Untitled, or “How A Russian Playwright Had a Hand in the Seduction o[f] [M]y Dumb Ass.”

In the short time between now and when this happened, I’ve regaled a lot of my friends with this story. My female friends, in particular, love it because it’s a testament to how neurotic and awkward I am. One of my friends (If you’re reading this, MG, I hope you’re fucking happy) suggested that I post this online, mentioning this subreddit.

This probably reads like awful fan fiction (do you read that too, MG?) but I’ll try to do it justice regardless of fluctuating verbal tense. I’m Pat, by the way.

So I attend a major southeastern University. It’s the start of spring semester and I’m enrolled in “Advanced Acting II” to fulfill requirements for my theater minor. We meet twice a week. I’m not apart of the campus theater community so no one in the class knows who I am. I also make it known during our first class that I’m not majoring in Theater—which doesn’t sit well with anyone, seeing as it’s an “advanced” acting class. Theater majors don’t like outsiders or the uninitiated and they make that as conspicuous as they can.

Everyone in the class is paired up to act out four separate scenes throughout the semester. The partners and scenes are assigned by our instructor. (Random tidbit: she’s a former TV actress best known for her supporting role on an early ‘80s drama that aired on NBC). Every scene has a ‘premiere date’ when we must perform the scene in front of our instructor and our classmates for examination and review. Classes leading up to these ‘premiere dates’ are essentially allotted rehearsal times in our ‘lab theater’ with the instructor. She watches and gives us feedback. She stresses though that if we want our scenes to ‘click’, we need to spend extra time rehearsing outside of class.

My first partner is Martin. He and I are assigned a scene from “Take Me Out” where a homophobic baseball player (me) fresh out of the shower, confronts his recently outed teammate (Martin). I’m frightened when I’m told the scene will require Martin and I wear nothing but our underwear on stage. The scene is supposed to take place in a clubhouse.

I grin and bear it and just accept what’s expected of me. Even though it will barely make a difference, I up the jogging to twice a day and throw in a 10-minute block of pushups every night before bed in the three weeks leading up. In addition to that, Martin and I both put forth a lot of effort, meeting up as much as possible outside of class to hone the scene.

Our premiere date arrives and we knock it out the park. We receive an ‘A’ for the scene. Everyone else performs their respective scenes and just as I break away to put on some clothes in the theater restroom, the instructor evidently begins to assign partners and their second scenes. By the time I’m dressed and out of the restroom, the lab theater is empty save for two people. My instructor is gathering her belongings to leave.

“Pat, we thought you left!”

“Sorry, I was getting dressed.”

“Your second scene is from ‘Ivanov’ by Anton Chekhov. Marielle here has the page numbers, she’s your partner for the scene.”

I have trouble putting names to faces, even with the small class. Before this introduction, the only thing that stuck out to me about Marielle was her distracting resemblance to Winona Ryder. ‘Dracula’ Winona Ryder, not Shoplifting-phase Winona Ryder or ‘Beetlejuice’ Winona Ryder. Marielle is yoga-thin, 5’8” I’d wager, light brown hair trussed in a ponytail, light brown eyes. Trendy dresser. She waits til our instructor leaves. A testament to how smooth I am, I… apologize for being in the bathroom while the second scenes were assigned.

She laughs. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” I get bashful and shrug my shoulders and eyebrows with the veracity of someone with parkinson's.

“Do you have your phone on you?” she asks.

“No, sorry. I can give you my number, though, it’s really easy to remember.”

“Do you have any paper?” she asks.

“I, uh, like, notebook paper?”

She nods, a pursed smile. I don’t bring my backpack to this class, so the answer’s no. She retrieves a pen from her handbag. She grabs my wrist.

“Can I?” She asks. I don’t know what she’s asking but I nod anyway. She pulls on my hand, turning it palm up, holds it firmly and begins jotting down her phone number. Underneath, the page numbers. She keeps a steady grip on it with one hand, drops the pen back in her purse with the other.

“Now, Pat, I have to get to my next class,” she explains. “You’re going to call me at this number tonight, and we’re going to discuss the scene, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have time to call every night?”

“Do you think that’s needed?”

She laughs. “You want this scene to be perfect, don’tcha?”

She drops my hand and makes her way towards the exit. She congratulates me on my scene with Martin. I head to the campus library to check out a copy of “Ivanov.” Later that night, I call her for the first time. We discuss what happens in the scene. If you didn’t bother clicking the hyperlink, here’s my quick, philistine summary: Ivanov, the title character, is married to this chick Anna for her family fortune. Unfortunately, her family disowns her for converting from judaism to Russian orthodox. Then she gets sick with TB and broke-ass Ivanov can’t afford to pay for her treatment because the shithead’s in debt. Also, there’s this chick Sasha who wants Ivanov’s balls like a motherfucker.

