[newtypeshadow] Masked Actors
Title: masked actors
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: R (to be safe)
Fandom: Original
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 1,222
Warnings: naughty words, and talk of naughtier deeds.
Notes: Inspired in part by Venetian masks, and the Fly Boys and Geisha of Japanese history.
I only put on my uniform after my mother cobbles off in the coach the doorman called for her; she hates to see me in the jeweled masks, the rich, embroidered faces that transform my own into something mysterious, powerful, forbidden. But my job requires the masks of silks, leathers, and velvets, and sometimes of porcelain and paint. These masks are how she got the house she lives in, even if she tells her friends otherwise.
My father abandoned us when I was nine; old enough to know him, and young enough to hope he'd come back anyway. At fourteen, I became an actor. We needed money desperately, and Mother's boss was looking at her too much to be safe. We knew it was just a matter of time before the smarmy lowlife made her choose: her job or her dignity.
Mother feared for me for me when she found out I'd gone to the Actors Guild. It left her able to survive alone though; the Guild paid for all I needed, and my apprenticeship went well.
My debut onstage was masked, of course. All actors are masked. Those of us much too young to be courted keep full masks on, even in public. Then, I was still too young to go unmasked, even in the private shows where, for a price, the main actors and those of desirable age cover their faces very little, and reveal their whole faces at the end of the show. My first such show, though I'd been warned what to expect, I could never have been wholly prepared for what was typical patron behavior.
The man sitting behind the low restaurant table closest to the stage, eating little in favor of staring, famished, at our then-biggest star and lead actor, immediately began touching himself through his rich red robes. I was horrified behind my laughing, full-face mask. Actors always joked about forward patrons, but in the large, public theaters, our audience was never so overtly scandalous. But Cordon, with barely a ribbon over his handsome face, merely teased him throughout the performance, not missing a single line, but twisting the inflections and focus from Marceline, his lover in the short play, to the patron, who might have fondled himself without any sense of decency had there not been a rule against patron nudity, and another against sex acts and indecent exposure in theater halls and restaurants.
At the end of our performance, those of age removed the ribbons from over their eyes--all they had by way of masks for these performances--while the young--of which I was one--kept our full masks on, and the very old removed their masks long enough to smile at the audience if they had, in their prime, risen high enough to be recognizably famous. Those left, of eligible age, but who would not be available due to being "claimed," or personal lack of desire or need to be sold, would wear half masks--enough to tantalize, but also mark them as forbidden.
The patron stared at Cordon the entire performance. As we bowed and left the small performing stage, the patron waved over our troupe representative, and a teahouse waitress took away the food and removed the tables.
Backstage, we eight were chuckling at dumb jokes, at my shock at the patron's audacity, at our own euphoria for a short play well performed.
"I hope they don't call us back to dance," one of the oldest women said.
"Oh, the only one called back to dance will be Cordon," his co-star Marceline said, tittering.
Then our manager came in and said, "Cordon, he wants you," and handed Cordon a stack of bills, a card, and a key. "You know the drill. He'll give you twice that when you get there."
Cordon whistled. "Big tipper."
Marceline patted his arm. "Let's hope he's not compensating for something, eh?"
We all laughed. I was too new to understand why Cordon was going to see the patron, too young to know why my mother compared actors to prostitutes. But I knew Corbin was going because a man paid him, and I knew penis jokes. I suppose then I just didn't want to know. But it was the future I had chosen, and I couldn't stay blind to it forever.
I was paid well for my first time. Or, rather, the Guild was. All of the virgin cash goes to the Guild, though of course not all of us are actually virgins. Girls have the hardest time of it, as they're expected to leave red behind, but of course we've all been taught ways around that, too.
The Guild gets a small percentage of the flesh show cash after that, until one is old enough to live elsewhere and set up meetings without Guild agents. It's better to keep an agent anyway though--between rehearsals and line learning and the daily activities of staying alive, it's better to have someone else worrying about marketing you, no matter which of your assets they're using to do it.
For me, my virgin cash came high because of my mouth, voice, and hair. My body is a dancer's, practical muscle and light, but my lips, my first patron said, were "made for cocksucking," and my voice for "screaming houses down." He held my thick hair in his thin fingers, and he pushed in until I choked. He may not have had a face or body to die for, but on the whole, I didn't mind: he wasn't too rough or disgusting or degrading, and he tipped me well to stay the night.
In the morning I put the mask of an actor on my face--the public mask, one that tantalized even as it hid more than half my upper face--then dressed in colorful robes that moved with each footstep, and hailed a carriage to take me home to the Actor's Guild.
I wear a different mask than the private show ribbon now; I have for the past two years. The actors I see outside the Guild think it's funny, sweet in a twisted way, that the man who bought me while dressed as a peasant, and who I treated and fucked like a prince, would turn out to be one. I didn't find out until he'd had me four times, and then it was purely by accident. None of us did until then, and soon they were sorry they'd not worn ribbons at his performances, as I had. Oh well. I'm happy with my slumming prince, and he with me, for now.
So my mother claiming she fell into an inheritance doesn't bother me, because in a way, she did. It just came, not from a dead parent, but from a living son: my lover's money bought her a house, and she is thankful. She still wishes I had chosen a more noble profession than acting, but I love what I do, and the slumming prince I come home to every night. But perhaps most of all, I love that while the masks I wear mark me as more than myself--part of something greater, stronger, lasting--the face I wear under it remains my own, to hide or reveal to whom I will.
