Bared of Avon


Call me Ismale.

Delores’s off-off Broadway play “A Rose” had not fared well; tonight’s performance, the sixth, would be its farewell. Before we rested on the seventh day, our young cast cast caution windward and costumes skinward. Our actors’ bodies, fined-tuned though faux-tanned, are our instruments, and we wished to unwind all stops. Delores’s lackluster drama bored all as we all trod the boards, and we wished our appearance to be lauded and applauded despite the troubling wordplay tripping on our tongues.

Venus, our mourning star, a thirty-year old veteran of off-Broadway disasteroids, argued “Nothing divested, nothing gained.” Cometose no longer, she would not blaze and fade without fazing someone’s blade. She prepared to pare to the bare, and encouraged her entourage to act naturel.

Lithesome Lesley, rail-thin with thinly-veiled hunted eyes, announced “I’m game.”

Tall, taciturn and tailored Durwood would endure whatever the others would do, after he wetted his vessel with rum, rum, rum, you dolt.

Vestal Virginia gasped, gaped, gulped, and swallowed. The thought of our youngest, prettiest, ambitiousest removing her clothes simply left Virginia cold and dimply. And besides, wouldn’t an audience have paid extra to glimpse her pudenda? “How do I benefit by being seen a bit?” Virginia unburdened.

Venus left Virginia reeling, and stared her gazers at me. “Choose: clothes – shoes or close showing? Nude tonight or not all right?” Venus demanded.

Since Virginia’s decision depended on my decisiveness, and not wanting to scare her from the skin arena, I proposed a missionary position. “Let’s start with clothes, but close as stars, free as the breezes should the moment seize us. No pressure to undress us; just bless us, pray no mess ups. We’ll engage the audience bit-by-tit; they will gauge our tawdriness slit-by-clit.”

We agreed like musketeers — our costumes would be off for once and none for awe. We grasped hands with happy glances, our mind’s eye spying our nice alliances. No one told Delores before this; her words were her bond, imprisoning her reason where performance was important.

The audience was a critical mass, though not enough to keep the show afloat. Barely sixty customers waited warily, unaware of the coming sexy bare legs.

The curtain rose, the play flows. Who knows whither the clothes goes? “A Rose” is arose for the rows.

Everyone entered stage right, but left barefoot. Maltepe Escort We padded on the pads of our peds, mindful of splinters and toe nails. When first I had seen her, Virginia’s delicate ankles delightedly rankled my calm demeanor. Venus’s flat feet slapped happily, while Lesley’s great gams glided gamely. Durwood planted his plantars firmly, so swilled he could not be swayed. My own toes chose to wiggle their piggles to mark it.

The ex-costuming was casually character-driven; by the intermission, everyone still wore most of their costumes except the scarves and coats, and belts and shawls, and sweaters and aprons. We were down to blouses, shirts, pants and skirts. The blinding spotlights made Virginia’s thin blouse look transparent to the naked eye, and the naked I wished to transport blond Virginia to some bland light spot.

Venus rallied us with a pep talk between act’s scenes, tallying our cloth losses with obscene facts. “What ho, Ambition! they’ll see our stern, or stuff we’re made of. Friends, Roam hands, Cuntrymen: Lend me your rears! Are we mice or are we mounds? Flesh or fowl? Super salacious?”

“Play on, MacBuff!” we exhorted.

Venus arising in the second act downstage, her back to the audience, with teddy top and bottom less. She bounded, showing herself sweetly bubble-bottomed, as though a good prick might do her all in. Her legs began in the pink, her knees dimpled daintily. The length of her thigh enthralled the slavering crowd. She acted nonchalant, though goosebumps migrated to her flying V. She turned sideways to the stage, no more, keeping her proud bearing rolling, rolling down the writer. A profile in sewerage.

Next Durwood wandered clownly as a lout onto the stage without a stitch. Full frontally declaiming, he seemed oblivious that between his legs, his flap-doodle noodle slapped side to thighs. A harry rotter, Durwood’s length outstripped his hairinest. Not to put too fine a point on it, his pencil sharpened narrowly. He didn’t seem to mind its girthless heft, because it made up in bounciness what in lacked in bulkiness. He conducted himself heedless of the salient baton keeping time to a silent tango.

