SEXUAL/FLIRTATIOUS
By Darren Callahan
Ashley: twenty-one, a wealthy New York socialite
Dramatic
Ashley’s father died in 1939. Now, in 1959, she and her three friends slowly discover all their fathers were involved in a secret time-travel club. In the context of the play, the monologue is spoken to the audience, presumably to a boyfriend.
ASHLEY: See these? (Ashley shows off her legs.) Pretty trim, huh? The boys like my legs. “Ashley,” they say, and whistle sometimes, “you got legs that go for miles.” I tell Ginger that hers are better, but it’s a lie. It’s these. Rawwwwr. Do you want to touch them? I’m not wearing any hose. I gave that up in early ’58. Pride and joy, these pipes. One day they’ll get me a husband, who’ll whistle and stop in his car — I like European cars — and take me for a ride down Park Avenue. And we’ll neck. I’m a good kisser. Second best quality to the legs. These. Them. Film-star legs. Luxury legs, as my father might say, he who liked things luxurious. (Pause.)
One night last year, I came out to my brand-new car — European — and I found a note. Want me to read it? I keep it in a drawer, but I brought it tonight for you to see.
(Shows note to audience.)
Fifteen words.
(Counting on fingers while reading.)
“Don’t go driving. You will crash and your legs will be amputated. I know this.”
(Pockets note.)
Typed. On a typewriter. Needless to say, I didn’t get in the car. Now I treat these legs like a gift from God. (Pause)
They sure are nice. Aren’t they?
The Age of Cynicism or Karaoke Night at The Hog
By Keith Huff
Ellen: twenties
Seriocomic
It is Ellen’s lifelong goal to be married and have a family by the time she’s thirty. Here, at twenty-nine, she’s on a blind date with Gary and the clock’s a-ticking.
ELLEN: How many men do you think I’ve had sex with? Not how many times. How many men? Ballpark. They say you can tell by the number of lines under the eyes. If it’s a big purple and black bar under your eyes, though, it’s over fifty. Nobody keeps count after fifty. Crazy people, OK. Let me see your eyes. How many have loved thee? Let me count the lines. (Gasps.) I don’t see any lines, Gary. None at all. My God. Don never mentioned he was fixing me up with virgin territory. I feel like Columbus discovering America. Land ho! How did a prime cut of beef like you manage to stay wrapped on the freezer shelf to the ripe old age of twenty-nine? Your ears are red. They’re in flames. (Southern accent.) And lawdy, they’s a logjam at the delta, Cap’n Andy! (Drops accent. Dead serious, intense.) I’ve been around the block many, many times, Gary. Count the lines under my eyes. I’ll show you the ropes. Let me initiate you. Let me welcome you to the human race.
Natural Selection
from Crazyology
By Frank Higgins
Lois: mid to late twenties, a career woman in advertising
Comic
Lois is having lunch with a girlfriend. The girlfriend has just asked Lois whether Lois’s lifestyle of having so many men in her life is natural.
LOIS: Did you hear about that pro basketball player who claimed he’d had sex with twenty thousand women? Now if a woman had sex with twenty men and talked about it, people would say “slut.”
But my life changed when I heard the truth about sperm. See, it used to be that scientists thought all human sperm behaved the same, that they all try to make it to the egg, and there’s this big traffic jam and only one can get in.
But that’s not the way it is. And we know this now because of these little micro cameras? Skip how you get the camera up in there — but the cameras show that only about one-third of the sperm try to reach the egg. The other two-thirds of the sperm line up and make a wall. Why?
And the theory is, these sperm, who are all from the same male, are trying to make sure one of their teammates makes it to the egg. And the reason they line up is that they’re trying to stop some other male’s sperm from getting to the quarterback.
We’re talking natural selection. You would ovulate, and then do it with more than one male.
And to this day the sperm in this room right now still behave the same way. Which means that you and I still have it in our genetic makeup to want all the best males in the room. It’s natural.
So it gets me to thinking, who are the best males in the room?
By Chance D. Muehleck
Sholey: mid-twenties, an attractive young woman who’s smarter than she sometimes lets on
Dramatic
Sholey’s first sexual encounter was with Kick; she was a child, and he an adult. She has returned to Kick’s home only to find herself falling in love with him. Here, she reminds him of their first meeting.
