[LSPoorEeyorick]

Greasepaint was originally made from tallow. Yes, tallow. That means my predecessors had a slick glob of a beef fat mask melting down their faces thanks to the heat from the burning-candle footlights and from the sardined bodies of a drunken mob of an audience, and from whatever walking-against-the-wind kinetic antics worked up a sweat. I flipped burgers in a fast food restaurant when I was younger. Just the steam evaporating from the Grade-Z meat patties caused my pores to clog and ooze. I can't even imagine what it would be like to smear a cow facial directly on to my skin daily. Back then, they didn't even have Noxema.

These days, the greasy stuff is made primarily from petroleum. Your friends might make jokes about killing mimes (or not killing them—terrible thing to waste, and all) and by now they're trite. But seriously, if you killed us, I think you'd find that the terrible mime-based dependency on oil would be reduced significantly. Why, I'd imagine that the combined petroleum wasted by all of the mimes in this country probably stacks up to a week's fuel for an automotive-sexual-organ-enhancement-type vehicle. A whole tank full.

Generally, I'd much rather use Mehron's pressed white powder. Or none at all. The silent movie mimes, the greats—Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd—never relied on so much makeup to delineate their clowning from reality. George makes a good point, though—that they had the distance of the silver screen to separate the clowns in the audience from the artists on-screen. And if we robbed our imaginary bank in the park bare-faced, I have no doubt that some people would get pretty freaked out. They might even call the cops. So George insists on makeup. And not just any makeup… greasepaint. Clown White. And so I scoop it out of the extra-large Ben Nye tub and slather it on.

I know—I know. If I don't want to wear grease on my face, then I ought to do whatever the hell I want to do. George wouldn't like it, though. He grows disinterested in women who disregard his point of view. Mentors-In-Demand get to do that kind of thing. Particuarly to the mimes they're ****ing. And what can I say? I get off on the mentor-protégé sexual dynamic just as much as he does. I enjoy being told what to do. Or shown. I don't have to have fantasies, I have memories—of his muscular arms wrapping around me from behind, steering my body through the imaginary bank vault, for one. Of him reaching up to caress my face with one hand, the other drawing my hand to caress his. Playfully guiding my hands to the invisible box around his **** until we find the hidden key. Greasepaint can be more of an asset than a liability in some contexts.

George is such an expert at what he does. I once watched him trick a woman into believing that there was a real bird in his hands. She even went and bought birdseed from one of the park vendors, and brought it back to feed it. By then he'd moved on to another bit, a little-old-lady act that had the passersby in stitches. He is such a singularly gifted artist that he can con you into believing you're tucked away inside some thrilling location, safe within the confines of heavy walls and mechanized locks and stacks of money to be whisked away—if a mime policeman plant isn't there to lock you up, that is—when, in fact, you're in a back alley. And his training session has neatly segued into heavy petting and what the policeman—not a mime plant, unfortunately—refers to as "lewd conduct" as he frisks the two of you, your gummy left hands against the wall.

Maybe more than being told what to do, I like to bitch about how I'd have done it differently, if I were in charge. I don't have to take responsibility for my actions when someone else is in control.

Goddamned Clown White.