Closing Night High

I'm sweating buckets under the bright lights. I bumped into the prop table backstage, so my thigh will be sporting an ugly, purple bruise tomorrow. My dress is cumbersome, my makeup is thick, and the dozens of bobby pins holding my hair in place are attacking my scalp. But that laundry list of awful gets ripped to shreds as soon as the audience erupts with applause.

I take the final bow with the main cast, and then with just Eric, the guy who played the Baker in our high school's production of

Into the Woods.

It's been my favorite musical since I saw it on PBS when I was nine years old, and it's the reason I'm standing on this stage, in this moment, having just nailed the last show of my high school career. My voice cracked during "No One is Alone", but I'm hoping it only added to the sincerity of my performance. I'm just lucky I was able to stop myself from full-on bawling, instead. It really could have gone either way.

Eric and I have been best friends since we were freshman. We bonded while suffering in the ensemble for the musical that year—Grease. Ugh. Just after we both turned eighteen six months ago, we took each other's virginity—and three minutes after that, he came out. Just between you and me, I'd already guessed he was gay, but I was too scared I'd end up getting drunk and losing it to some frat guy at my first college party next year. I could never tell my future daughter a story like that; telling them my first time was with someone I loved will set a much better example. I'll just leave out the gay part.

The sex had been underwhelming and weird. Eric and I are both attractive people, but we aren't attracted to each other, for obvious reasons. That makes for some pretty 'meh' fucking. It was the first and last time I've done it, so far, but at least I got my deflowering out of the way. That was our shared goal when we decided to get naked and put our parts together. Eric's part is actually quite impressive. I'm sure he'll go on to make many men very happy.

As soon as we're backstage, I'm hug-attacked by my BFF.

"Oh my god, Emilie!" he screams into my ear. I'm lifted clear off the ground, and he's jumping up and down with me in his arms. The closing night high is a powerful one.

My name is Emilie, and I'm an addict.

"I know, I know. We totally killed it."

"We didn't just kill it, Em; we straight

murdered

it!"

"Yeah... I'm pretty sure that's basically the same thing. But, still, a valid point." I'm smiling my face off, literally unable to stop. The adrenaline is still pumping, loud and proud, in my veins, as Eric starts walking us toward the dressing rooms. I'm still locked in his hug, my feet dangling six inches off the floor. "You do know you have to put me down now, right? Just because the feminine form does nothing for Little Eric, doesn't mean Big Eric can join me in the girls' dressing room."

I'm dropped unceremoniously back down, landing with an "Oof!" He may be a a bit flighty at times, but at least he listens to reason when it's presented to him.

"First off, Little Eric isn't so little, and you know it. Secondly—we're still going to Lacey's party tonight, right?"

I don't know why he's even asking. Absolutely no one misses the closing night cast party. Especially not the leads, and especially not when it's at Lacey Hunter's house. Her basement transforms into a hedonistic playground full of sweaty, sexually adventurous teenagers, all dancing on each other. It's Caligula, just less batshit crazy and without the actual sex. We don't even need any chemical assistance to get wild. Hell, last year, I ended up giving a mock lap dance to some poor, unsuspecting freshman. I'm pretty sure I rocked his little world, and I'm

completely

sure that's why he auditioned for the musical again this year.

Theater kids are like band kids on MDMA. Let that serve as a warning to all you parents out there.

"Well, duh. Of course we're going. I just need to chisel this makeup off my face and get changed," I tell him. "You are

so

going to die when you see the dress I bought for tonight!"

"Hop to it, then, little girl!"

After he gives my bottom a good whack—ineffective, given the heavy layers of fabric that make up my skirt—I shuffle into the dressing room. First things first, I get this damn dress off. It's hot as balls under the stage lights, so I'm in heaven once I strip down to just my bra and panties. I take a moment to stand in front of the massive, utilitarian floor fan, letting its thirty mile an hour winds dry my sweat and cool my nearly naked body. Then I pull out what must be the world's entire supply of bobby pins from my long, platinum blonde hair. Natural blonde, thank you very much.

Next up, hydration. Bottles of water and cans of soda are lined up on the counter below the wall-to-wall makeup mirror. I should grab a water. I know this. But I'm a sugar junkie, and I can't resist getting my next fix, which just happens to be inside a can of grape soda. I pop the top and take a big drink of fizzy liquid candy. Then I commence project Find Emilie's Real Face. It's a pretty face, and I'm happy to see it once again.

