Performing Sex Scenes on Stage – Ultimate job satisfaction (30f) [FM]

Let me preface this anecdote by stating unequivocally that I am *not* an actress, nor for that matter have I ever held any particularly strong aspirations toward becoming one. Learning lines is a tedious and torturous exercise comparable only to last minute panicked exam revision, while actually acting in front of an audience tends to offer all the enjoyment and thrill of a particularly intense and violent stress migraine. Plus the whole ‘acting’ thing requires a degree of actual skill and talent which, if I’m honest, seems to largely elude me. (This may all be simple false modesty. In one early school production I was reviewed as ‘adequately portrays the character…’ High praise indeed, I’m sure you’ll agree.)

However, University is nothing if not a time for experimentation and pushing one’s boundaries so, being the arty, creative and largely unbearable type, I signed up to various performing societies. The less that is said about my so-called ‘Dramatic’ performances the better, as I quickly realised my forte was very much crafting the words rather than delivering them.

My favourite of these groups was simultaneously the most ridiculous and amongst the most pretentiously middle class pursuits I’ve ever embarked upon – a sketch comedy collective.

Yes, I know. I can *hear* the cringing already.

In my defence – and taking it as read that we were young idiots who didn’t know better – we were a lot less shit than we could have been. We were at the very least self aware of how pretentious and awful Student Sketch Comedy could be, and did our very best to avoid it.

To protect the innocent, I won’t use the real name of our group in case there’s any trace of us remaining on the internet, so will instead only refer to us by the name I suggested but which was cruelly overlooked – The Soggy Biscotti.

I joined principally as part of the production team, chiefly with an eye to editing sketches and making them be less shit. This would often result in me simply writing them from scratch and instead making them differently shit in a whole new and exciting fashion.

I’d also – infrequently – perform too. I preferred not to wherever possible, but sometimes there’d be a sketch which I knew I could nail or, more commonly, which I was *told* I was the right fit for. I’d sometimes argue the toss, but usually would end up performing and to my own surprise enjoying it.

But enough preamble. I’m sure the comings and goings of my University social life aren’t what brought you to this post so, fear not, I’ll now skip to where it gets (relatively) interesting.

The Soggy Biscotti’s big show for the year featured a running gag series of sketches written by me about a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It was intended as something of a lampooning of the unbearable ‘new relationship’ constant fawning over a partner of which I’m sure we’ve all had to witness friends enact. Naturally this was taken to an absurd extreme in that our two characters – Roger and Virginia – would spontaneously engage in lewd sexual acts in inappropriate situations, entirely unable to resist.

Yes, it was somewhat semi-autobiographical.

Essentially these two characters would keep popping up (pun somewhat intended) throughout the show, including Python style in other unrelated sketches, fucking each other. Honestly, it was funnier that it sounds.

I’d written the sketches very much with two members of the group in mind to play the roles. However, to my surprise the director informed me in no uncertain terms that in fact *I* should play Virginia. Partially because he felt it would be unfair for him to subject some other poor soul through the ridiculous sketches I’d written, but mostly because;

“You and Dave are the only combination anyone would probably want to imagine having sex.”

I chose to take that as a compliment.

Dave was handsome leading man material. Not that sketch groups have a leading man, but in the sense that he was so phenomenally enjoyable to look at he was always placed front and centre of the posters. It was no secret that everyone very much fancied Dave. Several newcomers had joined the group purely hoping to catch his eye, only to leave as soon as they discovered he had a girlfriend and apparently no interest in being swayed.

As such I had mixed feelings about now being informed I was to have repeated simulated sex scenes with him. So near to your heart’s desire and yet so far. It was the ultimate cruelty.

Rehearsing such scenes is as unbearably awkward as you’d probably imagine. Performing ‘comedy’ simulated sex in front of a responsive and laughing audience is one thing – there’s actual gratification there, albeit in a way that very much confuses the brain! – but in a cold rehearsal room with only friends present who all know the gags and don’t find them funny, it’s truly agonising and, let me assure you, not *remotely* arousing, regardless how attractive the man pretending to fuck you from behind may be.