SHOLEY: Touch me. (Pause.) You know how long I thought about you? About doing things with you? I couldn’t shake that feeling. I was ten years old when I saw you. I’m sure you don’t remember. But I do. You were my first crush, Kick. My longest crush. All you did was smile, at first. A razor of a smile. Leaning against the back door, smoking and tilting your head. Your body in a question mark. Asking for me. I felt liquid. Transparent. Then you got close. You reached out your big hand and put it on my thigh. I liked your fingernails. They were smooth and trim. The hand slid up and the thumb licked my nipple and I said “Oh” and you said “Shhhh.” Like cool wind blowing over poppies. I guess you’re not supposed to covet that kinda thing. I tried to hate you for it. But you kept rising in my memory. No matter how aimless the road got, even if I quit college, I always knew there was you. That I’d see you again. (Pause.)
I came back to satisfy a recollection.
By Rich Orloff
Kim: twenties
Comic
One morning while on vacation with two of her girl friends, Kim admits she had an uncharacteristic sexual adventure the night before.
KIM: I wasn’t drunk. Or stoned. I was, I was curious. I mean, here we are in Key West — hot, sexy Key West — and well, I was dancing with these two guys, this totally cute white guy and this totally awesome black guy, and at one point I said, “I can’t choose between you” and the white guy said, “You don’t have to.” And I laughed — and they didn’t. They were smiling. Biiiiig smiles. And I thought, this will make a good vacation story. And I, I don’t know. Ever since I woke up, it’s like there’s a debate squad in my brain. “It was a mistake” “It was fun” “It’s bad” “It’s good.” I mean, it’s not like it was a romantic evening. I didn’t think, “Gee, I hope I get both of their phone numbers.” But there was something about being massaged by four hands, being kissed by four lips, grabbing both their … Just once, I wanted to go too far. All my life I’ve been so — Ohio. I think Ohio. I dress Ohio. Just once I wanted an out-of-state experience. All I wanted was a taste of Key West, one taste, and then I’d return home to a healthy diet of Ohio. But what do you do when you discover you have taste buds you never knew about?
By James Armstrong
Mary Beth: a woman in her twenties
Dramatic
Susie, a tame suburbanite woman, has found her life entangled with that of Mary Beth, a waitress in the city with a rather unconventional lifestyle. In this scene, Mary Beth tries to give Susie a lesson in the ways of the world.
MARY BETH: Sex isn’t about love. If that’s what you came for, forget it. Sex isn’t about caring. And it certainly isn’t about sharing yourself. It’s about power. Sex is about getting what you want. What do you want from a man? Money? A job? Someone to say you look pretty in a new dress? Then I’ll tell you how to get what you want. Of course they’ll use you. But aren’t we out to use them, too? Don’t be bitter about it. Just play it out. You give what you have to, you take what you want. Just a matter of what you want. For some people it’s dinner and a movie, for others it’s whips and chains. For others it’s … There are … ways … to meet people … After a while, the sex becomes less important. It’s the thrill. Never liked sex anyway. Never even came until I was twenty-two … in the shower … alone…. But that never stopped me from pouring hot wax on a guy’s crotch.
By Jonathan Bernstein
Cherry: twenty-seven, runs her own one-woman escort service; her body has the unlikely proportions of a blow-up sex doll blown just a bit too far
Seriocomic
Cherry has run into an old high-school acquaintance — as they engage in some sober catching up, Cherry is unapologetic about the choices she’s made since graduation.
CHERRY: Oh that’s great, yeah, that’s great, good for you. You were Most Likely To Succeed, ’n all that, so that’s, that’s come true, that’s good, good for you. You ’n me, we done pretty good. We showed ’em, huh? I got a good job, too, ya know. Yeah. Yeah, I’m working all the time, s’been crazy, I’m really working like mad, s’been good, I been going good.
What’s that? Oh, I’m running my own business. Yeah uh, people call me. Men. Men call me. For favors, and that — that kinda thing — I’m not gonna lie ta you, there’s no reason, I’m not gonna cover it up or anything, I’m proud of it, ya know, I help people. Way I see it, I’m like a social worker. That kinda thing. And it’s on my own, I don’t answer to no one.
’N so what — I like what I do, ya know, I like what it is — ask the other girls we grew up with how they’re liking their life — I got no complaints.