By the time I walk back to the lockers, I'm one of the last girls still here. There are only three other stragglers, and they're just about ready to leave.

I pull the garment bag out of my locker, and the girls congratulate me on my performance before leaving me all alone. I really need to hustle. I take off my bra, because it totally doesn't work with my dress. Plus, my perky little tits can hold themselves in place without much help at all. Large breasts are overrated, if you ask me.

The dress is thin, white cotton, tight on top and flaring out at the waist into a super girly skirt that hits just below my ass. The front of the dress is a deep V, just like the back. The wide straps cover me from neck to shoulder, but my sides are completely exposed. And no, my parents have not seen me in this, now that you ask. They'd have forced me to wear thermals under it, or something.

After slipping on my sandals, I pause to look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I'm not an excessively vain person, but I do see myself clearly, and right now I can see that I look

tres

cute. My dress could almost pass for innocent, if not for all the skin it leaves exposed. I love that it's both sweet and sexy, at the same time. The stark white fabric contrasts nicely with my lightly tanned skin, and my small waist, wide hips, and round ass look great in this style. Altogether, very flattering. I give myself a nod of approval.

I'm tipping up my can of grape goodness to down the last of it before heading out, when tragedy strikes. Of course, it would go down the wrong pipe. Of course, I would choke it back up and all over the front of my dress. Of course, I'm an idiot for drinking purple while wearing white. I pretty much hate myself right now.

After taking a moment to throw a little temper tantrum—complete with foot-stomping—I pull out my phone, take a picture of the damage, and text it to Eric.

yep. this totally happened. you should go on ahead to the party, and i'll meet you there once i get myself cleaned up.

I quickly follow that up with,

and don't even think of offering to help me with this. go. have fun. make the party awesomer by your mere presence.

My phone beeps with his reply within seconds.

i rly can't argue with u when u make so much sense. hurry up, cinderella!!!

Total Eric response. And I love how he didn't even bother insisting to help me. It's just better this way—at least one of us should be having fun right now. I sigh dramatically and make my way to the ladies room.

Locked. Of course. I inspect the empty, quiet hallway, and once I'm certain there's no one left but me, I decide to be a rebel girl and invade the boys' bathroom.

Oh, look—urinals! I've always been curious about those. I figure they can get super embarrassing, though. Like, what if you have a tiny pecker, and the guy next to you is sporting a massive horse cock. I'm guessing it would be awkward to duck into a stall in shame after getting a good look at his junk, right? I'd bet good money that urinals are the source of all male inferiority issues.

I am so glad I'm a girl.

I don't lock the door, because why bother if everyone else is gone? Slipping off my previously flawless dress, I'm standing in front of the sink in just my sandals and underwear, as I begin rinsing it with hot water and hand soap. The soap does a surprisingly good job at removing the stain, and it's impossible to tell I'd ever sullied my precious dress. Squee!

Then comes the dilemma of how to dry this sucker. I managed to get the entire top part soaking wet, and I groan at how long it's going to take for the hand dryer to get the job done. Too bad I don't have much of a choice.

Just as I'm about to bang my fist on the big metal button, I hear footsteps in the hall, clearly coming toward this room. With dress in hand, I rush into one of the stalls and slip it over my head, before climbing to stand on top of the toilet seat to hide my feet. The wet fabric is uncomfortably clingy on my bare chest, but it's better than being nearly naked while some random maintenance worker takes a piss just five feet away from me.

I can see through the crack in the door, and morbid curiosity forces me to look. This guy doesn't look like any janitor I've ever seen, though. He's wearing a tight, black t-shirt, fitted, dark grey jeans, and steel-toed, black boots. Wait—I recognize that outfit. Think, Em, think.

Oh,

crap.

That's our theater's technical director, Caleb Turner. Fantastic.

