The First Taste of Truth
“Good evening, Mother.”
That was all I had to say. Three simple words. And yet, there I stood, repeating them over and over again under the relentless gaze of my director—my slightly unhinged, wildly passionate director.
I met him in my first year of high school while writing for the local newspaper. He was a dreamer, a theater fanatic, and for some reason, he thought I had the right look for the lead role in his play.
“You’ll be perfect,” he said, his enthusiasm contagious.
I was thrilled—until that first rehearsal.
“No. Again.” His voice cut through the silence.
I tried different intonations, different pauses. My frustration grew. Why wasn’t this working?
Then, suddenly, it clicked. I believed in what I was saying. And finally, the words felt real.
“That. That was it,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.
That moment changed everything. The play took off, we performed at festivals, won awards, and I knew—I wanted to act.
The Man With the Silver Beard
I auditioned for an acting course with nothing but a half-memorized poem by Blaga and a stomach full of nerves.
Sitting across from me was an older man with a silver beard, a presence both grand and gentle. He reminded me of Santa Claus—if Santa had spent his youth in the courts of 18th-century France.
I read my poem. He listened. He smiled.
“You’ll do.”
And just like that, I was in.
For two years, I soaked in every lesson, every whispered secret about the craft. He spoke about theater as if it were something sacred. At first, I only listened. I was a spectator, mesmerized, as if witnessing the pages of an unwritten novel come to life.
But then, slowly, I stepped onto the stage. And something happened.
I discovered a wilder, more authentic version of myself.
Gin, Stories, and a Dangerous Innocence
It was a crisp autumn evening, and it happened to be my birthday. To celebrate, I invited my classmates—and of course, my silver-bearded professor—for drinks.
The night blurred into laughter and clinking glasses. One by one, my friends trickled away, until only the two of us remained.
I sat across from him, still fascinated, still hanging on his every word. There was something intoxicating about his stories, the way he spoke, the way he painted entire worlds with nothing but his voice.
“Shall we go?” he finally said.
Outside, he bought a bottle of cognac. Then, with an effortless air of familiarity, he invited me back to his place.
Did I sense the danger? Not really. The idea of him as anything other than a storyteller, a mentor, hadn’t yet settled in my mind. I was still too young, too naive, still playing the role of a pure and curious Lolita—without understanding what that truly meant.
So, I said yes.
The Barrier
His apartment was dimly lit, scattered with books and the ghosts of past performances. I was playful, carefree, unaware of the shift in atmosphere.
He poured the cognac, raised his glass. “To the years ahead,” he said.
And then, before I could fully process what was happening, he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t hesitant. His arms locked around my waist, firm and demanding. I felt trapped, unable to move, my body frozen in place.
I did not kiss him back.
I pushed him away.
The room fell silent. He looked at me—surprised, perhaps even disappointed. Then, with an odd sort of solemnity, he sat down, placed a heavy glass ashtray between us.
“As long as this ashtray is here,” he said, “there is a barrier. I won’t cross it.”
I stared at him, my pulse hammering. And then, the inevitable question:
“Why?” he asked. “Why don’t you want this?”
I searched for words. Why? Because the reality of him—the flesh-and-blood man—was not the fantasy I had built in my head. Because I wasn’t a woman, not yet. Because despite his perception of me as free, I was still just a girl, standing at the edge of something I didn’t fully understand.
So, I sat down on the bed, on my side of the ashtray, and I answered him.
“The age difference bothers me.” That was the first reason.
“You are my teacher.” That was the second.
And then, I looked him in the eye and delivered the third blow.
“I want to have an orgasm.”
I saw it hit him. The words landed like a slap. I wanted them to. There was something thrilling about the way his expression shifted, about the unspoken challenge in my voice.
Did I even know what an orgasm felt like? No. But I knew that he heard it as a woman’s statement, not a child’s. And maybe that excited him.
He exhaled, long and slow. And then, quietly, he said:
“I’ll wait for you to grow up.”
I was still underage. Perhaps he had forgotten. Or perhaps he had chosen not to remember.
Curtain Call
That night did not end in tragedy. No lines were crossed. The ashtray remained between us.
But something had changed.
I had stepped closer to the edge of adulthood and peered into a world where admiration could blur into something more complicated. Where a girl’s innocence could be mistaken for invitation.
And where words—simple, sharp, deliberate—held more power than I had ever realized.
