Salacious Stand Up: A Funny Lesbian Romance by Nicolette Dane (2016-06-22) Read online

  “I hope she’s saving her work,” said Petra.

  “I’m sure she’s got that part figured out,” I said. “She’s a total badass.”

  “What are you?” said Petra. “A high school girl?”

  “I can’t help it around this chick,” I said, leaning to the side, trying to be slick, looking right through Petra and over at the writer. The writer tossed her beat up laptop onto a table and then went to the counter to order a coffee.

  “So you’re one of those women that goes for the bad girl,” said Petra. “Good to know.”

  “I think her name is George,” I said. “I walked by her once and peeked at her screen.”

  “Does her computer background say her name or something?” said Petra. “Is she another egomaniac like you?”

  “Funny,” I said. “You should try comedy with that wit.”

  “George, huh?” said Petra, turning around again and looking at the writer standing up at the counter. “She’s definitely a badass,” she said in mocking tone.

  “So what if I like bad girl looking chicks?” I said. “I’m free to like whoever I choose.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a total cliche,” said Petra. “She looks like she partied a bit too hard last night, she doesn’t care that her computer is all beat up, and she’s a writer. I bet she’d also steal stuff out of your apartment and you wouldn’t care.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Petra,” I said. “I gotta talk to her. I mean, I’ve been stalking her for long enough. But I bet she gets girls coming up and talking to her all the time. Probably guys, too.”

  “Listen to yourself,” said Petra. “Where did Macy go? Confident Macy? Stage Macy? You’ve had hecklers throw nasty shit at you and you’ve deflected it. But now you’re getting all wobbly-kneed over some loser?”

  “Petty, you sound jealous,” I said. “You need a girlfriend.”

  “Rub it in,” said Petra. “Put a little bit more salt on this time.”

  “Shush,” I said. “I think I’m gonna go talk to her.”

  “By all means,” said Petra, shutting her notebook. “I thought we were here to work but I see now that I was incorrect in that assumption.”

  “Shut up,” I said, putting my notebook and pen down on the coffee table and standing up from the couch. I was dressed in super slim matchstick blue jeans, a slouchy v-neck tee, and flats. I fluffed my hair out slightly to give my light curls a bit more bounce. I grinned at Petra, who crossed her arms and refused to look at me, and then started my walk over to where George sat.

  As I approached George, she looked up at me from her screen with wild dark eyes. Despite the tired look on her face, the bags under her eyes, her eyes themselves were crystal clear and alert. I know it’s silly but I was getting nervous as she looked at me. Sure, I can stand up in front of a hundred people and talk about gross sex stuff, but standing in front of one single hot babe made my mind go blank and my heart sputter.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey,” said George. Her voice was kind of droll, a little bored, affected with cool girl charm.

  “I’m, uh, Macy,” I said.

  “George,” she said.

  “I knew it!” I said as an aside. But this was not a play and George definitely heard me, making a bit of a confused face.

  “You knew what?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Is that magazine yours?” I said, pointing to the thumbed-through magazine that sat on the chair opposite where George sat.

  “No,” she said. “You can have it.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I don’t want it. It’s just that, you know, if you open to the show listings in the back you’ll see a show I’m a part of.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Like, what kind of show?”

  “Comedy,” I said. “I’m a stand up.”

  “Oh,” she said, reaching over for the magazine, opening it up, and looking through the back. After a moment, she landed on the comedy show listings page, stared down at it for a second, and then looked back up to me. “Macy Maxwell?”

  “Right,” I said. “That’s me.”

  “The Stand Up Affiliate,” said George, reading the ad. “I think I know where that is.”

  “Lincoln Park,” I said. “I know it’s kinda lame over there, but at least it’s not Wriglyville.”

  “Right,” she said. “So when are you performing?”

  “Most nights,” I said. “I’m kind of a staple comic over there. I perform a lot.”

  “That’s cool, Macy,” said George.

  “I was thinking that maybe you’d come check me out sometime,” I said. “I promise I’m funny.”