I've been crushing on him for the past four years. He's gotta be at least twice my age, and I'm pretty sure he's married. How can a girl resist, though? He's got the kind of looks that belong on the cover of some contemporary romance novel—the type that has bad boy alpha males and lots of dirty sex scenes (not that I'd know anything about those kinds of books). His dark hair is cropped close to his head and just a little bit longer on top, and his grey-blue eyes are framed with thick, black lashes. I'd have to put on three coats of mascara to get my lashes to look like that! So unfair. Then there's his strong, square jaw that twitches when he's pissed about something—a frequent occurrence—and a body that displays hours of effort in the gym and at his job. And he must be at least six feet, which makes him a good ten inches taller than me.

Oh, and he has sleeves. Like, inked sleeves, not the muscle-covering kind. They're really well done, too. I've only ever seen two other people with full sleeves, and they were full of poorly drawn, cliched shit done by god-awful "artists". Caleb's are pretty, although I'm sure that's not the adjective he was going for when he spent hours, not to mention tons of money, getting them done.

If I had my phone on me, I'd be texting Eric, right now. He's as hot for this guy as I am, and he is going to be so jealous when I tell him about this!

Caleb is humming as he unzips his fly and reaches in to pull out his cock. And then, there it is. I'm watching him in profile, so I have a clear view of the thing. This part of him is pretty, too. Again, probably not the description he'd prefer, but it's not like I'm saying it out loud and offending his manly pride.

Wait—do guys get hard when they're about to pee? Because he is totally hard. I'll have to google that when I get home.

Balancing precariously on the toilet seat, I instinctively lean closer to get a better look. Big mistake. My treadless sandals slip on the porcelain, and I start to fall forward. I try to stop my descent by grabbing on to the door's lock. Big mistake, number two, because I inadvertently unlatch the damn thing. I need to find out who designed this, so I can write them a sternly worded letter. Or maybe I can sue for extreme emotional distress. I think I have an uncle who's a lawyer.

I scream out, "Shit!" as the door swings open, and I spill out onto the floor. Gravity makes me its bitch, practically throwing me onto my hands and knees. At least I don't face-plant—came pretty damn close, though. I don't think I've ever seen a floor this close up before. It's super gross.

The bathroom is dead silent for a moment, allowing me to hold out hope that my powers of invisibility have finally kicked in. But no, I'm apparently still just a powerless, totally visible human.

"What the fuck!" Oh, he sounds angry. It's ok, though—if I don't acknowledge the situation, that means it's not actually happening, right? "Seriously, Emilie. What the fuck?"

So much for this not happening.

"Um, hi, Caleb," I say to the floor. And—oh god—why does it smell so bad? Yeah, not gonna think about that one too hard. Time to be a big girl and lift my head.

He'd tucked his cock back in his jeans while I was getting intimate with the tile. How disappointing. The rest of him is less of a letdown. Shock and rage look good on him.

"Why the hell are you in the men's room? And were you seriously just hiding in a stall?" His voice sounds a little calmer, and he must take pity on me, because he walks the few steps to me and holds out his hand to help me stand up. I put my hand in his and make a mental note of how warm and strong it is. It'll be a nice detail to add to my already spectacular fantasies of him.

Back on me feet, I hastily try to explain myself, probably making zero sense to him. "It's a really funny story, actually... or it was, until right now. See, I was getting ready for Lacey Hunter's party, and—oh, hey, you were at her closing night party last year, right? I could swear I saw you at one point." In fact, I know I did. And I know he saw me, too, because he looked right at me for way longer than necessary. Just thinking about that moment gives me the chills. But, yeah, getting off track here. "Anyway, so, I spilled grape soda all over my dress, and the girls' bathroom was locked, and I really needed to get the stain out, and...."

I trail off, because I don't think he's listened to a single word I've said. He hasn't even looked me in the eye once since I stood up. Oh, he's looking at me alright, but his gaze is fixed a foot or so lower, in the general area of my tits. It's now been fifteen seconds ago since I stopped talking, and he still hasn't noticed. When I look down at myself, I realize why.

Pop quiz! What happens to thin, white fabric when it gets wet? Yeah, I'll bet every single one of you has their hand raised right now. I might as well be wearing nothing up top. Every detail of my breasts is right there, staring him in the face. Like I said, they're not big, but they're pretty—round, with small, rosy nipples. And they fit perfectly in my hands. As lovely as they are, though, I really could do without Caleb Turner getting an eyeful right now. This night just does not let up, does it? I quickly cover my tits with my hands.