Author: newtypeshadow
Rating: R (to be safe)
Fandom: Original
Pairing: m/m
Wordcount: 1,222
Warnings: naughty words, and talk of naughtier deeds.
Notes: Inspired in part by Venetian masks, and the Fly Boys and Geisha of Japanese history.
I only put on my uniform after my mother cobbles off in the coach the doorman called for her; she hates to see me in the jeweled masks, the rich, embroidered faces that transform my own into something mysterious, powerful, forbidden. But my job requires the masks of silks, leathers, and velvets, and sometimes of porcelain and paint. These masks are how she got the house she lives in, even if she tells her friends otherwise.
My father abandoned us when I was nine; old enough to know him, and young enough to hope he'd come back anyway. At fourteen, I became an actor. We needed money desperately, and Mother's boss was looking at her too much to be safe. We knew it was just a matter of time before the smarmy lowlife made her choose: her job or her dignity.
Mother feared for me for me when she found out I'd gone to the Actors Guild. It left her able to survive alone though; the Guild paid for all I needed, and my apprenticeship went well.
My debut onstage was masked, of course. All actors are masked. Those of us much too young to be courted keep full masks on, even in public. Then, I was still too young to go unmasked, even in the private shows where, for a price, the main actors and those of desirable age cover their faces very little, and reveal their whole faces at the end of the show. My first such show, though I'd been warned what to expect, I could never have been wholly prepared for what was typical patron behavior.
The man sitting behind the low restaurant table closest to the stage, eating little in favor of staring, famished, at our then-biggest star and lead actor, immediately began touching himself through his rich red robes. I was horrified behind my laughing, full-face mask. Actors always joked about forward patrons, but in the large, public theaters, our audience was never so overtly scandalous. But Cordon, with barely a ribbon over his handsome face, merely teased him throughout the performance, not missing a single line, but twisting the inflections and focus from Marceline, his lover in the short play, to the patron, who might have fondled himself without any sense of decency had there not been a rule against patron nudity, and another against sex acts and indecent exposure in theater halls and restaurants.
At the end of our performance, those of age removed the ribbons from over their eyes--all they had by way of masks for these performances--while the young--of which I was one--kept our full masks on, and the very old removed their masks long enough to smile at the audience if they had, in their prime, risen high enough to be recognizably famous. Those left, of eligible age, but who would not be available due to being "claimed," or personal lack of desire or need to be sold, would wear half masks--enough to tantalize, but also mark them as forbidden.
The patron stared at Cordon the entire performance. As we bowed and left the small performing stage, the patron waved over our troupe representative, and a teahouse waitress took away the food and removed the tables.
Backstage, we eight were chuckling at dumb jokes, at my shock at the patron's audacity, at our own euphoria for a short play well performed.
"I hope they don't call us back to dance," one of the oldest women said.
"Oh, the only one called back to dance will be Cordon," his co-star Marceline said, tittering.
Then our manager came in and said, "Cordon, he wants you," and handed Cordon a stack of bills, a card, and a key. "You know the drill. He'll give you twice that when you get there."
Cordon whistled. "Big tipper."
Marceline patted his arm. "Let's hope he's not compensating for something, eh?"
We all laughed. I was too new to understand why Cordon was going to see the patron, too young to know why my mother compared actors to prostitutes. But I knew Corbin was going because a man paid him, and I knew penis jokes. I suppose then I just didn't want to know. But it was the future I had chosen, and I couldn't stay blind to it forever.
I was paid well for my first time. Or, rather, the Guild was. All of the virgin cash goes to the Guild, though of course not all of us are actually virgins. Girls have the hardest time of it, as they're expected to leave red behind, but of course we've all been taught ways around that, too.
The Guild gets a small percentage of the flesh show cash after that, until one is old enough to live elsewhere and set up meetings without Guild agents. It's better to keep an agent anyway though--between rehearsals and line learning and the daily activities of staying alive, it's better to have someone else worrying about marketing you, no matter which of your assets they're using to do it.
For me, my virgin cash came high because of my mouth, voice, and hair. My body is a dancer's, practical muscle and light, but my lips, my first patron said, were "made for cocksucking," and my voice for "screaming houses down." He held my thick hair in his thin fingers, and he pushed in until I choked. He may not have had a face or body to die for, but on the whole, I didn't mind: he wasn't too rough or disgusting or degrading, and he tipped me well to stay the night.
In the morning I put the mask of an actor on my face--the public mask, one that tantalized even as it hid more than half my upper face--then dressed in colorful robes that moved with each footstep, and hailed a carriage to take me home to the Actor's Guild.
I wear a different mask than the private show ribbon now; I have for the past two years. The actors I see outside the Guild think it's funny, sweet in a twisted way, that the man who bought me while dressed as a peasant, and who I treated and fucked like a prince, would turn out to be one. I didn't find out until he'd had me four times, and then it was purely by accident. None of us did until then, and soon they were sorry they'd not worn ribbons at his performances, as I had. Oh well. I'm happy with my slumming prince, and he with me, for now.
So my mother claiming she fell into an inheritance doesn't bother me, because in a way, she did. It just came, not from a dead parent, but from a living son: my lover's money bought her a house, and she is thankful. She still wishes I had chosen a more noble profession than acting, but I love what I do, and the slumming prince I come home to every night. But perhaps most of all, I love that while the masks I wear mark me as more than myself--part of something greater, stronger, lasting--the face I wear under it remains my own, to hide or reveal to whom I will.