  “Your girlfriend over there won’t mind?” said George, leaning over and looking back toward Petra.

  “Petra?” I said with surprise. “Oh no, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a comic friend of mine.”

  “Got it,” she said. George began ripping at the newspaper, tearing the page in a square, removing only the ad for my show at the club.

  “I can put you on the list so you don’t have to pay,” I said as George finished removing the ad, folding it up, and stuffing it in her pocket. “What’s your last name?”

  “Nelson,” she said. “George Nelson.”

  “And I’m Pretty Boy Floyd, see!” I said in an imitative nasally gangster accent.

  “Is that part of your act?” said George.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “I mean, George Nelson. Like the gangster. Baby Face Nelson.”

  “You think I haven’t heard that before?” said George with a grin. “Georgette Nelson, if it stops you from doing that voice.”

  “Damn it,” I said. “Yeah, that was a swing and a miss. What about, uh, Nelson on the Simpsons! Ha ha!” I said, mimicking the cartoon bully.

  “All right,” said George with a shy, stifled laugh. She looked away from me momentarily. “I really hope your stage material is better than this.”

  “This stuff is all off the cuff,” I protested. “Not my best work, I admit, but you’ve got to give me another chance.”

  “Okay,” said George. “I’ll swing by tonight. What time are you performing?”

  “Really!” I said, excited that George was agreeing to come see me. “Uh, probably like 9:30,” I said. “Depending on how the night goes. Could be a bit later.”

  “Cool,” said George. “I’ll be there.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “It was nice meeting you, George Nelson.” I smiled wide at her. She was such a cool, dreamy looking girl. Some sort of tortured artist. Definitely my type.

  “Likewise, Macy Maxwell,” she said, returning my smile.

  I stood there for a moment in silence until I realized it was getting a bit weird.

  “Okay, I’m gonna go now,” I said.

  “Cool,” said George.

  “Bye!” I said, turning around and sliding back over toward Petra.

  Plopping back down on the couch, I looked excitedly toward Petra, trying to hold it all in and stop myself from screaming.

  “Well?” she said, with mock enthusiasm.

  “She’s coming to the Affiliate tonight!” I beamed. “She’s gonna come and see me!”

  “Oh joy!” said Petra, sarcasm dripping from her fake excitement. “What ever shall you wear?”

  “Shut up!” I said, smacking Petra on the shoulder. “She’s gonna look over here and think that I’m crazy.”

  “She wouldn’t be wrong,” said Petra.

  “Yeah, but I’m trying to hide that part of me from girls,” I said. “My future wife won’t even know I’m crazy until after all the paperwork is signed.”

  “And then she’ll divorce you and break your heart,” said Petra with a hint of sadness in her voice.

  “I swear, Petra, if you don’t stop with your mopey bullshit I’m going to punch you in the face,” I said.

  “Noted,” said Petra. “So, can we get back to work now or what?”

  “I can’t work with her sitting over there,�
�� I said, taking up my notebook and pen from the coffee table. “Let’s just head back to my apartment and finish up there.”

  “You’re a fucking nut,” said Petra. “But fine, whatever.” Petra quickly stood up and turned from me, beginning her walk toward the door.

  “Petty! Wait!” I said, bouncing up, stuffing my notebook into my bag, and following quickly behind her. Petra pushed through the door and walked out without looking back. As I moved toward the door, I smiled and waved at George who was watching me. She smiled back. Oh man, I was just bursting inside, almost hysterical with thrill. Gotta bring your A-game tonight Macy. And wear nice panties, you know, just in case.

  “Like, why do we get all the weird sounding names for our genitalia?” I said into the microphone, grinning beneath the spotlight, looking out in the crowd. People were having a good time, sucking down drinks, laughing and clapping, wanting nothing more than to be entertained. “Guys, they get powerful sounding names. Cock!” I said with emphasis. “I mean, it sounds pretty formidable. But girls, what do we have? Pussy. Poo-zee,” I reiterated, sounding out the word. “It sounds so lurid and gross. And don’t get me started on twat. Twaht, twaht!” I said, shaking my head, accepting the laughs from the audience. “It sounds like some kind of puffy-lipped bird.” More laughter.