Then Lesley sparked the audience’s eyes. She had rings on her nipples and bells on her nodes, and she will have music wherever she mows, like nether, netherland. Not the finest jewelry was diaspersed about her person. In her middle was a green, green stud-mounted navel destroyer. Kartal Escort I wanted to shout, “Outie, Outie, damned spot.” But it would be to no avail. Lesley didn’t fancy mentions by men, whoa!; her munching was mostly by much muscled women. The spotlight glinted off a jewel that linteled her G-spot. But all that glitters is not goal, where Lesley’s sweet mine is plumbed. Whose lips touch lick her will nair touch mine. Just as well. Lesley had washboard abs but a plankboard ass.

That just left Virginia and me to make our disappearances.

I strode like a Colossus off road to centerstage, displayed my splayed limbs before setting at the table. No qualms disarmed me, no quims disowned me. My lumber was the envy of every Masterbuilder in the hall.

Venus moved to table, and removed her lingering lingerie, offering her best fly-trap smile. Above my guylocks, there swayed a succulent pound of flesh or two, no shy look! Carmel-colored tittops capped her creamy crawly cupcakes. She ker-plunked her butt on down the chair, her shitter all ashudder. Her swift hand found my swart lance and sent it all ashiver. I melted, I misted, my meat met its maker. She tartfully encircled the handful to shake ‘er. “Ay, there’s the rub! And there, and there. O, th’hello! Where’s the handkerchief?” Venus grasped my penis, sub tabula rosa. No,suh, that’s my baby now.

And No, Virginia, there is no sanity clause in acting class and no crying in basebawl. It was now or next her. The audience had warmed to the hot performance, and there beyond the footlights, the well-heeled became a happy band of blushers.

Screwing her, courage, to the sticky place, Virginia appeared and apeeled to all. The crowd crowed their caucus vote. And why not? Her natty nips topped gobbling grabbers, her glutes were globuluscious. Her nether hair was cut curly-cute, and her puss-in-booze blondy silky tongue-tied duly dewy, do he? Three bags full. With communal mind we echoed a commonplace thought, “Her arse! Her arse! My kindgom for her arse!”

Virginia’s curvy hips formed a bullseye target for our arrows aquiver to aim at the scenter. She was ghostly pale with blue-veined marble for skin. We were mostly male with a view-gained marvel for the askin’. She greteled them all in the palm of her hansel, stalking the stage like a Herculioness unchained.

Riot should we spy it, avoid it if we might. I surrounded her shoulder with my bolder hand to hold her, and Kurtköy Escort nudged her to the rim of the play’s edgy rhythms. But she didn’t want to play any launder. Come clean! Virginia was a startling reminder of the theatre’s power, but Venus was our star and most unkinder, more power to her.

Venus rose clammily to claim her own queendom against this usurper, aided by Lesley, the lanky her-slurper. Durwood wouldn’t dare to divine the outcome, so to forego his authority, he absented his majority. Out, out, damned sot.

That left me to argue in Venus’s own language, “Friends, Roam hands, Cuntrymen: I come to barely seize her, not to parade her.” My music calmed the savage breasts. Venus and Lesley snarled lips like E. Presley, but with sawdust in their vains and greasepaint on their fates, they responded like troopers to the smell of the crowd, the loud of the rings. We regrouped, regaled and finally finished the finale.

We bowed face forward, bending as is our want at the middle, the muddle we faced bonding in their want for us. Then we loonily mooned the standing ovation, making notation that the audience kept all together glancing cheek to cheek. Gibbous this day our naily bed.

And when to our wondering eyes should surprise, Deloris before us displayed her clitoris! Naked as a newborn knave she joined the merriment of sure would, forest. Without her suit, she proved hirsute, with a fuzz only a mother could love. The audience clamped and stopped in udder amazement and disbeleaving, manning the exits, all hands on dick. Are we seizin’ the reasons for the leavin’, love?

Officer Head of the Wonderland precinct stood at the ready to rough us and cuff us and stuff us in ruffles. Snuffles. Sniffles. Sobs from a pack of sad sack actors, begging our director to take the rap for us.

“It’s Delores who chorused the whores before us. She floored us, ashored us that it was all right. We never endeavor to weather our plight. Take her, Delores, who bared less, cared less, shared less tonight.” We pleaded and prayed and waited and winked. We thinked it would work with this Officer Head.

“I stopped by this evening,” said the cop on the beat, “never believing the scenes I was seeing. Such bold acclamation, no cold imitation, this production was really a treat. I must humbly admit, I too act a bit, and I’d love expose my full talent.”

Relieved? I should say! That cop had a way of easing our skittery minds. But before he was gone, he took Virginia along, Finngering her Huckleberries fine. It just goes to show, when a show starts to blow, nothing is so out of whack, that actors can’t strip and shake their nude hips, and everyone cums back to back.

For a good time. Call me. Ismale.

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