’N listen, let’s get this straight: I don’t sell my body. All right? I still have my body when it’s over. S’all these moralizers, these Christ-complex goody- gooders who’re preaching they’re gonna save me, rescue me, ya know, lift me up, talkin’ salvation, ’n I think bullshit, ya can’t save me, I don’t need ta be, I don’t want ta be, I’m not waiting ta be saved. I’m not one of those squeaky heart-a-gold movie hookers, like in Pretty Woman, ya want Julia Roberts, ya can rent her at Blockbuster.
Just live ’n let live, is what I say, ’n let me do my thing.
By Marki Shalloe
Ruth: twenties, African-American woman
Dramatic
Ruth was given to her father as a child because her mother couldn’t handle her and her father didn’t want to pay child support. Her father has recently thrown her out so she returns to her mother’s where she desperately wants to belong. Ruth is attempting to seduce Preacher Roy, her mother’s boyfriend, whom she fears will convince her mother to throw Ruth out of the house.
RUTH: So, Preacher Roy, you like visitin’ my mama’s house?
I like it here, too, real well, didn’t think I would but now I’m here it fits just fine.
Seein’ as how you think you guide the morality of this household, Mama comin’ to you ’bout all this house’s business, mind if I ask you a moral question?
What if there was a gal whose Mama couldn’t take her, so her daddy did?
Then she grew big and Daddy decided having a grown daughter in the house was the reason he wasn’t gettin’ any women.
What you think, Preacher Roy? You wanna take that girl in?
Didn’t think so.
This is a good house, Preacher Roy. A house of God-fearin’ and pious-appearin’ women, always has been, and I bet you just figurin’ out I wouldn’t make a good pastor’s daughter ’cause I’d say “shit” in front of your parishioners.
So you gon’ quit my mama ’cause you don’t want my mouth ruinin’ your Sunday service?
Or you gon’ try to get me gone instead?
Don’t bother you rubbin’ Mama’s titties against your Sunday suit ’til folks start sniffin’… then pushin’ her like a tick you pickin’ off — Denyin’.
Don’t bother you she think you gon’ be the next husband in this house, while all the time you worryin’ what folks gon’ say about my pants slidin’ down my crack — Denyin’. What does bother you, Preacher Roy?
Me touchin’ you where you been thinkin’ about me touch-in’ you?
Your cock’s crowin’
Come on Preacher Roy, deny her the third time.
Fun City
from Twinges from the Fringe
By Bob Jude Ferrante
Myrna: an actress, twenties, shy, librarianish, with coquettish streak
Comic
Myrna came to the City with one burning ambition to be a hooker. Here, she tells the story of how she was sidetracked into acting. (Music: Cool, smoky jazz music, like, heavy sax action. Myrna comes out in a trench coat and spiked heels. She lights and drags heavily on a cigarette, blows the smoke out over the audience.)
MYRNA: Myrna. Myrna Flotzkengruschnimmer. You know my story. Small town, Cole’s Drugs. Two years. A lotta Tampax. I had a dream — to be a hooker. Finally I take that Greyhound to Fun City. Nest egg goes for an apartment I pound the pavement, learn the biz. The men. Not interested. “Get lost, we see hundreds a broads like youse every day.” Six months, nest egg’s gone. A lotta Tampax! Out on Bowery. Guy goes, “Sweetheart, buy you dinner?” I go, “Sure. I’m trying to break into prostitution.” He goes, “Sweetheart! I’m a pimp! We’ll discuss it” I go home, get dolled up. Thinking, “Careful girl, says he’s a pimp, maybe it’s a line …” At six I’m there: Low-back outfit, fishnet stockings, hair up. Guy — Murray Steinoblatski — gets a table. Whispers. Waiter nods. Then: Food. Wine. Should be careful — can’t hold my liquor. Two bottles later, I spill it: Flat on my back ’cause I can’t get flat on my back. Murray goes, “I’ll start you up in pro biz.” In Murray’s Jag, streetlights whip by, mind’s racing: “Is this it — the big break!” But we get there: Stanislavski teacher, voice coach. Murray’s an agent! A put-up job! Out comes the hard stuff — Pinter, Miller, Shaw. Two apes pin me down and Murray forces me to … act. Bastard! Want to rip off that smug smile. But … doing The Homecoming “’e finks ’e knows about ’orses.” There’s this sensation … down there. I got a — maybe it’s sick? — MOTIVATION! Murray says, “Kid, you’re a natural.” I throw up. I’m turned out. Henry IV, Part II next Tuesday on Great Performances. But you know my story. Can’t save a dime in Fun City.
(Blackout.)