  “Why can’t we have something pleasant?” I opined with a thoughtful look on my face. “Something delicate and beautiful? Something like flowerette or gemblossom? ‘Sir, can you please thrust your cock into my coy gemblossom? Oh yes, right there!’” The audience laughed and applauded, and I just couldn’t hold back my smile. The stage was my home. I felt safe up there. I felt like I belonged. Off-stage I had a tendency to be a little nutty. Perhaps a little anxious, a little dopey. But when I was on stage, my weirdness was an asset and the audience was on my side. These people would probably think I was a total crazy person if they met me in real life. But here, we were all best friends.

  “It’s a joke,” I admitted sardonically. “No woman wants to call her fancy parts a coy gemblossom. I guess we just gotta accept our culture and the words that have been handed down to us from generations past. We should just embrace that society thinks pussies are gross and perhaps come up with our own nasty names instead. You can call your’s furburger, and mine will be axe-wound,” I said with a straight face. The audience clapped, a couple people hooted. “Take a bite of my furburger, baby. I grew it extra furry for you!” Loud laughter and more applause.

  “I’m Macy Maxwell!” I said, raising my hand up. “You’ve been great! And to any interested parties in the audience, my pussy is not as furry as I’ve let on. Goodnight!”

  Walking off the stage, I happily basked in the applause, giving Howie a high-five as I passed him and making my way to that familiar hallway. How did I ever survive before stand up comedy? I was so happy in that moment that I felt a little over emotional, like I could cry, but I held it back, squinted my eyes, and just felt grateful instead. If only my Mom could see me.

  As I strolled up to the bar, Ralph had my glass of bourbon ready and slid it toward me. I thanked him with the tip of my imaginary hat and stood next to Petra at her barstool, sipping on my drink and smiling.

  “Pretty good, huh?” I said.

  “I don’t know how you come up with some of this stuff,” said Petra.

  “I’m a bit touched, as they say,” I said.

  “You hide it well,” said Petra. “Good job.”

  “Oh my God, I was so nervous,” I said. “I saw George out there in the audience. She’s on the other side of the bar.”

  “Are you gonna go talk to her?” said Petra.

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “I gotta play it cool. I’m just gonna wait until she seeks me out.”

  “Was that last bit for her?” said Petra. “The hairy pussy thing?”

  “Of course not,” I said, grinning, trying to obscure an obvious lie.

  “You’re such a twaht, Macy,” said Petra. I slapped her shoulder. “Maybe she likes hairy pussy.”

  “Shut up!” I said. “Don’t use my words against me.” I sipped from my drink and then quickly remembered something I wanted to tell Petra. “Mm, listen to this!” I set my drink down on the bar.

  “I’m listening,” said Petra.

  “I looked up George on the internet,” I began.

  “Good ol’ Macy the stalker,” said Petra. “Did you hire a private dick to follow her around as well?”

  “I told you she was a writer, right?” I said. “Well, chick just got a publishing deal with Gentoo Books. So, she’s like, a real writer!”

  “And, you’re like, a real weirdo!” said Petra mocking me.

  “I’m just saying that she’s not one of these chicks who just hangs at the coffee shop with her laptop and pretends to be all arty,” I said. “She’s legit.”

  “That girl,” said Petra. “She’s going to break your heart. That’s the bad girl way.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Petra?” I said. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “I am happy for you,” said Petra begrudgingly.

  “Yeah, you sure seem like it,” I said, widening my eyes and sticking my tongue out at her.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a man interrupting our conversation. He was dressed in a plaid shirt with a grey corduroy jacket over it. He smiled and thrust his hand out toward me. “Mark Feinstein,” he said. I took his hand and shook it. He had a look about him, like he wasn’t just an audience member.