Mercifully, we both were able to lean into the awkwardness and find it funny. Had we not, I genuinely believe the sketches would have cut, or we’d never have been able to look each other in the eye again.

But then came the performances. And a live audience really does change everything.

I’ll not bore you with the full details of the sketches, but suffice to say the show included more half a dozen appearances of the pair of us simulating increasingly graphic sexual acts including me wanking him off under a towel, him enthusiastically grasping and moulding my tits while I attempted pottery, me riding him on a surfboard, him fucking me from behind in several increasingly absurd circumstances and, my personal favourite, a scene in which I’m on my knees in front of him pretending to give him a blowjob while he enthusiastically tells me how excited he is for me to meet his parents. They then arrive and I leap up to stand politely beside him. As he introduced me I smile and say hello, allowing the yogurt I’ve been holding in my mouth the entire time to spill down me…

High brow stuff, as you can tell.

The first performance went without a hitch. First night’s are mostly relief that you’re getting laughs and assurance that the sketches work. Plus everyone is far too nervous to allow rogue thoughts to slip in. Plus you need all your wits about you for the momentous piss-up that ensues.

But then the second night follows. Everyone is far more relaxed. You know the show works. You’re now less anxiety ridden than you’ll not remember what your supposed to say. You can actually *enjoy* yourself.

Which is precisely what started to happen.

I first noticed it during the handjob sketch. I simulate wanking him off so all an audience sees is my hand action bobbing up and down beneath a towel. To avoid awkwardness I’d always done this slightly higher on his torso than was anatomically accurate so that I wasn’t simply pummelling his cock. But as I was going through the motions I felt my hand brush against something. I was delivering lines at the time so didn’t have time to really process what it might have been, so I thought nothing more of it.

Actually, that’s not true. I idly wondered in between sketches if I’d accidentally grazed his cock, but tried very hard *not* to think about it.

Next came the pottery sketch in which he sits behind me ‘Ghost’ style and feels up my tits while I fashion something phallic out of clay. (High brow, remember?) Now during rehearsals he’d been a little tentative about this scene given that it involved the actual manhandling of a tactile piece of my anatomy, but I’d told him that the more he went for it the funnier it would look.

And I was right. It got big laughs.

But, entirely unexpectedly, it also got big nips.

There he was, grabbing and groping and squeezing my tits and – hello – suddenly my nipples decide to join in despite not once having shown the slightest inclination to get involved during any part of the rehearsal process. But now, with his hands firmly around them, there was no way he could possibly not notice.

And now it was a vicious circle. Because now they were the tactile and sensitive friend at the party. He continued to mash and rub, and I no longer had to do any acting to pretend to be turned on.

Once the sketch ended I apologised to him profusely as we left the stage. He was equally apologetic but I couldn’t for the life of me think why. We then parted ways to prepare for another sketch.

During one of the doggy style scenes I discovered the reason for his apology. I wasn’t the only one becoming unintentionally aroused. From the second ‘thrust’ I felt something unmistakable prod against my arse; a fully covered but clearly erect cock.

The immediacy must’ve taken him unawares as it made him fluff a line.

The scene continued with him trying to angle things so he wasn’t rubbing his protrusion against me. However, given he was slamming his own hips into mine, there wasn’t really anywhere else he could go. The more he tried to avoid it, the more obvious it became.

This time it was Dave who was full of apology as we left the stage. He seemed almost distraught, but I assured him it was nothing to worry about.

I didn’t think it would be appropriate for me to let slip that I’d rather perversely enjoyed it!

The final ‘yogurt’ scene proved to be both the funniest and most conclusive. Simulating a blowjob on stage meant I had to have my face very near his crotch with my hands firmly on his hips while I motioned my head back and forth. This continued beneath quite a lengthy monologue which meant I was there for some time.

There, inches from his boxershort covered cock, watching it slowly harden through the material. By the time it reached the punchline it was almost poking me in the eye.

