Strip (11 page)

I shivered. I drained my first glass of wine.

“So much for savouring the wine,” he said.

“It has a nice aftertaste.”

“I'll teach you how to taste wine.”

“There's a trick?”

“A technique.”

My head was spinning from an empty stomach. “I guess I should have eaten today.”

“What is it with dancers? Are you all on self-destruct?”

“I'll make up for it. This looks amazing—enough to make a ballerina binge, then purge.”

“Let's eat,” he said, carefully loading the plates.

I led the way to the table while he followed, hoped his eyes might be taking in some part of my anatomy. I sat down and tucked my napkin into my
t
-shirt.

“Now, what I'm dying to know…” he asked (my mind kept filling in the blanks at ninety miles an hour, saying things like,
know if I'll sleep with you
), “…is whether all male dancers are gay?”

“Are you kidding?” I had the feeling he was leading me on.

“Well?”

“Of course not,” I said, pacing myself on my second glass of wine. “I mean, I wish. But it isn't fair to all the heterosexual dancers to say something like that.”

“You wish?” He grinned. “How so?”

“Well who hasn't?”

“Fantasies are different.”

“Well I mean everyone probably thinks we're all blowing each other in the wings before going on.”

His knees touched mine under the table. I took a bigger swig of wine. “Go on.”

I sighed. He wanted a story. “Well, I mean, when I was a teenager I spent days fantasizing about the male corps of the Caracas Ballet, the Eliot Feld Ballet, the Dance Theatre of Harlem.”

“What were they doing in your fantasies?”

“Mostly dancing naked, you know complicated lifts, lots of body contact.” My heart was racing. “It's hot in here.” Anxiety was overwhelming me. I couldn't stop smiling. I drew a breath. “The sad truth is that dancers have too many body image hang-ups to be that open. I've heard it's the opera singers who like to eat and have sex with abandon. What about you?” I gulped and hoped he would do all the talking, so I could settle.

“My fantasies? Or do I like to eat and fuck with abandon?”

“Oh, well, your anything. Past? I feel like we've met before.”

“I get that feeling with you.”

“Funny.”

Now my feet were twitching. Meanwhile we polished off the wine and he opened another. I was trying not to look like a glutton, but I was always hungry, recently of limited means, and always in a hurry. And he was lean, a little gaunt maybe, or maybe just overworked.

“I've never seen a dancer eat so much. Do you purge?”

“God no. I just binge and starve, kind of like a cobra or something. When I was in school the more I worried about my weight the worse I looked. Now I eat when I'm hungry. Swimming taught me nutrition.” Now I was blathering. “You have to keep your strength up. Good nutrition is kind of a hobby—too bad I can't afford it. I mean…”

“You're a dancer. Say no more.”

I wished I hadn't shown up empty-handed. “God you just can't escape the food thing as a dancer, can you? Everyone is fascinated by it.”

“It's refreshing to see someone eat.”

“I hope I'm not making a pig of myself.” At least eating kept me occupied. “This wine has gone to my head.”

“We can only hope.”

“You can.”

“Yep. So. What brought you to the land of poutine and pea soup?”

“Just looking for better opportunities, better training for my body. I'm working with an extremely talented woman now.”

“Your body looks fine to me.”

“I could have stayed with the Company. I was second soloist, but the training was… oh forget it.” Of course I'd stopped believing this long ago, but it was the official story.

“It seems a big risk to take. This woman must be something.”

“She was a principal with the Hungarian State and a soloist with the Royal before immigrating.” I wrapped the spaghetti on my spoon and tried not to think of her filthy kitchen, enough to spoil a healthy appetite, and hoped he wouldn't ask much more about her. I didn't want to have to start lying on our first date.

“As in London's Royal Ballet?”

“Mmm hmm.”

He looked at me like he understood this world of the gypsy and the circus, something most non-dancers do not get. “I've never had an artistic outlet,” he said. “I've never felt the urge.” He poured another glass of wine. “I love wine, I love music, love dance but don't have an expressive bone in my body. Well, maybe one. And to give it credit, it is quite expressive and come to think of it, it has urges.”