  “Macy Maxwell,” I said.

  “I know,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “I’m from Comedy Junction.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” said Petra, turning around and reaching for her beer.

  “Comedy Junction,” I said, slowly, teasingly. “Is that a train station themed comedy club?” Mark laughed and grinned.

  “Look, what you do is really hot right now,” said Mark. “Uninhibited female sex comic. Not to put you in a box or anything.”

  “No no,” I said, taking Mark’s business card as he handed it to me, looking down to it, trying to make sense of it all. “You can put anything in my box you like.”

  “Are you familiar with the program the Funny Thirty?” he asked. “It sort of took over for Comedy Junction Presents, if you remember that show.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m familiar. Not like I grew up watching Presents or anything.”

  “Well, we’re putting together the lineup for next season,” said Mark. “And we were wondering if you’d be interested in coming out to Boston to do your act for the show.”

  “Mark,” I said. “Are you trying to make me cry? Because that part doesn’t happen until after we have sex.” He laughed. Petra very dramatically rolled her eyes at me.

  “Exactly what we’re looking for,” he said.

  “So yeah,” I said, looking him in the eyes. “I’m in.”

  “Macy, that’s great,” said Mark. “Have your agent get in touch with me through the number there on the card and we’ll get it all squared away.” Mark smiled a toothy smile at me, a somewhat business-polished smile, and put his hand out once more. “Terrific set. We’re really looking forward to putting you on the air.”

  “Thank you so much, Mark,” I said, shaking his hand again. “I’m humbled and just incredibly happy.”

  “Can’t wait,” he said. And with that, Mark walked off and toward the club exit.

  “And he’s not even waiting around for my late set,” said Petra, looking at me with annoyance.

  “Did that just happen?” I asked. “Or was I imagining things?”

  “That happened, Macy,” said Petra. “If you can’t see it, the envy inside of me is leveling off about here,” she said, bringing her hand up to her neck.

  “I think I just shit myself,” I said, turning my head around and looking down at my ass. “Can you see any brown stains?”

  “Yeah,” said Petra. “I’m sitting right here.” I smacked her leg hard.

  “Pet
ra,” I scolded. “This is life changing. I mean, literally, my life feels irrevocably changed from that interaction. I feel just so… different.” Reaching out for my bourbon, I picked it up and took a long drink.

  “So, what are you gonna do about calling him?” said Petra. “I mean, you don’t have an agent.”

  “I know,” I said thoughtfully, looking down again to Mark’s card. “I guess I’ll have to figure that out.”

  “Just don’t sleep with him,” mourned Petra. “And try not to forget that you’re actually a lesbian.”

  “Shush,” I said, everything stewing together in my wired brain.

  “Hey Macy,” said a voice beside us. Raising my head, I saw George now standing next to me and Petra.

  “George!” I exclaimed, having basically forgotten all about her. “Oh my God, thank you for coming!”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “This is my friend Petra,” I said, motioning toward Petra who put on a bit of a smarmy face. I could tell all of this was making Petra pretty uncomfortable. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but at the same time I couldn’t deny anything that was happening to me. Just gotta roll with it, Macy.

  “Cool,” said George. “George,” she intoned, introducing herself, as she and Petra shook hands.

  “Hey Ralph,” I called out to the bartender. “Two more of these!” Turning back to George, I smiled. “Like bourbon?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Me too,” I beamed.

  George and I sat in the back of the club together at a high top table. It was a break between sets and the audience was clamoring, talking amongst themselves, ordering drinks. I couldn’t believe how amazing I felt. Mark’s business card, stuffed into my pocket, felt like it was burning a hole in my thigh. The bourbon tasted like mana from heaven, some sort of sweet elixir panacea making my mind all swimmy. And with George sitting in front me, smiling, my life felt like it was going in the direction I wanted it to go. Hands off the wheel, Macy, this is fun.

  “How long you been doing all this?” asked George, taking a drink from her glass.

  “Just over two years,” I said. “Quick learner, I guess.”