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Dancers - Part One Weights & Measures |
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By Margo Perry
Bad rehearsal!
As soon as it was over, the dancers collapsed onto the sweat-dampened wood floors. They formed an untidy mass: limbs akimbo, hands over chests, heads on bellies or chests. They were all spent, discouraged and wilting under the glare of the choreographer’s continuing displeasure. “I’ll be putting my stamp on these ballets. Get used to it!”
“Sarah, don’t say a word,” Jacques whispered.
I could feel his hot breath in my ear. He was so beautiful with his perfectly proportioned body and shock of shining prematurely-grey hair. When he danced, he wasn’t a gay man, he was just a man, strong and reliable, and my body sang when Jamie made him my steady partner.
“Did you hear one mumblin’ word outta’ my mouth?” I hissed back at him. My head was resting on another dancer’s complaining belly.
“My stomach … All I’ve eaten for three days is lettuce,” Rosie said under her breath.
I loved Rosie. Jamie had hired her out of a Cuban dance company and brought her back to the states. She was a firecracker of a dancer.
“You’re starving yourself and that’s bullshit!” I said, taking her wrist, to check her pulse. She really didn’t look well.
“Anything you’d like to share, Sarah?” Karl’s booming voice echoed across the room. He seemed to be angry, all the time, which made us mourn Jamie’s sweet cool, all the more. “I asked you a question, Sarah! What’s so important that you have to hold a seminar, while I’m trying to give notes?”
Since Jamie’s sudden death eight months ago, and the installation of Karl, this new artistic director six months ago, the company had lost its core and the dancers were confused and more than a little unhappy. But, I was the one being called out.
Jacques grabbed my free hand and squeezed it hard, as though crushing it would incapacitate my vocal chords. I took a deep breath. You could hear a feather float and the rehearsal hall smelled of fear, uncertainty, and longing for what had been.
“In speeding up the transition into the bedroom scene, you’ve lost the whole intent of the scene, the struggle she has deciding whether to bed him. Jamie was very clear about that.”
“Couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Jacques whispered, releasing my numb fingers.
“It’s Jamie’s ballet. We’ve been performing it for five years,” I sighed.
“It would behoove you to start listening to my directions, Sarah. You’re a leader here and I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
Much to my relief, Karl started to walk away.
Who the fuck says behoove?
Karl turned back abruptly.
“All dancers, report for weigh-in.”
The groan was loud and immediate, as dancer’s crawled around gathering clothes and dance bags.
“I hate this bullshit,” Jacques said.
“Me, too,” Rosie said. “I’m scared. If the scales don’t read right, this will be my third strike.”
“It’s my dozenth,” I said. “I shoulda’ been long gone.”
My problem wasn’t weight. It was my tits. They developed early and largely, so I’d danced with them all my life. Jamie loved my look and the way I moved and had wardrobe design specialty dance bras to hold me firm on land and in air. (It worked so well that it inspired a commercial bra line for large breasted dancers.) But that was Jamie. Karl hated my breasts and had suggested reduction the very first meeting.
Since then, he’d sprung, at least two dozen, weigh-ins on us, always by surprise like this one, always complaining about my outrageous tits. Jamie had cared that we danced with all our bodies, hearts and souls and we had, every day, without a grumble. This Karl asshole fancied himself the second coming of Balanchine, and insisted that his dancers be long limbed and skeletal, all collarbone and long neck, no hips and definitely no tits. Karl’s problem was that he’d inherited a company that looked one way, when he wanted one that looked another. Those of us, who were not his type, suspected that we’d be fired, as soon as he could manage it. It was rumoured that he had an anorexic bevy of sycophants, just waiting to be hired.
“Hurry you two,” Jacques said, slipping into his backpack, “let’s get this over with.”
The company had disappeared except for Rosie and me, the ones in real jeopardy, me because of my humongous tits and Rosie because she was more female than spectral. We left the studio and started down the glassed-in, tree-lined walkway that was the inspiration of an urban architect who specialized in buildings for the arts. It breathed serenity, with its solar panels, skylights and intermittent fountains. However, on days like this we called our destination the Guillotine Room and our approach, the wailing walk of weight-shame.
“I’m terrified,” Rosie said, “but, you have nothing to worry about. They can’t let you go. You’re featured in most of the ballets we’re doing this season.”
“I’m a dead man’s star with tits too big,” I said. “Karl has pretty much threatened me, but I’m not going under the knife for his satisfaction. Fuck him. He wants to change the face of this company without appreciating why it’s so successful. He’s going to fuck it up. I don’t know why they hired such an arrogant prick. He’s not a good fit.”
Quiet always followed the mention of Jamie’s name. We were still in mourning for a man we loved, a man who’d left behind a legacy of great choreography and a healthy, happy, invigorated company. I was afraid that his spirit was being slowly erased.
