What’s the hottest thing that ever happened to you in a Theater?
For Lucky, I’m pretty sure it occurred one very blizzardly night this winter when Gavin Creel came up into the balcony during the end-of-show dance party at Hair and leaned his very cute, very firm butt up against her back as he boogied down.
For me, I’m positive it was a couple Saturdays ago when Benjamin Walker leapt off the stage during Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson and got extremely, uh…up close and personal with me.
If you’ve seen the show—or read this review—you know that during the campaigning process, Andrew Jackson (Benjamin Walker) leaps off the stage and saunters toward an entranced audience member, promising to show them his ‘stimulus package.’ Sadly, that article doesn’t quite capture the experience completely and the night I became Ben Walker’s target, I was less than prepared.
It all started with Ben straddling my lap. I was so taken back by his nearness that I couldn’t even get my legs out of his way fast enough. For one terrifying, slow-motion fraction of a second I fumbled, afraid I was going to knock him over, unable to break our eye contact, acutely aware of every place in which his body was touching mine.
That alone would have been more than enough. Ben could have stopped there and my experience would have been complete. There were already lots of glorious places our bodies were touching. But he didn’t stop there. No. Noooo. Because Andrew Jackson wants to be President, man. And he’s going to prove how bad he wants it. He’s going to prove it by offering you some serious contact with his biggest asset. And yes, that was a pun.
I am not even kidding and, apparently, neither was Ben. That fine gentleman rolled his hips forward until his business was pressed up against my body and swiveled like Elvis, which is a nice way of saying that Benjamin Walker dry-humped me. And it was awesome. For a few shining seconds, there was not enough air between us to slip a piece of paper between my boobs and his junk. I almost died.
And let me tell you, it would have been an okay death. Sitting there with a really hot guy gyrating against me, gazing down into my eyes, running his hands through my hair… I didn’t care that there was a huge audience behind us. I couldn’t even hear Lucky giggling madly beside me. It was just me and Ben and Old Hickory.
After Ben had climbed off me and rejoined the cast on stage, Lucky turned to ask if I was okay. “Not really,” was all I could manage. My entire person was trembling. My heart was racing. Paying attention to the show was basically impossible because it was taking a lot of focus to regulate my breathing and any brainpower I could spare was devoted to hoping I hadn’t done anything embarrassing. Like, you know, moaning audibly. Already it was hard to be sure what had just happened.
Once again, I had been incapacitated at the Public Theater.
After the show, I realized there was a pattern forming. A pattern I quite liked. Mind-numbing encounters with Jonathan Groff on Lafayette Street, Ben Walker’s junk all up on my person…the Public Theater is a magical place. (Even Lucky’s sexiest moment, though not physically at the Public, was in a show produced by the Public.) I might officially upgrade the Public Theater to My-Favorite-Place-in-the-City-of-New-York. Maybe in the world. I mean. How can you not love a place that has the power to make all those things happen?
…Oh, I’m sorry. You thought, given the title, that this was going to be a serious piece, didn’t you? So wrong. So. Wrong.