a few years later.
When I saw him again, I grabbed hold of him. Rushing him home from Elephant Pharmacy where we had renewed our acquaintance after a self-imposed absence, I took a bite from him. I remembered his dark bitter sweetness, the crunch of his nibs, the spice of chili in his essence. I was enthralled again. But I stopped. I couldn’t do him the way I would have wanted: It would have been too much, too fast. I had to wait. I had to pace myself.
I locked him in the pantry where he stayed, in a jar in the dark for weeks.