"Oooouch! Damn." His hand flew up to the back of his head, rubbing furiously.

"Oh Nigel! Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."

"No, it's fine. I'm fine-"

"It might be bleeding, let me look." Standing on tiptoes, she sneaked her hands past his protective arm and pulled his head forward, his nose mere inches from her snug t-shirt.

"It's fine, Susan, really..." His hands felt for the wall behind him as she leaned forward putting him off balance, "it's just a small bump..." Strong fingers sorted through his hair, probing and moving in a systematic search.

"There it is!" She might have yelled 'Eureka!' as she tilted against him for a better look, trapping his nose between her pert breasts.

"Ssthusanm, I'm phine, pleasth..."

"Stop being heroic." She said, stepping down, still holding his head chest level, in her hands. "You need some ointment on that in case of infection."

"No I'm fine, really. Just let me-" He started to straighten up, dropping his hands defensively in front as she stepped closer, trapping his arms between her thighs and his groin. "Now wait a min-"

"Oh Nigel." She wriggled closer, tilting his head up and crushing her mouth against his.

Off balance, and his arms stuck tighter, he tried pulling one free, catching his watch on the hem of her skirt and pulling it up with the effort.

"Mmmmmmh!" The pressure of the kiss matched her groan of arousal, and Nigel's eyes flew wide with panic as he felt the slide of her extraordinarily long tongue probe the back of his throat.

He was trapped. The traitorous watch had looped a thread around the winder, refusing to let go, and each desperate tug lifted the skirt higher exposing his other hand to the warmth of her bare leg. Her kiss continued relentlessly, forcing him to snort for breath through his nose, like a hard ridden horse, afraid to swallow in case her industrious tongue went with it. Slowly, he slid down the wall mercifully freeing his trapped hand, the other hanging suspended from the hem of her skirt, as she bent double, lips still fastened to his with the determination of a leech.

"Pfffwaaah... Susan... Jesus!" He gasped, finally sliding down out of range and sitting flat on the floor, legs straight out between her feet.

"Oooh Nigel." She panted, standing over him, holding his hand while she fiddled with his watchstrap.

"Suggh." He coughed, swallowing at last, tasting the remnants of her mint-flavoured saliva. "Why- are- you- doing this?"

The watch slipped from his wrist, a condemned criminal, hanging from her skirt, and she dragged the freed hand to her panties, pressing his fingers firmly with her own. "Ooooh Ni-g-e-l..." Her head fell back, eyes closed, long tresses of black hair swinging luxuriously behind her shoulders.

"Susan, no... my head..." He gulped in a tiny whisper, feeling the uncontrollable tension building in his trousers, his head wagging a feeble protest as she moaned, lowering herself to his lap.

*****

Nigel sat far enough back from the stage to be out of any direct light. His fingers tested the throbbing lump on his head and he stared dolefully at the seat back in front of him. Susan has risen from their tryst on the dusty control room floor, brushed and arranged her clothes and smiled perkily when she strode out, reiterating her excitement over the sellout, as she tossed him a tiny wave and closed the door. He stared blankly after her, lying in spent disarray from what had been either, a rapturous encounter, or a terrifying ride into hell. Most of the dirt and dust had been brushed from his clothes and the telltale, fraudulently advertised, non-smear lipstick, was hidden safely beneath his shirt.

A number of the players puttered around on the stage, practicing lines and re-inscribing individual stage marks, stepping aside in annoyance when Ross and Jean trotted out another prop for positioning. Carlos had arrived in time to find and replace the dead fuse, puzzling over the strange marks in the dusty floor below the panel. The makeup crew, along with a flinty Serge, laid out the tools of their trade, checking the inventory carefully and keeping to their own side of the dressing room. With robotic persistence, Everet tested each curtain cue over and over until one of the cast balled up their script and hurled it at him, screaming for him to leave the bloody curtains alone. Nigel sagged back in his seat, a pounding drum rolling within his head. He couldn't tell if it was from the bump, the endless bickering on stage, or the effect of riding the runaway roller coaster of Susan's volcanic passion.

"What do you think, Nigel." Donald called from the stage, shading his eyes from the lights. "In Act one, Scene Three, do you think maybe Private Gouger's conversation with Mary Woo should be a little more suggestive?"

"God help you." He croaked.

"Pardon?"

"I think at this stage we should keep it pretty much the way we've rehearsed it, Donald."

"Well, okay..." Disappointed, "You're the man."

Nigel felt himself tenderly, "I wonder..."

"Nephew! Susan just told me about the ticket sales," Victoria shuffled along the row to sit beside him, "Great news, eh?"

"Smashing."

"Ew, things not going well, dear?" She studied his face suspiciously.

He turned to face her, a desperate man needing solace.

"Nigel dear, what's wrong?"

He recounted, with halting embarrassment, his encounter with Susan, beginning with his dilemma over Darlene, and finishing with a distraught plea for help and council.

