by Lord Malinov
I had reached the point where I never missed the ballet. You wouldn’t know I loved classical dance by looking at me, supposing that they have a look other than tuxedos. I’m usually a pretty ordinary guy, watching sports, going hiking, woodwork, boating, all that masculine junk. I got hooked on ballet when I was in my early twenties. I dated a ballerina.
We dated for about three months and she was incredible. I was demanding and she didn’t have time for my shit and she went on tour and I never spoke to her again. On the other hand, I never missed one of her shows. At first, it was a stalker sort of thing. She may have dumped me but she couldn’t stop me from paying admission and admiring her. It sounds creepy, I know. I was sometimes a schmuck when I was young.
After a month of three ballets a week, I’d forgotten about her. She was just another dancer in a vast production, layers upon layers of magnificent beauty, subtle, ethereal, transcendent motion through and beyond emotion. My heart throbbed with every reaching, leaping, turning, bending measure of sparkling orchestrations. I belonged to the old gent on third violin as much if not more than to my lost lover, chorus girl number three.
I haven’t been able to stop; collecting every video I could find, beyond Nureyev and Fonteyn, through MacMillan and Balanchine, Misha and the ABT, Russia and Denmark and France and London, admiring, studying, memorizing, gushing over and lusting on.
On Saturday, she was dancing Swan Lake, on the telly, the one I dated twelve years ago. Just a minor role, but it was good to see her on stage again. She hurt herself a few years back, tore her knee. No one thought she’d ever dance again, but there she was, on stage, on television, for all the world to see.
I was young when I met her; I certainly had no appreciation for ballet at that stage of my life. She was just another woman, a bit on the skinny side but strong and limber. Her physical attributes and abilities caught my attention, in core artistic ways, meaning lustfully. Every move she made was like an explosion in my eyes, my heart and my cock. I couldn’t get enough of her. She soon had enough of me.
She was a Balanchine dancer, so her body was of that type. The legs and butt on that woman were a glory to behold. On stage, she made us all melt with desire and love and lofty feelings of transcendent madness. At my apartment, just as beautifully gifted but stark naked, that’s when things went soaring into the stratosphere, zooming to some distant planet of goddamn fucking ecstasy.
The fact that I used to touch her, take her, lick her, fuck her, oh yes, the fucking of the her, that fact remains a miracle presumed to be the result of some passing saint. What good deed had I done to give karma cause to bestow such an orgasmic series of days on such a mortal slob? I’ve searched my past for some explanation of how it came to pass, of course so that I could at least make some attempt to put myself in the path of success. But I have nothing. I had nothing. I was just a good looking youth. The goddess came down to earth and bestowed joy upon me, a lifetime of memories and a love of dance.
Enough for now; I’m off to the ballet!