After the show there were many, *many* more apologies from Dave, and assurances he’d be more professional the following show. I tried to reassure him I just found it funny…

…Before I got home, witnessed the biblical flood that had seemingly occurred in my own underwear, and masturbated with a ferocity the likes of which can be matched by so few instances I could count them on one hand. Or at least could if that hand hadn’t been occupied.

The following night’s performance proved to be hysterical. During the initial handjob sketch I thought he must’ve discovered his inner libido killer, as my hand went ungrazed. It would take several more sketches into the show before I discovered why.

During the riding sketch he seemed unusually uncomfortable. I was worried I’d perhaps sat on him strangely and hurt him, or perhaps bounced and inadvertently crushed a testicle – though I hadn’t felt anything. As we left the stage I discovered precisely what had occurred as he reached down his trousers and, with eyes watering, pulled free some surgical tape.

In a valiant and chivalrous attempt to avoid prodding me with his erection, he’d ‘tucked’ – which is to say he’d taped his cock down to his underside, a trick usually performed by drag queens.

There’d been just two fatal flaws to his plan.

First, he hadn’t done it very well. Seemingly things had been pulled taught, but not very securely.

Secondly, he’d discovered that actually becoming aroused while tucked was a *deeply* unpleasant experience. Some things just aren’t meant to be held back. And throw in the ripping of tape and the presence of some sensitive hairs and you have a recipe for unpleasantness.

The resulting discomfort kept all but the most determined of semi away for the remained of the show.

In the aftermath we had a full and frank discussion wherein I resolutely informed him that I’d rather have him prod me with his embarrassment than have him actually hurt himself. I once again thought it best not to mention my active enjoyment of the sensation.

And thus the production continued. I’d feel his excited cock press into me from all manner of angles, and he’d get to feel up my tits while my erect nipples cast little doubt as to my enjoyment of proceedings.

Naturally, something had to give.

I maintain that technically *he* started it. During one night’s tit-grabbing he suddenly started focusing *far* more on the nipples. Not in a way that was noticeable by the audience, but I could feel him squeezing and tugging on them, relishing their sensitivity.

He meanwhile tells that *I* was the instigator. Under the towel I moved my handjob placement so rather than striking his leg with every motion, I was fully bringing my hand down on top of his cock.

No one denies both occurred. Only the order in which they happened is disputed.

It was a clear escalation. A sign of what was to come. (Pun intended)

But the tricky thing with escalation is; it’s near impossible to know where to stop.

Dave broke first. He denies it, but he’s not here to defend himself so I’m afraid you’re stuck with *my* version of events (I.e. the accurate one!)

Towards the end of the show I appeared in a sketch which appeared entirely unrelated to the ‘fucking couple’ saga. The jokes were terrible and it was a crap scene but the *punchline* was that it I’d stand up and it was revealed that I’d been sat on Dave’s face for the duration – Surprise, it was the fucking couple after all!

It’s a better visual gag than it reads written, trust me.

For this sketch I’m wearing a length skirt and sat on the end of an obscured bench, while Dave is positioned beneath me, obfuscated by both set and skirt. Usually I would position myself to be essentially sat on his chest, with him very much *outside* of the skirt – when I stand up it appears as though he was beneath it regardless, so it was felt there was no need so make him any more uncomfortable than was strictly necessary.

However, on this occasion, thanks to our ever escalating game of sexual chicken, he’d decided to go method instead. Rather than assuming the usual position, he adjusted himself so as to be actually *beneath* my skirt. Only some large and exceptionally unflattering ‘sturdy for quick changes’ stage underwear separated Dave’s face from where I’d spent every evening since the show had begun fondly imagining him exploring.

I was surprised, but took it in my stride. I briefly clenched his face between my thighs as a ‘I know what you’re doing’ gesture, and then like the true professional that I’m very much not, I got on with the scene, fondly imagining this was as far as this particular tease would escalate.

I was wrong.

