(If seeing Zeta drunk and sloppy was enjoyable, then I had to agree with Karen)
Karen: Drummond….yes, just a friend…No, you did apologize to him…more than once…yes.
(Something tells me Zeta’s memory was a little fuzzy…Imaging THAT!)
Karen: Do I have his number? Well…yes I do… but I don’t think that will be necessary…no your apologies were ample and sincere….yes…yes…I have no doubt you made your point.
(All the while I was shaking my head “NO” a) to Karen giving Zeta my number, and b) emphatically “NO” to Karen giving Zeta my number)
Karen: I’m not exactly sure what you are asking, Zeta…did you do what?…..NO! I am absolutely certain you didn’t do that…or anything like that…No, no! you didn’t tell him you wanted to do THAT! Trust me!
(Karen looked at me and gave me a pantomime of a blowjob with her hand circling a phantom penis, while bobbing her head. She nearly laughed out loud and I had to suppress my laughter as well.)
Karen: That’s O.K., Zeta…yes…no….well I don’t know…perhaps…yes,….if I talk to him….yes…I will tell him…I’ll give him your number….yes..that’s right… yes…I hope you’re feeling better, Zeta.. yes…good bye.
Karen explained the last part of the call to me, saying, “Oh, Drummond! I’m afraid Zeta was a little too drunk last night. She doesn’t remember a whole lot, though she does vaguely remember her apologies, plural. She didn’t mention anything about offering you a backstage tour. She did say, that she was afraid that she might have told you that she wanted to give you a blowjob just to make it up to you! Isn’t that hysterical? Anyway, you heard most of it. Oh, and I’m supposed to apologize to you again for her, the next time I see you.”
Karen put her cell phone down, pulled back the sheets and proceeded to give me a fantastic blow job–blowjobs are all fantastic, so…a blowjob.
After she finished, she looked at me and said, “That’s from Zeta…she apologizes!”
We both laughed ourselves silly!
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As blustery as Zeta could be, nobody could ever accuse her of not being smart and resourceful. She did a little research, more on Karen than me, and discovered that I was a “family friend” of Karen and her husband. (That’s true and…well…there’s more to be told about Karen and me.) The point is that Zeta, having identified me, easily found my phone number…hence the following call, in the morning a few days later.
My cell buzzed but I didn’t answer it as there was no name attached to the caller. It was an out of state prefix so I concluded that it was a spam call of some sort. Then my cell “pinged” telling me I had a text. I went there and found this:
“Hope I have the right number for Drummond. Pls call me at this number Zeta.”
I would not allow myself to behave like the cretin she accused me of being, so I called her back directly.
“Hello, Zeta?” I began, “Drummond here, calling you back. How can I help you?”
“Oh, Mr. Drummond, I am so happy you returned my call,” Zeta sounded all smiles, ” you have been on my mind and I just wanted to apologize again for my beastly behavior the other night. It was inexcusable, and I am so sorry.”
“Well, Zeta, thank you,” I kept my voice even, “but you were abundantly apologetic at the party after the show. I thank you, though, for your continuous outpouring of remorse but…believe me…it isn’t necessary. All is forgiven!”
“Yes, yes, yes, and thank you,” she pressed on, “but I remember now that I said that I would give you a tour of the theater…not just as a token of my contrition…but to get acquainted, you know. ”
She sounded so contrite that I didn’t have the hard to turn her down flat even secretly knowing what might be in her mind. I thought, “What’s the harm, anyway?”
“Well, Zeta, that is very kind of you. When would you like to do this?” I said in a friendly way.
“Today, if you have the time. The theater is dark today getting ready for the weekend’s performances. So this would be an ideal time to show you around. If you’d like.”
I hesitated but decided now is good a time as ever, “I’m wrapping up my morning’s work. I should be free around 4:00PM. How about I meet you at the playhouse then? Sound good?”
“Marvelous, Mr. Drummond. I’ll see you there, then.”
I had to throw this in, “Oh, and Zeta, ‘Drummond’ is my first name. It’s not Mister Drummond, just plain Drummond. See you at 4:00PM”
She responded, “Oh! I’m so sorry. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you. 4:00PM, then…BYE!”
She knew my first name was Drummond…she had looked it up! Funny woman, this Zeta.
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“Oh, Mr….I mean Drummond, I am so glad you could make it today. I have so much to show you!” she said as she, etiquette notwithstanding, actually grabbed my hand to lead me into the building.
“I expect the ‘grand tour’ that you offered, of course!” I said, nettling her a little bit, “I’m sure if anyone can give it to me, you’re the person.”
A whole lot goes on in a theater before and after a performance but the most exciting time is during the performance. There is a whole team of stagehands, lighting personnel, sound experts (most of the performances are “miked” today”) and they are constantly in motion during a show. Scenery changes, make-up touch-ups, prompter updates (they are “miked” now too–the actors have ear pieces). It is a flurry of activity even when the action on the stage is static.
The stage manager works out of a control room that looks like a small version of a space launch. All of the people have headsets on, the lighting guy, the scenery guy, the sound guy; and they are in voice contact with the actual technicians. There are several closed circuit TV screens showing the different venues within the theater.
During a performance, the stage manager keeps an eye on the TV monitors and gives commands left and right. Timing is crucial. It takes a lot of effort and I can see where Zeta would want to “unwind” after any performance, let alone a premier the likes of which I had attended.
Zeta and I were standing in the vacant control room as she explained all of the goings-on to me. I was nodding with understanding appreciation. She was about to show me the computer and display where all of the “blocking” diagrams were stored. As she gestured, her pen flew out of her hand and clattered off into space and landed probably on the floor somewhere under one of the desks.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “that’s an expensive pen. I need to find it. Here, help me look!”
So, “we” started a search. I looked high and she looked low. She was wearing blue jeans, and a pull-over sport jersey. I was dressed approximately the same, except for the jersey–sport shirts were my style. As looked high, I couldn’t help but see her searching low on her hands and knees. Her blue jeans stretched as they fitted themselves over her nicely shaped, though a tad large, fanny. At point I could see right down the neck of her loose fitting jersey; two boobs and no bra is what I saw–two 36D boobs, I might add.