“Your outlet.”

“Definitely.”

“I get the point.”

“You will.”

I giggled the way I hate to do.

“Oh, I've known a few dancers. In Toronto mainly. The National—among others.”

“So maybe that's your expression—doing dancers.” My nervousness was replaced with regret for this last comment, like a bucket of cold water thrown on the conversation. How could I compare with all of everything he had heard, seen and tasted of the dance world in Toronto? I held up my glass for a refill. He touched my fingers. When he took the glass I noticed how thick and rough his hands were. He steadied the glass and poured.

“Dancers don't strike me as risk-takers.”

“No? With a lifespan less than a moth to a flame? That's not a risk?”

“Well, not once they have a job. You've taken a leap into the unknown, which this place certainly is. I'm surprised you left. You're brave.”

“Or naive?”

“Optimistic.”

“Stupid?”

“Idealistic?”

“I wish I could look at it that way.”

“You'll see—someday.” He clinked his glass against mine.

I swallowed a small burp. “You're drunk.”

“It takes a lot more than this to get me drunk.”

“Well not me. I guess I should have eaten something today.” I pushed back from the table. (It's amazing how satisfied you feel after a meal cooked with care, not just thrown together for sustenance, mixed with paranoia that there might be one calorie too many.) I got up and plunked into an old velvety easy chair. Kent filled our glasses and returned to sit at my feet.

“Speaking of dancers, you ever hear from that guy, Daniel?” I tried desperately to sound matter-of-fact.

“God, no! I don't keep in touch with every trick I have, although I'm pretty good about it. But Daniel, he seems like he's all over the place. Who could keep up with him? Though I gave him my number, I didn't think he'd call. But he did. About you.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Said you were a dancer. Said he coached you. That's about it. Nothing special. You know. Nothing extraordinary. Don't pout. You know how he feels about dancers. You two have a thing? That why you're asking?” Kent pulled on my pant leg then quickly reached up and undid my belt. “You still saving yourself for that guy in Montreal?”

Kent was fast, but I liked his bravado. His fingers fumbled around to get my fly half-open and pull my pants below my waist, before I pushed his hands away. God I needed to be touched.

When Daniel vanished so did my confidence. Kent somehow stirred those ideas that I might be an attractive being. Not to mention the fact that he continued at my leg with the earnestness and openness of a horny dog; you can so easily forgive them as you affectionately slap them away, believing they chose you specifically, but knowing it is merely physical. I couldn't help but laugh, and with his innuendo and my drunkenness I couldn't take it seriously.

He sat back and started to untuck his shirt. “This room gets so hot,” he said. After two bottles of wine, this was true. When he pulled his shirt over his head I saw that he was just lean, wound muscle, like someone whose metabolism was working overtime.

He unzipped his pants. “Do you like getting fucked? If you know Daniel, then you like getting fucked.”

“But…”

“Just kidding.”

Now I had to part the clouds of inebriation to make some sense of where it was all going. His desperation was driving me nuts, and although I didn't want to disappoint, I did not want to start something. I remember hearing “like sticks with like” when I was growing up—the Ukes, the Scots, the Anglos—for some unknown reason, and now we fairies had to as well. Anyway, I couldn't figure out what Daniel and Kent really had in common to bring them together, if in fact they were both tops. Then I saw Kent's penis—a huge sloppy thing, like Daniel's but circumcised. They were card-carrying members of the big cock club.

“Don't move for a minute. I have to take this all in.” Just looking wasn't complicated. I wouldn't have to explain myself. “You have an amazing body.” Even if I wasn't prepared to partake, I could at least enjoy the view and maybe be truthful about it.

“Well?
Have
you?”

“Hmmmm?”

“Have you ever been fucked?”

“No. Don't see how I'd enjoy it anyway.”

“So you're a top?”

“I don't know. I do like sex if that's what you want to know.”

“I can't believe, with an ass like that, you've never been fucked.”

“Never had the opportunity.”

“It's an amazing feeling.”

“For you?”

“For you.”

He lunged. You could forgive kissing, but I bit through the lip lock. “I have to go.”