Marielle is playing Sasha.

We read through the scene: Sasha drops by Ivanov’s house to confront him about not visiting her, all the while his sick wife is upstairs. The conversation gradually digresses from the context of the scene to us just getting to know each other. Marielle confirms my suspicions that most of the people in the class don’t like me because I’m not a theater major. She reveals to me that out-of-class rehearsal is going to be difficult; she’s busy studying for her nursing exam and she co-teaches a Yoga class twice a week. Oh, and she lives out in the boonies with her mom and her two-year-old daughter who naturally takes up a lot of her free time.

“Are you married?”

She laughs. “Why?”

I’m just wondering, I’m nosey like that. If she has a kid at 23, it’s not uncommon. Of course instead of saying that, I stammer like fucking Stuttering John which makes her laugh even more.

“Nope, nope, I’m single.”

After that conversation, we text each other back and forth, leading into the weekend. Idle chit chat. Not once discussing the scene. Brief exchanges: “Hey, what r u doing?” “Nothing, you?” “Same.” The stream of text ends as soon as it begins. That doesn’t count as flirting, does it?

The following week, the in-class rehearsals begin. The instructor dictates that the scene needs some “physicality” and that it is my character who has to initiate it. I ask her what that means, she crooks her eyebrow…as if I should know what that entails. Once the class is dismissed, Marielle storms out of class without a word. Later that night around 11pm, I get a text from her. She tells me to meet her at 4pm at the lab theater, so we can rehearse. Apparently there’s no class in there around that time. I text back “I’ll be there.”

4pm, the next day, I’m there. The door to the lab theater is ajar.

And no one’s there. I sit on the stage. After 45 minutes, I give Marielle a call. She doesn’t answer. It’s now 5pm, still no Marielle. I leave the lab theater, irked.

I’m passing the library when I receive a call. Marielle asks where I was at the moment. I curtly tell her I’m passing the library, going back home. She perks up. “Awesome! I’ll pick you you up!” Call ends. Less than a minute later, I’m startled by a sequence of honks. Behind me, a red Ford Focus flashing its highbeams. I climb in.

“Sorry,” she says. “Took longer to get ready than expected.” I give her a few quick glances. She’s wearing a purple headband, a black hooded sweatshirt, and dark purple yoga pants. “Are you hungry?” I’m hungry!” She drives like fucking Batman to the main road that runs through the campus. Just as she pulls into a spot outside an O’Charleys restaurants, she casually mentions she’s skipping her Yoga class.

Soon as we’re seated, Marielle orders a beer. When I order a Diet Pepsi, she asks if I drink or not. I don’t.

“Such a good boy you are, Pat!” she coos. She then flexes her self-awareness and asks me to guess what celebrity she’s often compared to.

“I dunno, but you were great in Edward Scissorhands.”

A hearty laugh, then she finishes off her drink. She waves down the waiter, orders a Chicken Caesar Salad, then orders another beer. Naively, I ask if she’s going to be any shape to rehearse. “Oh, Pat, there’s no way we’re not rehearsing” she says. As she nurses her second beer, she asks what celebrity I’m often compared to. I refer to the Celebrity Doppelganger trend that occurred on Facebook four or five years before, explaining mine was Ted Bundy which at the time was met with much agreement. She laughs so hard she snorts.

“You have better teeth and better hair, though” she says.

Her salad arrives. She asks the most traumatizing thing that has ever happened to me. Weren’t we supposed to be rehearsing a scene for acting class?? I tell her it was the death of one of my parents at 16. We chat about that, then she opens up about her daughter, how raising her with her mother is a pain in the ass, how nursing school is immensely hard, how her mom just wants her to drop out and be a full time mom etc, etc. We casually trade hardships that we been through, but it’s not like a pissing contest or anything. We’re just opening up some more to each other.

She takes a bite of her salad, points the fork at me. “See, we should channel all this into our scene,” she says. “Speaking of which, where are we going to rehearse?”

“I thought we were doing this at the lab theater.”

She shrugs. “Well, it’s approaching 6, so it’s too late for that. And my daughter’s napping at my mom’s house so we can’t practice there.”

I pretend like I’m thinking hard about an alternative, hand on my chin, narrowing my eyes. She asks where I live again.

“5 minutes away.”

“Do you have an open space, like a living room that’s unoccupied where we can rehearse?”

I live in a two bedroom apartment. A third roommate has blocked off the living room with drapes and poles, so I explain that’s not really practical.