“Any company would be glad to have you, Sarah. My situation’s iffy and I need a contract to stay in the country,” Rosie said.
Her eyes were welling with tears. I took her hand, as we walked. It was cold, dry and papery, needing warmth, fluids and nutrition. Rosie hadn’t an inch of fat on her beautifully curved body. She had the long strong legs of a race horse and the round generous breasts and high tight ass that made men smile. Her movement used to have animal strength and an exciting edge that Jamie had applauded and nourished. Karl preferred a blank, ghostly appearance and Rosie had lost herself trying to please him. I wanted to kick his ass.
Because I was first soloist, he was trying to placate me, but my tits were enormous and he wanted them, and me, gone. The Board, on the other hand, wasn’t about to let me go. So, this was a showdown. Unlike Rosie, I’d had many more than two warnings, and we were now engaged in a power struggle.
“I’m scared,” Rosie said, as the doors swung open for us.
Our appointments were last. The rest of the company was lounging around waiting to see the results of the three strikes you’re out policy, none of them believing either of us would be fired. Rosie had lost weight each of the last two weeks. I hadn’t lost an inch or a pound and wasn’t trying to. I’m 5’9’’ and I’ve been 117-120 lbs for years. If that was good enough for Jamie, it was good enough for me.
A weigh-in was like auditioning all over again. There were enough admin people present to make any decision on the spot and the whole thing was designed to intimidate. Karl was striding up and down like a military commander and I could feel my temperature rising. Rosie stumbled, before settling on the scale. I watched the nurse shake her head, as Karl peered over her shoulder, his face a masque of dissatisfaction.
115 pounds
Rosie was 5’8” and had weighed about 120 lbs since she’d joined the company about six years ago. That girl could fly so high, you’d think she was airborne. And yet, Karl had aimed her at 110 pounds. She’d lost another two pounds this week, but had yet to meet his goal.
“She’s done well,” the nurse told Karl. “She’s losing hard weight now and shouldn’t drop more than she has this week.”
“I’m truly sorry, but I have to get on with my repertoire. There’s only one way to whip this company into the shape I need, and that’s to just do it. It’s been six months.”
Pompous ass! You could hear the dancers’ gasps. None of us was used to this pressure, this kind of reckoning.
“Couldn’t you give me one more week? I’ve been coming down every weigh-in, I need this …,” Rosie begged.
“I’m sorry, but it’s all over for you.”
At first, there was stunned silence and then the dancers began mumbling. In a company, when one person is unsafe, everyone feels unsafe, especially when brilliant dancers start to go. And Rosie was brilliant. The only person we’d ever seen fired was Will, when he came to a lifting class drunk. He’d apologised, explained that his heart had been broken the night before, said that that was no excuse and had then, burst into tears, before firing his damn self.
“Next!”
I was the only next. Rosie was now blubbering in the corner, lost in the compassionate arms of dancers, happy to not be in her place. I looked at Karl’s smug triumphant grin and stepped forward, ready to do battle.
“Never mind, Diva Sarah, we’ll deal with you next weigh-in. I’ve had enough for today.”
With that, the asshole swished back to the table, leaving me standing there. I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t. I could feel the spirit, joy and life of the company seeping away. I thought of Jamie and how much we’d loved being his instruments, making his movement come alive. We’d be all heading out for our Friday end of week drinks by now. Where had the joy gone? A dancer’s life is hard and, in my head, it had always been important to work in a happy environment.
Any company would be glad to have you.
Rosie’s words swirled around my head and I began to feel dizzy. Fireworks Dance was the new flavour of this coming season and we’d attended the opening of their new studios a couple of months ago. Their glass walls seemed to reach out to the community and pull people in. They sold a number of on-site, cheap matinee seats to passersby and they were developing a whole new audience. Their thirty year old founder and choreographer, Greg, was even more exceptional: Antonio Banderas in tights, straight and tall; dark hair in a long ponytail, dark flashing eyes, full lips and a smile full of anticipation. He’d copied his aesthetic from his modern mentor, Alvin Ailey, and his company was a rich tapestry of sizes and shapes, its classic style fused with many influences.
Their opening was a buzz of activity. All the important critics and bloggers, competing companies, well wishers and curiosity seekers were all represented. I hadn’t felt this kind of excitement and enthusiasm since Jamie had died, and I’d missed it. I also missed Jamie and the way he made me feel.
The way Greg had made me feel that night.
I can’t remember the whole sequence because it happened so quickly, but it was grand. A house band was playing, not cover tunes, but original pieces and the music took me. I started to dance along with some others. Then there were tango rhythms and strong arms guiding me, a leg thrust surely between my legs, my tits trapped against a broad chest.
“I’m Greg and I’m going to choreograph you one day, Lady Sarah.”