Reader, I’d imagine that in literally any other circumstances on earth, being lightly nuzzled and tongued through thick and unflattering underwear would be near catastrophically un-erotic. But let me assure that it’s phenomenally difficult to deliver crap jokes while a handsome man does it to you on stage. While it’s true I could barely feel him – escalation aside, he was being subtle – the lightest of touches was all it took to send my head into quite the spin.

I survived the scene – missing only a handful of gags due to well timed caresses – and, despite the incredibly smug look on his face as we left the stage, decided to pass no comment. Nor did I reference it throughout the remainder of the show.

He thought he’d gone too far. Which meant he’d let his guard down.

I waited until the following show before I got my own back.

The second appearance of the Fucking Couple was a simple sketch in which the basic premise was ‘Why is it you only get people coming to the door when you’re in a towel?’

I’ll remind you now that this was written years ago. Comedy was simpler back in those halcyon days!

Dave’s character was supposedly fresh out of the shower and thusly only wearing a towel around his waist – a sight which never failed to elicit wolf whistles from thirsty audience members – only to have to deal with increasingly bizarre callers at the front door. One of them is me. Cue comedy erection. And then the scene needlessly continued with *more* callers, only now I’m seemingly wanking him off for the duration.

I’d say again this was funnier visually than when read, but in all honesty it reads about as well as it played.

Dave would wear his boxers beneath the towel to preserve his modesty backstage, and also held a spoon on a stick he would deploy to cause the comedy ‘massive erection’ upon my entrance. He’d then lie down, and I’d simulate a handjob beneath the towel while we took it in turns to fob off the absurd callers; Deliveries, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Charity Collectors, etc.

All very silly and innocent.

Except in the wake of face-sitting-gate, I needed revenge. And I knew precisely how I would get it.

The scene played out as normal – the only difference being Dave still looked somewhat more apologetic than usual after the previous performance – but instead of grabbing the spoon, I went for the kill.

I reached under the towel, pushed the spoon down, and grabbed his cock instead.

Through his boxers initially. But it didn’t take much in the way of exaggerated handjob motion for it to soon escape for real.

This was all masked entirely by the towel, and I didn’t so much as add an extra beat to a single line of dialogue for the duration. I simply continued the scene and the audience were none the wiser that I too had gone method, and was wanking Dave off for real.

Well, the audience might not have known from *my* performance. Dave’s was another story altogether. Apparently having his cock in my hand was enough to leave him fluffing lines left, right and centre. Thankfully the nature of the scene was such that his character is mean to be distracted and barely paying attention, so it all played as simply part of the act.

(It’s why I chose that scene in particular. For all I wanted revenge, I wouldn’t indulge at the expense of a bad show!)

After a minute or so of stroking Dave for real, the sketch was over. As we walked off stage he was both dumbfounded and speechless.

I wasn’t.

“Want me to finish what I started? We’ve got five minutes before we’re on again…” I said, aiming for coy and casual but almost certainly sounding more like one of the thirsty wolf whistlers in the audience.

He didn’t so much say ‘yes’, as simply grunt in a speechless yet simultaneously enthusiastic and affirmative manner. At least I took it to be an affirmative given he swiftly grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me into the dressing room bathroom. Inside he finally spoke;

“We need to sort this out right now. There’s no way I’m letting you make me jizz in my pants on stage!”

Such a romantic.

Knowing time was very much of the essence I pulled down his trousers and boxers in one swift and well practiced motion, and got my first proper look at the cock that had spent five nights poking against me live on stage.

Sometimes in life you can encounter a disparity between the senses. You can make assumptions based on one which can easily prove to be entirely misplaced. I’d felt Dave prod and poke me from multiple angles on numerous occasions and as such had created an image in my mind’s eye as to what Dave Jnr would look like.

Reader, I had grossly underestimated. Not in length, but in *girth*.

At the peak of his tumescence Dave was – I exaggerate not – very nearly the thickness of my wrist.

It was my turn to be momentarily rendered speechless, much to Dave’s delight. He was wearing the face of a seasoned veteran to this near ‘deer in headlights’ reaction.

However, my pause was momentary. There was work to be done and the clock was ticking.