“Are you alright with rehearsing in your bedroom?” she asks.

“As long as I explain to my roommates that we’re rehearsing something for class and we may be loud.”

She signals for her check.

We’re back in her car, and three minutes later we enter my apartment. I briefly introduce Marielle to Jay, the only roommate there at the time. He’s in our tiny kitchen eating a bowl of Special K. I usher Marielle into my room and look over my shoulder to catch Jay BUG-EYED, his cheeks engorged with cereal, nodding at me. As he chews, he starts smiling. I roll my eyes. Nothing’s going to happen.

I forget to close the door. Marielle wonders aloud if I’m worried about being along with her. She palms the door shut.

She whips off her hoodie, She’s got a black tanktop on underneath.

She sinks down to the floor into a pretzel stance. I grab a copy of “Ivanov” from my backpack and I sit opposite her. First we start off testing each other on our respective lines. It takes about 30 minutes before we can both read through the scene verbatim without referring to the book. We’re back on our feet, and begin working out the blocking. We go through the motions of acting out the scene. Half way through, Marielle breaks character.

“This is pretty bland,” she says. “We’re just standing here, delivering our lines. [The instructor] is not going to go for this. We need more movement!”

“Okay, well, what should I do?” I ask.

“Well, we got to change it up.”

I start thinking. “Okay, [the instructor] said I got to get physical.”

Marielle nods, places her hands on her hips.

“You have any ideas?”

She slightly bites into her bottom lip. She puffs her chest out. I look down at her chest then realize I can make out her nipples under the fabric, and quickly make eye contact with her as if I didn’t just blatantly look her chest. All with the cadence of Uncle Fester.

“I guess I can throttle you when I declare your actions (showing up unannounced) as ‘thoughtless and unkind.’”

I grab her by the arms and shake her to demonstrate. She laughs and places her hands on my chest.

“That’s a good suggestion, but that’s not what she meant,” she suggests.

I let go of her. I’m catching on. “Like, kissing you maybe?” I ask.

She flashes a sheepish grin. “Are you okay with that, Pat?”

I take a step back, trying to roadblock the blood circulating towards my dick.

“Well, when in the scene would I kiss you?”

She walks by me and bends over to scoop up the book lying on the floor. I get my first clear view of her backside, defined wonderfully by the yoga pants stretched across her ass.

She stands up, book open, thumbing through the pages. She hands it to me, points to the line. “When I say ‘The more a girl can do, the greater her love will be; that is, I mean, the more she feels it’…”

“Kiss you?”

“Kiss me.”

I take a sharp breath and nod. We start from the top of the scene. We go through the beginning; I even throw in the throttling. My cue is at the very end of a monologue. I ready myself like a kid about to jump into a frigid swimming pool.

“The more a girl can do,” Morielle says. “the greater her love will be; that is, I mean…the more she feels it…”

I step towards her and lean in. My lips crash into hers. Immediately, her arms rope around my neck as she pulls herself further into the kiss. It’s definitely passionate and seems natural. She’s nips at my lips, managing to grab a hold of my bottom lip and tugs. This is when I’m reminded that we’re rehearsing a scene. I break away.

“The love that accomplishes things,” I tell her. “That is a fairy tale, a girl's dream; and yet, perhaps it is as it should be.”

I continue, we through the three remaining lines, and that’s the scene. It goes silent. I plop down on the edge of my bed, positioned alongside the the wall. Marielle picks the book up off the floor and flips through it. She saunters over, standing over me, her eyes in the book. I look up at her waiting for her cue. As she presumably reads over the scene, I take this time to silently congratulate myself for not getting a blistering hard-on while we kissed.

Suddenly, Marielle looks away the book and down at me. A smile breaks out on her face. She drops the book and leans down and kisses me on the lips. Her hands hold my face in place as she kisses.

I pull away and, I swear to God, as oblivious as the day is long, I ask if we are rehearsing the scene again. She stands straight up. Her mouth opens like she’s going to laugh, but she settles on just smiling.

“No, Pat,” she tells my dumbass. “We’re not rehearsing again.”

She pulls off her headband and drops it at her feet. Her hair falls to her shoulders. She reaches down and lifts up her tanktop by the hem and brings it up over her face, exposing her naked chest. She balls it up and tosses it over her shoulder.

“Scoot back,” she orders.

I scoot across my single bed until my back hits the wall. In the time it takes for Marielle to climb onto my bed, I refuse to believe this chick has had a baby. No visible scars or marks.