Victoria couldn't hide her smirk, eyes twinkling with memories of past days of ribaldry in the theatre. She took his hands in hers letting her features soften with compassion, "Nigel, these are the milestones to maturity, to discovering yourself; who you are... who and what you want to be. Don't treat them as catastrophes to be put down like some revolution; embrace them, deal with them... learn from them." She squeezed his hands encouragingly. "My goodness, at your age, if I hadn't answered my biological urges with open heart and mind, I'd be a withered, bitter old woman today." He stared at her in awe. "Not many things in this life are free, Nigel, and few people have them given to them willingly... sex is free, my boy; it's natural, it's healthy, and with a modicum of common sense... it's safe. Take all you can get."

"Victoria!" The protest died on his lips as she shrugged her eyebrows and gave his hand a final pat. Safe? he thought, conjuring up his recent activities with Darlene and Susan, the 'common sense' comment ringing in his ears.

He watched her negotiate the row and stride down the aisle, waving cheerfully at the assembly on stage. Milestones. Things had changed drastically since he left England, far more so than he had ever dreamed. The total misreading of the stately, elderly woman he'd expected his aunt to be, the miraculously swift leap from hapless scribe to playwright and director, and let's not forget the sex. It's not that he didn't entertain ideas of sowing oats on his journey to maturity or that he was a virgin, after all, hadn't he done the daring deed with Caroline Burdonovitch? Well, not exactly. Caroline was everybody's valentine in tenth grade. Not that she was pretty or exciting to look at, on the contrary, Caroline was a large, blocky farm girl, given to wearing coveralls over a Rolling Stone t-shirt, the wording read only by walking a half circle about her front. Caroline was leagues beyond well endowed. Her attraction, to every randy male member of the class, was her casual attitude about things pertaining to sex, no doubt dulled by the daily exposure in her farm environment. Exposing her gargantuan breasts for a tweak and a piece of chocolate masked, by far, any misgivings his mates had about her looks... although she did have a nice smile.

It was during a drizzly, after school gathering of some of the class, licks of wind shunting the impending storm clouds swiftly across the flat sky, that, on a dare, Caroline agreed to drop her coveralls if Nigel dropped his trousers. Taunted and teased by his cruel acting friends, Nigel nervously accepted, deciding the few minutes of embarrassment to be less of an ordeal than the prospect of endless derision.

"You first." He stuttered bravely, watching a piece of chocolate disappear into her rosebud mouth with one hand, while the other slipped the straps of her coverall off, letting the voluminous pants slip to the ground. Caroline wore no underwear, and the sight of her round stomach, jutting between the t-shirt, pulled high by the flying buttress of her bosom, and the thick columns of her legs, drew gasps and cheers from the gaping boys.

"Your turn." She said lazily, absently scratching the top of one column.

Nigel was mortified. The last thing he expected was a reaction to her nude body, but it was the first thing to happen. Roused by his apparent misery, the boys grappled with him, dragging his pants and shorts down around his ankles, hooting and jeering at the sight of his wiggling, traitorous appendage. Terrified and helpless, he watched Caroline assess his unpackaged goods, then opened his eyes and mouth in a wide, silent scream, as she reached out, grasping him like a chicken by the neck.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Caroline was hauling up her coveralls and unwrapping a new piece of chocolate, the boys were leaping and running across the schoolyard in a fit of noisy laughter, and he was standing stunned and sweating, watching the sly retreat of his manhood, a strangely pleasant tingle resonating in his loins. Nigel shucked the memory, sitting up and checking for his watch and looked about for an instant, confused. Victoria was on stage, describing the action with gestures and posture as she led Shelia through her marks, for one of the scenes. Lights flickered different colours behind the players; Carlos testing the switches. Susan strolled across the stage with Donald, reading lines from their scripts, held high in front, and he felt a spasm of apprehension, seeing his missing timepiece bouncing on the hem of her skirt.

The day passed slowly into evening, and at six-o'clock, Nigel called a halt to any further business. Victoria had returned his watch, a flustered presentation from Susan, when it was discovered snagged on her hem. Nigel accepted it without comment, avoiding the sly smirk.

"I don't think there's anything else to be accomplished, people," he called finally, from his spot in the auditorium, "there's such a thing as too much studying. Go on home, have a good meal and a sound night's sleep and tomorrow night we'll knock their socks off. Everyone be here sharp at three, okay?" An agreeable cheer went up from the weary troupe, and they called and waved good night, heading backstage to wash up and take their leave.

"Well Nigel." Victoria grinned, as he walked to the stage to help her down the steps. "It's all over but the shooting."

"More merciful than being hanged, I expect." He took her arm and they plodded up the aisle to the front doors.

"You not going to lock up?"

"Carlos is staying a bit, he said he'd lock up when he left."

"C'mon then, I'll fix you a dying man's request dinner." She laughed brightly, hugging his arm to her side.

"Oh Carlos, you tried to clean a spot for us," Arlene cooed, looking down at the streaky floor below the fuse panel.