“You're joking.”

“I wish I was. I can't do this tonight.”

“You can stay. We don't have to have sex, or I can come over, give you some company. We could cuddle.”

“No. I need to sleep. I'm just… I can't.”

“More wine?”

“No, really. I better go. To be honest, I've only slept with about seven people—and only sort of.”

“In your whole life?”

“It's been kind of a no man's land down there. I think it had to do with a couple of undescended balls and a hernia.”

“Well, everything looks well descended now. Jeez, you're practically a virgin. I've been with upwards of two thousand. Maybe only seven today…”

“Sex, never mind fucking, is one of the most pleasurable experiences for a man, any man.” And with this comment I was flooded with a mixture of humiliation and what I knew to be a fear of not being good enough.

“You sound pretty committed to the cause.” Kent was obviously a sexual athlete. I didn't just want to be number two thousand and one.

“You're saving yourself for someone in Montreal?”

“You might say I'm old-fashioned.”

“Sex and love go hand in hand for someone like you.”

“And someone like me is what?”

“You're a romantic. You're hopeful. You're a dreamer or you wouldn't be here. I told you I know dancers, and I'd say you have taken a hefty risk.”

“Sex and love.”

“That's why you're here. Don't worry. You'll find both. Together. At the same time.”

“It's not like I grew up in a hotbed of sexual activity.”

“You probably just had no idea. What's the worst that could happen?”

I thought of our last tour when some guy in Thunder Bay asked if I wanted to go on a date. He said, “Look I don't want to marry you I just asked you for a date.” I realized after that, that the other six guys weren't like me. They weren't looking for love.

“I guess I'm hung up on the love part.”

“Maybe you should fall in love a little more often.”

“With you?”

“Not with me. God. Just, you know, loosen up. You're a dancer. There are things you have to cultivate—your instincts for one, an appreciation and knowledge of good wine for another. Sex, too.”

“Hah.”

“Sex is an incredible gift. Don't waste it on some moral high ground. You can eat spaghetti alone, which is fine, or you can share it with a friend or even a stranger or with someone you love, slathered with sauce and good, fresh parmesan. Each time it's unique and good in its own way. Tell me this is bland.”

“This is definitely spaghetti with sauce.”

“God you're a baby, but you like me don't you?”

“Daniel tried to…”

“Daniel? Daniel? That's who you're saving yourself for?”

“Shit.”

“Don't worry. Unfortunately the world's full of Daniels. If that's what you're pining, I mean waiting for, good luck. I've had a few.”

“A few thousand.”

“No, you count those types on one hand. You'll get over him—I guess you know he liked fucking, by the way.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Not really. We are both after the same kind of thing. Anyway you, my dear, have some growing up to do. I've always thought dancers were a little on the thick side.” Kent's tone had changed. I had offended him. “They can't really help it with the protected lives they lead. One thing you should know, though, is that a guy like Daniel will never save himself for another man.”

“We'll see.”

“You better start enjoying sex for what it is. Love will happen. I fall in love ten times a day.” Kent slowly got up, went to the window.

I had spoiled the evening by talking too much, by being too much of an innocent—or at least presenting myself that way.

 

Certain images come back
to me, as easily as torn bits of folded paper with fading phone numbers, or a silken business card I keep pulling out of a wallet, too worn to use, but reminding me of something. You know exactly where it is if you need it. It might show up unannounced or it might be lost forever.

I see a child running naked into the street. The street is in front of me because I am that child. Afraid of what goes on inside—of me. Inside, I'm broken. Afraid of pained urine, an aching abdomen. Afraid I was broken like my mother. To make it better she took me for tea at Eaton's. I was always well enough for tea. She dressed me in patent leather shoes, a little black velvet cap and a tweed coat. I always sat on the banquette and she faced me so she could look past her teacup and over my head to watch the reflections of those who came and went. I asked her once if I could have a brother or sister. I thought it was that easy. Like asking Santa for presents. She squeezed my hand, looked at me and smiled. I thought she was going to laugh, so I smiled, too, but she started to cry. “It's not up to us.”