She straddles me. Sitting down on my lap, she grabs a fistful of my shirt. She holds me in place as she kisses my lips, my neck, my jawline. I have no idea what in the fuck to do with my awkward hands so I start stroking the curvature of her taut back, then travel over her thighs, before grabbing two handfuls of her ass. She moans into my mouth. I do something totally out of character for me–I take one hand and spank her backside as hard as I can. She jolts, screeching into my lips…tightens her grip on my shirt.

She sways her body to the right, pulling me from my seated position. Now I’m on top of her. As we’re making out, she kicks her legs in an effort to shed her flip flops. One after the other, they launch into the air. One ricochets off the rather-low ceiling perfectly and clocks me in the back of the fucking head. Mid kiss, She bursts out laughing. I sit up on my knees and feel around for what just hit me. She sits up, hooks me around the neck and flips me over on my back.

She slides down my body and begins pushing up my shirt. She kisses my exposed stomach and starts moving upwards. Soon as my shirt reaches my chest, she breaks away and runs her tongue along my ribcage. For good measure, she smears the butt of her palm over my jeans, right over my erect dick like she’s rolling dough while her tongue runs up my side. Instinctively, the dual sensations prompt me to try and sit up like a total dumbass. Her free hand pushes against my sternum forcing me to lie back down. She fights to pull my arms out of the sleeves. She leaves my shirt pooled around my neck and plants kisses along my chest and shoulders. She works her way up back up my neck and to my lips.

She sits up and stars to undo my jeans, I keep telling myself that this wasn’t my plan and I had no ulterior motives. I just wanted to get a good grade on the scene. I’m not taking advantage of this girl. Am I taking advantage of this girl? Hey, man, she’s seduced me.

I realize I’m over thinking it. Before she can continue with her agenda, I bring her down by the chin and plant a rough kiss on her. I flip her on her back, my bed squeaking with every move we make. My roommate HAS to know what’s going on now. His room is right next to mine.

She giggles while I snake down her body. I quickly discard the shirt around my neck. I come face to face with her chest. She runs a hand through my hair and I do what’s probably the absolute corniest bit of foreplay in the history of coitus–I write out the alphabet with my tongue on her breasts. (Doesn’t really scream ‘sexy’ but I tried it on the girl who took my virginity and she told me I should never remove that from my arsenal.)

I’m torturous with the time I take. I’m up to F on the left breast before I reach up for a kiss then descend on the right breast. I’m slow with my laps of my tongue. Delicate, faint strokes. The bud of her nipple is hardening under the tip. She’s so tense with anticipation. She’s now gripping onto my hair with one hand, biting on her knuckle, breathing through her nose. Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling with them. If that makes any sense.

I write the spine of the letter ‘P’ and make a backwards c…ending it with a flick over her nipple. She squirms underneath me.

“P’s for ‘Patrick’.”

She laughs. “I should have asked: do you prefer Pat or Patrick?”

I shrug my shoulders and take her nipple and gently pull. She arches her back slightly off the mattress. I return to the left breast and continue my ABCs. In the bottom of my eyes, I can see her hands sneak down between us towards her yoga pants. She peels back the waistband. I rapidly finish up ‘Z’ and sit up on my knees. She lifts her ass and legs off the bed, I grab the fabric on both sides and tug. She’s suddenly and completely naked. When asked, she tells me she doesn’t wear underwear she practices yoga.

She plays with herself for a moment, then she beckons me with the same fingers. I shimmy out of my unbuttoned jeans. She pulls me ontop of her. She reaches down the backside of my boxers for a quick grab of my ass…then returns to the favor, giving my ass a loud spank. I’m so god damn awkward that I say “Thank you.” We lock lips again. As we kiss, she pulls my boxers down just enough so my entire ass is hanging out…and basically starts playing the fucking bongos. Slapping the skins, if you will. Meanwhile my diamond-hard dick is pinned between the mattress and her soaking wet pussy. She laughs into my lips, her eyes are totally lit up as we look at each other. She’s genuinely enjoying this. It’s sweet. I crack a smile. Then the record scratches.

I break our embrace. I scoot away from her. I probably look like a deer in headlights. She leans up on her elbows, looking concerned.

“What???”

“I don’t have a condom.”

I never get laid so I don’t have any lying around. Up until this point, I’ve only been with two people. And even that is ancient history.

We remain still. Silent. I ask if she’s on the pill.

“What if you just pull out before you cum?” she asks, ignoring my question.

FUCK THAT. I’m not going to risk giving this chick another kid before her mid twenties.

“I’d prefer not to.”

“What about your roommate? Would he have any?”

I raise my eyebrows at that suggestion. She cups her hand around her mouth.