I was immediately gratified to see my on stage work hadn’t been redundant, as the tip of his cock was already glistening with pre-cum. So, without further ado, I took a firm hold and started stroking.

Three minutes in to the impromptu session, just as I was starting to build the pace and intensity, Dave apparently buckled to some internal pressure.

“I have a girlfriend,” he blurted, as though he’d been fighting back the urge to say it.

I paused the stroking, but still kept ahold of his cock.

“I know,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic rather than brutally disinterested. “If this makes you uncomfortable and you want me to stop you can absolutely say so.”

He did not want me to stop.

However the pause, brief though it was, did rather rob us of valuable momentum. The current on stage action was transmitted to the dressing rooms over a tannoy system, and we could hear that the sketch before our next appearance was just getting underway.

To continue at current pace felt like something of a hiding to nothing so I made the executive decision, gave a quick kiss to the tip of his cock, and stepped back, pulling back up his boxers in the same motion.

I’ve rarely witnessed such a visceral look of disappointment as that which crossed Dave’s face when he realised I was drawing this encounter to a close.

“Why rush? We’ve a whole show to get through. We might as well do this properly.”

And with that, I dashed out of the bathroom to quickly get changed.

The very next sketch was the tit grabbing pottery nonsense. I don’t think I’ve had my breasts grabbed and kneaded so furiously before or indeed since. You’d almost think poor Dave might have been a little frustrated…

As it transpired, opportunities for illicit backstage fun were minimal during the first act of the show. Either the changes were too quick, or one of us – usually Dave – was needed in other sketches. Equally we didn’t want to risk anything during the interval in case the cast cottoned on to our join absence from the usual audience analysis and breakdown.

Act Two was a different story, thanks in no small part to a colossal *ten minute* sketch that, during the writing and production process, I’d insisted was far, far too long and needed cutting at all cost.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

The sketch featured the entire cast except for myself and Dave, as we featured both before and immediately after. So this time we didn’t even need to restrict ourselves to the bathroom.

While our friends on stage performing their little hearts out in a terrible and overlong scene to an uninterested and near silent audience, I got on my knees and blew Dave’s enormous cock in the middle of the dressing room.

Due in no small part to the extended teasing build up, he didn’t take long to cum. Which, in all honesty, came as something of a relief. We still had a scene to do, and this would have been a terrible time to get lockjaw.

His cock felt as good in my mouth as I’d anticipated – albeit more filling, my tongue having considerably less room to manoeuvre to work it’s magic than I’d grown accustomed – and I sucked, stroked and lashed at it hungrily.

At some point during my time happily bouncing my head up and down his cock, he asked if I was interested in fucking. I didn’t dignify this with a response. *Of course* I wanted to fuck him. But I was damned if I was going to waste it on a five minute dressing room quickie.

He announced his imminent ejaculation with a declaration of “I’m going to blow!” which resulted in cum hitting my the back of my throat whilst I was near hysterically laughing for the then second time in my life.

I swallowed. He told me – somewhat breathlessly – that he didn’t have me down as a swallower. I told him we’d discuss that revelation at great length after the show.

A few minutes later we were back on stage simulating much the same event; I was on my knees in front of him seemingly providing a blowjob, while he explained how much he was looking forward to me meeting his parents. As they arrive I hurriedly stood and smiled, letting yogurt trickle out of my mouth and spill down me.

*That’s* why he didn’t have me pegged as a swallower.

Soonafter he ditched his girlfriend. He didn’t tell her it was my fault. As such we kept our backstage canoodling secret from the remainder of the cast. Which made things rather tricky when we took the show to a fringe festival, and found ourselves all sharing a flat for two weeks.

But, if Shakespeare taught us anything, it’s that tragedies should be held back until Act Three…

It’s been long enough that I figured the combined and full length saga was perhaps due another outing, not least because of its appropriateness for this month’s flair. Plus who doesn’t love a second time round standing ovation?

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/vfxt7n/performing_sex_scenes_on_stage_ultimate_job