So he knows who I am …
“You know, I wouldn’t be sating this, if Jamie . . .”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
Everybody respected Jamie, but Karl was another matter. He had a reputation for getting what and who he wanted at any cost, so raiding his corps wouldn’t be a problem for anyone. I couldn’t count the number of offers I’d gotten since Jamie died, but his company was my home.
“Come with me. I want to show you something.”
He took my hand and led me to a corner where a private elevator took us up to his office. It was a monument to the history of dance, with its photos and acclamations, and a monument to discipline. Everything seemed to be in place: desk, three chairs, bookshelves, plants, a mirror and barre.
Greg pulled down a tome entitled, Favourite Dancers, and handed it to me.
“I’ve been compiling this for years, dreaming of the time I’d be privileged enough to choreograph professionals.”
I opened the book and my face peered back at me, taken from my first major review when Jamie took a chance and fashioned a ballet around the girl with the big tits. Many of the faces that followed were already in Greg’s company. Others were foreign company members. I was moved beyond words. And he was gorgeous and so close to me. I remembered how the tango felt and, I admit it. I rested the book on his desk, put my arms around his neck and pulled him down to me. As we kissed, he pressed me back against the desk. I was half-seated. My leg between his massaged the huge bulge in his pants, while his hands were groping my tits. We were horny teenagers. My panties were soaked and I was so ready, so lonely.
He suddenly took my shoulders and pulled away, looking deep in my eyes.
“Jamie and I were friends, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. How is it we never met?”
Greg adjusted the strap of my bra, absentmindedly. His hands were very gentle. “Jamie called you his Magic Muse. He believed that if your relationship were exposed, the notoriety might spoil things.”
“It might have …”
I walked over to the window and watched his dancers mix it up with my gang. There was great symmetry and harmony of movement between them and our dancers hadn’t looked that happy, or danced that freely in a long time.
“I love your top,” Greg said, “like the way it moves. Like the see thru. You have the most incredible cleavage.”
Jamie had bought my diaphanous black top, with the plunging V’s back and front, and the jeans I was wearing. He said he wanted to show off my tits and ass. I was suddenly self conscious. Greg came up behind me and wound his arms around me.
“I find you as delicious as Jamie did, but I don’t need a muse and I don’t sleep with company members.”
“Meaning that Jamie did . . .” I could feel myself stiffen.
“No need to be defensive. I wasn’t as lucky as Jamie, that’s all.”
There’s something about this man!
My tits had fallen over his arms and my nipples began to itch pleasantly. I watched them partying downstairs and pressed back into Greg, testing to see if he’d move away. He didn’t. I could feel his cock rising, getting harder and pushing into me, more and more insistently.
My pussy was going crazy. Tonight was the first time I’d kissed a man since Jamie. My mouth was dry and my pussy throbbed with anticipation. I moved away from the window and back to the privacy of his desk. I pulled my top off, revealing the deep plunge of my bra, which kept my pendulous breasts well hung and centered. I was going to fuck this man on the first meet, a first. I was making funny mewling noises like a cat in heat.
“Oh fuck,” Greg said, “I can’t run away fast enough.”
I watched as he unzipped quickly, and put on the condom, he’d grabbed from a desk drawer. I got rid of my jeans and undies and sat on the desk, leaning back and spreading my dancer’s legs in welcome. I couldn’t wait.
Nobody spoke, but his cock was ramrod hard, hard enough for him to manipulate my clit to orgasm. He used my juice to massage his long, strongly veined cock. We were both breathing hard, both animals. He fucked me on that desk and I fucked him back until we both came.
“You’re wonderful,” he said. “Come.”
In the bathroom, we showered together, kissing and fondling, and then dried ourselves off.
“Come dance with me,” Greg sang, as we dressed. “I know it’s only a dream. It’s still Jamie’s company and I respect that.”
If he only knew how much I wanted to … No more Karl!
The knock on the door was full of authority.
“Sorry,” Greg said, “really bad timing.”
“Better late than early,” I said.
He went to the door.
“The press is ready for you.”
“I’ll be right down.”
After that, we had coffee a few times. There were sparks, but FireWorks was in direct competition with our company, whether touring, or at home, or bidding on educational projects. It would have made a grand splash for me to change companies. It had seemed out of the question … then.
“We’d like to see Rosie Lopez!”
I pulled myself back to the present. I could see the dreaded blue severance envelope. The bigwigs were gathering their computers and preparing to leave. Rosie had given herself over to loud, wrenching sobs and could barely walk. I couldn’t watch without getting into trouble, so I grabbed my bag, and headed for the door.
“Gotta’ go to the bathroom,” I lied, to one of the dancers standing around.
In the hall, I fished my cell from my backpack and impulsively called Greg. Fate was on my side. He was in and took my call. He was silent as I explained that Rosie had been fired, I’d been given a reprieve, but that I had no intention of downsizing my tits, so it was only a matter of time. I was ready to quit.