"Oh my fucking god! Are you kidding me?" I'm yelling at the universe, but Caleb must think I'm yelling at him. He immediately averts his eyes and clears his throat.

"Shit. Emilie, I—" he breaks off and reflexively looks back at me to apologize, but his eyes zero in on my breasts, again. My shame and modesty have apparently now left the building, because I put my hands on my hips, unabashedly displaying my goodies, and cock my head to the side. The longer he stares at me, the more I like it. Registering my change in position, he whirls his entire body around to face away from me. "Fuck! I am so sorry."

"It's ok, Caleb," I say sweetly to his back. I'm surprised by my sudden calm. My body must figure things can't possibly get any worse and has stopped producing freak-out chemicals. "I'm sorry, too, for scaring you and interrupting your attempt to pee."

His body freezes up as something dawns on him. "You didn't see—"

"No! No, of course not." Yeah, actually, I totally did. He drops his head into his hands and groans, letting me know he's seen through my thin lie. I can only giggle at his discomfort. I try to cover it up but do a shitty job of it. He mutters something along the lines of "you have got to be kidding me" under his breath. "Ok, fine. I saw... you know. It's actually why I slipped and fell. So, really, I blame you for all this."

I can see his muscles straining with the effort to stay still instead of turning around to argue with me, face to face.

"You were in the men's room!" he yells. "I'm a man, so this is my room. This is obviously not your room, since you're a—"

"Woman?"

"I was going to say girl, but sure. Because you're a woman," he concedes. "Speaking of..." His arms cross over his torso, and he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt. Caleb Turner is stripping right in front of me, and the room just got a little hotter. I'm sure those two things are completely unrelated. Right.

"Um. What are you doing?" Not that I'm asking him to stop, but I am confused.

"I would like to turn around without seeing your girls—I mean, your

women

—so you're going to put on my shirt until your dress is dry." And then it's off, and my jaw is on the floor.

Here, I'd thought his sleeves were the prettiest tattoos I'd ever seen. I guess they were, until now. His back is completely covered by one big piece. It's a forest scene, done in greyscale. There's a pond or stream in the foreground, so calm and still that it looks almost peaceful—except that it's reflecting the dark trees looming above it, giving the whole thing an eerie vibe. It's so completely Caleb—beautiful and quiet, dark and intimidating.

Beneath the ink is the most perfectly chiseled back I've ever seen up close. He has muscles I didn't even know existed. So, yeah, chills all around.

"Emilie. Take the damn shirt." He snaps me out of my lustful reverie, shaking the shirt he's holding behind his back.

Oopsie.

I guess I spent a little too much time contemplating his inked-up awesomeness.

"Just a sec," I tell him, realizing I need to take my dress off first. I slip the wide straps off my shoulders, and they fall to my sides, leaving everything above my waist exposed. I smirk, because I'm topless right in front of—er, behind—my biggest crush, and he can't turn around to see it. I shimmy the dress over my hips, rustling the fabric as much as possible, so he knows exactly what I'm doing, then step out of it.

When I'm, yet again, in just my sandals and panties, I take the shirt from his hand and slip it over my head. It fit him like a good hug, but it hangs loosely on me and is the same short length as my dress.

"Ok, I'm all covered up, since you insisted on it."

"Thank god." When he turns back around, he snatches the dress from me and walks over to the hand dryer, looking at me as little as possible. "Now let's get this dry, so you can leave. I'm sure you have somewhere you'd rather be."

I hop up to sit on the counter and start kicking my legs back and forth, enjoying my hunky, shirtless view. Sure, I could stick to my original plan and go to the party. But why would I do that, when I'm having so much fun right here?

"So, Caleb. Are you going to the party tonight, like you did last year?" Also, does he know how precariously his jeans hang off his hips? Why, all it would take is a strong gust of wind—or a horny, eighteen-year-old girl—and they would just slide right off.

"You know I was there."

That was concise. Ok, so it's up to me to carry the conversation. Lucky for us, I'm good at chit chat.

"I was surprised. The techies usually don't go to the cast parties. We invite them every year, but I think they have their own thing after shows. Do you go to their parties, too?"

"No. I don't socialize with kids outside of work." Ouch. He probably sees me as a kid, too. I'd kill to have the chance to change that perception.