by Patrick D. Kinsella
Setting: artist’s studio, early afternoon
Time: sometime in the early 1980’s
Character: GRACE, a woman in her early 20’s
GRACE enters and is almost knocked over by Graham as he storms out from his art studio. She notices a handsome and shirtless young man cleaning the artist’s brushes. She is immediately attracted to him.
I’m not late, am I? He’s not pissed because I’m late, is he? I preferred him when he had no artistic temper. Or was that you? What did you do? Tell him how great he was? How young he looks, how wise he is? (Calling out after the temperamental artist to hear). If you told him the light was shining from his arse, he’d still want to kill you. There’s no winning with some people. This is my mum’s fault, she never takes no for an answer. She expects me to work for a living so she has me pose for her clients if they need to perv over someone. I mean I will get a job when I am ready to get a job, I will get a decent job when a decent one comes along. So now she has me stripping off for her moody self-absorbed clients to pay my way. Honestly, do I look like a fucking model? I know, I know, I am gorgeous. But that’s not my fault. Bloody genetics.
(She goes to the painting of her mum) You would think my mother (flicking her mother’s face) would want me to cash in on my brains and not my boobs… wonderful as they are. But no, as soon as I finish my business degree in a few weeks she is sending me to London to manage her gallery. Boring! I will get to hang out with more self-absorbed, moaning, egotistical social rejects – I can’t wait. Yes, she thinks the little talent I have for business means that I should be pushed into the world of art. She is a control freak. I don’t want to be in the arts, I want to be… oh, what the hell am I talking to you for? Don’t you think I have friends who listen? Of course I do! People love me. I get invited to all the best parties. Lots of men asking me out. I mean, just look at me. I’m beautiful. Wasted in this country. As soon as I make my millions from my inventions I am out of here. Yes. I invent things. New things. Things that we don’t have yet but possibly need.
Oh, if I tell you what I’m working on you’ll steal the idea. Clever boy. But it’s wasted on me. I don’t blame you; if I was born on the street, too, I suppose I’d have to resort to stealing to survive. It’s quite practical. But you are not on the streets anymore so you should really grow out of it. Stealing is not socially acceptable these days, unless it’s someone’s husband. That encourages gossip and everyone thrives off it. Gossip is what social interaction was built on. People need to know that there is someone with less morals, less money, and less of a life than they have. It’s what makes them glow. Oh yes. In fact there are times one needs to lie a little to people about someone to give them their glow back. It’s important to spread gossip and even more important to invent it. It’s helping a species thrive. Without it conversation would become extinct. It’s quite fun really. But not everyone can do it. You need to have a knack and conviction to make it believable. I find it comes quite easy to me. Mmmmmm… what would I invent about you?
(She jumps up on the podium like a she-wolf and begins to act out the scene.) Raised by a pack of wild dogs… Yes, of a mixed breed. Part wolf, part domestic, ferocious and strong, yet gentle and caring. Quite attractive looking creatures too. It was unfortunate they were killed in the slaughter. Oh yes. By bloodthirsty hunters who never saw you in the undergrowth. You pined for them for days. I am sorry. I know how attached you were to them. But now Graham has found you and is training you to be a well-spoken, mannerly young citizen. Isn’t it wonderful? It was over quick, they didn’t feel a thing.
Why are you shirtless? Mmmm, your body is quite well developed for a boy—you have Roman nipples. Roman nipples. I haven’t seen very many of them on a man. In fact, I believe you are the first. They are well defined like a Roman nose. You must be very proud of them. I suppose you are surprised that a woman like me says “nipples” in public to a man? You must think that I should pretend that I don’t know such a word as nipples, but I do. I know all the rude words. Would you like to hear them? You had best sit down or you may faint in shock, my mum did when I blurted them out during Sunday dinner. It was my protest for having to eat red meat. Okay.
(She walks around behind him as he sits in the chair, preparing herself. She puts on her sexiest voice and leans in to him.) Thigh, breast, buttock, … groin… ass, arse, genitals, sex, randy, foreplay, testicles, patty, dangly bits… Would you like to hear more? (She looks at him flirtatiously.) Have my rude words aroused you? They sometimes do. Funny, for a moment I thought I saw you blush.
copyright © 2010 Patrick D. Kinsella. All rights reserved. ___________________________________________
Patrick D. Kinsella is a writer/actor from County Wicklow, Ireland. His writing credits to date include Thee Greatest Sin (Redrua Theatre Company) and Chalks (Dublin International Gay Theatre Festival 2010). He also wrote and produced Bunny and Hair, an online mockumentary (2008).