He laughingly told me that he loved my tits and he’d take me, whatever the terms. I had only one term and it wasn’t about salary. It was Rosie. We were a package.
“I can hire you on the spot, but Rosie’s another matter.”
I wanted to push harder, but thought better of it.
“Are you free now? Come on over and I’ll sign you right now! Rosie has to wait, but you … I want you now.”
It was glorious to feel wanted again. A flood of relief and excitement flooded over me. I hadn’t felt this sure of any decision since I’d joined Jamie’s company.
Back in the rehearsal hall, I approached the table where Rosie was standing, still and quiet, while Karl lectured her about weight. She seemed in shock. I walked over and gently pulled her aside.
“I’m outta’ here,” I whispered. “I’ll call you later. I’m working an angle for you, so don’t give up.”
Rosie started back toward the dancers and I walked back to the table.
“I’m going to save you the trouble of firing me and quit.” I looked straight at Karl. “You don’t like my body and I’m not going to change it for you, so it’s better for everyone that I go where I’m appreciated. I’m way past my third strike, so just like Rosie, I’m a goner. We’ll settle up next week. See you.”
I could hear Rosie praying and sputtering in Spanish, her eyes glinting, her lips quivering with as much confusion as excitement.
“I’ll be at FireWorks with Greg Minors.”
A hush fell over the room and by the time the Artistic Administrator found her voice, I was heading out of the door.
“We need you! Sarah, but you can’t just leave.”
But I could and I did.
I took the stairs down and when I reached the lobby, the concierge stopped me.
“Mr. Greg from Fireworks has sent a car for you.”
I saw the limo pull up and turned back to the concierge. Before I could say, Thanks,” Rosie dashed through the rush of bodies disgorging from the crowded elevator, and flew straight into my arms, blubbering this time for real.
“Come with me,” I said, much to the nodding relief of the concierge.
I didn’t know what else to do with her. There was a restaurant next to FireWorks. She’d be safe there, while I met with Greg. She looked so pathetic standing in the lobby, weeping. Her chocolate cotton shirt was the same colour as her skin and clung to her bra, still wet from rehearsal. A matching skirt fell to the ankles of her sneakered feet.
“Glamorous we’re not,” I said, as we tumbled through the door the driver held open for us.
Our exits had been too dramatic for the usual shower and primping. I had slipped into my coat, but I was still wearing my character heels, tights and mock halter leotard.
“They’re going to send me back,” Rosie said, sobbing all over again.
I didn’t know how I was going to pull this off, but I knew that it had to be a win for both Rosie and me. The driver passed back a whole box of Kleenex, before closing both the glass partition and the black curtain. This was a man allergic to drama. He didn’t want to see or hear.
As he pulled into the stream of rush hour traffic, it began to rain, and I suddenly started to cry myself. I felt like a cheat, weeping in the shadow of Rosie’s now cursing grief. Without thinking, I gathered her in my arms and held her close. I felt vaguely horny, but mostly sad. I’d just left my company, the company I’d joined right out of ballet school. I was ending a chapter that had grown too long and convoluted after Jamie died.
Jamie’s was the first class I took, after leaving ballet school. After my first class, I stayed with a few others to continue his choreography. Soon, I stayed every day and became his lover and his muse.
Before we knew it, there were many dancers staying as long as it took to finish what was in his head, and that turned into our present company, the company I’d just quit.
I’ll never take class with them again …
And then I started to bawl and it was Rosie who was comforting me, rubbing my arms, squeezing my breasts, kissing me. Her lips were soft, but probing.
“It’ll be alright,” she whispered.
Her tongue in my ear felt like a sensual breeze that you never wanted to stop blowing.
Rosie snuggled inside my coat, in my lap, close to where my nipples lay. She used both hands to gather them together and to breathe hot air onto them, arousing them. It wasn’t difficult for her to release them from the deep V of my halter. As she nibbled, she cooed, and her hand had disappeared beneath her skirt. For me, it was arousing, preparatory, like a martini before a meal, or a terrific appetizer. I thought of Greg, as she stroked herself, sucked and pinched my nipples, until we both came in silent relief.
Rosie was mostly quiet, except for the occasional deep sigh, as I struggled to discretely change into a pair of jeans and black turtleneck sweater.
“You look so hot when you’re covered up like that,” Rosie said. “I’m not gay, I was just …”
“I know and there’s no need to explain,” I assured her, as I applied a touch of blush and lipstick. “It’s all been too much. I have a meeting with Greg. Why don’t you wait for me in Gino’s and I’ll join you for dinner? In fact, I’m sure the company’s been let go by now. Let’s see what they’re up to?”
I called Jacques.
“I’ve been waiting,” he said. “Where the hell are you? We have to talk. Karl’s got a mutiny on his hands.”
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