“I think he knows we’re having sex.” she whispers sarcastically. She smiles, looking just sexy as all hell…resting on her elbows, her chest rising, legs crossed the shins. I glance down at her shaved pussy. That’s enough to convince me right there that asking my roommate for a condom is a fantastic idea. I pull up my boxers and exit the room. I knock on Jay’s closed door.

It swings open. Jay is standing in his jeans, shirtless. I peer into his room, his girlfriend Laramie is sitting on his futon reading a magazine. I have no clue when she showed up. Jay looks at me, puzzled… up and down..doesn’t say anything. He looks over at Laramie; she’s just shaking her head at the sight of me in my underwear.

“I need a condom.”

Jay laughs. He doubles over, his hands on his knees. He feigns a heart attack, clutching his chest. He’s cackling at me while I stand there outside his bedroom door in nothing but my boxers. He continues to laugh as he walks over to his night stand, reaches behind it, and pulls out the BIGGEST FUCKING BOX OF CONDOMS I’VE EVER SEEN. You know those boxes that hold 24 cans of Diet Coke? Jay has one of those filled with nothing but Lifestyles.

He pulls out a handful of condoms and tosses them at me like he’s playing fucking Craps. I squat down to pick them up off the floor.

“You’re the best, dude, I owe you one.” He slams the door shut, still laughing.

I rush back into my room, shutting the door behind me. I drop the condoms on the floor save for one which I tear open with my teeth. Marielle hops off the bed immediately and pulls down my boxers. She backs up against the edge of the bed and lies down as I smooth the condom over the tip of my dick. I step out of the boxers pooled around my feet and climb on top of her.

She ropes her legs around my waist. I align my dick and I slowly slide into her.

“Sorry if it’s not tight,” she says.

I reach down and stroke her face and plant a soft kiss on her lips. She hooks her ankles and brings me in deeper. Her mouth is agape.

She thrusts sharply into me. The folds of her wet pussy run up my shaft. My eyes nearly shoot out of my fucking skull. I panic for a brief second that she may have slid the condom off. Not to be outdone at this point, I pull my dick out three-fourths the way out then slam into her with all my might. She gasps. She squeezes her eyes shut. I feel her sink further into the mattress. I remain in her then start working my hips into a circular rhythm. The moaning starts.

I swear I can hear Jay on the opposite side of the wall, trying not to laugh.

Her hands are back on my ass, embedding her nails. It HURTS so I retaliate with rapid-fire thrusts, maybe five or six.

“Pat, oh my God, oh my God.”

I definitely hear Jay laugh. It makes me laugh. Her eyes snap open. She laughs. She reaches up and grabs a hold of my neck to pull herself up. I shift forward onto my knees and sit up. Now I’m holding her in my arms. She starts literally hopping in place, repeatedly dropping her soaked pussy into my lap, sheathing and unsheathing my dick in this awesome, euphoric, seemingly neverending loop.

The springs in my mattress are screeching, the bedframe is rattling. Up and down, up and down, up and down she goes. I land a kiss everytime she comes down on my dick.

My knees start to burn from being in this position. I fall onto my back. Seamlessly, she follows me. Now riding me, she braces herself…placing her hands firmly on the mattress. Her pelvis is sliding back and forth, her pussy pulling on my dick in every which direction. I sense that all familiar tingle.

“Marielle, you got to slow down” I say, “I’m about to fucking go.”

“This…feels…so…amazing,” she pants, ignoring me.

“Marielle!”

I grab her by slender hips, just trying to get her attention at this point. I guess she misinterprets this as a plea to go faster. Which she obliges.

What’s about to happen is unavoidable.

“Marielle!!” I scream.

She slaps her hand down on my face. She looks right into my eyes.

“Just SHUT UP and fucking CUM!!!” she bellows.

It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

She’s in warp speed. She rides as fast as she can with her hand still over my face. I come unglued under her and release.

I groan. I can feel the condom just fill up inside her. She scales back from 150mph to 10, slowly rolling her pussy a few more times…bringing it all to a finish. She collapses on top of me. Her heart pounding on top of mine.

She reaches down and removes my dick from her.

We just breathe. I start worrying whether or not she got off. We spend two minutes in silence before I work up the courage to ask her.

“After your first thrust,” she says with a smile “It doesn’t take much, it’s pretty easy to get me off. No offense.”

“I, uh, can relate.” She laughs and kisses me. She hops off the bed and walks to the middle of the room. She drops down to the floor and starts doing yoga stretches, still naked.

“Start from the top?” she asks, contorting her body.

It takes a moment for me to register my thoughts.

“Sasha,” I ask. “Is that you?”

We run through the scene again.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/37u722/untitled_or_how_a_russian_playwright_had_a_hand