Strip Read Online Free

skylights and trees—and that’s where he wrapped his wiry arms around me. There was a ballet barre in his huge bedroom. I saw him moulding me into the next Godunov.
    â€œCome here.” He pulled me to his mattress on the floor.
    â€œBaryshnikov sleeps on the floor, too, but without a mattress.”
    â€œBaryshnikov is nothing but bullshit stories about Baryshnikov.”
    Up to then, only six men had touched me, physically, in my life. And each time felt like the first, and freed me once again from all the years of indecision, confusion, questioning and holding back. It had been an adolescence marked by disappointment, pretence and fakery. The breakthrough came when the swim coach offered me his Speedo, the day I forgot mine. I knew my fate when I surreptitiously took it home to spend some alone time with it, later telling him that I rinsed it for him. Our eyes met when I handed it back to him early one morning. Then, on a subsequent out-of-town swim meet, he pretended to be tipsy (as I had done up to then, when it came to begging off kissing my latest girlfriend), but it was me who took advantage of him. Desire put me in the driver’s seat, but he knew exactly what he was doing on that motel bed.
    And though Daniel was number seven, that afternoon he took the number one spot as he ran his finger down my sternum. He pressed his palm onto my chest, as if he were trying to leave an imprint on my heart, and I let him. He tickled the ridge of my lips with his fingers until they twitched in anticipation of him touching his lips to mine. He worked on my flexibility, every night for a week after that first afternoon, stroking my inner thighs—to start with. As far as I could see, having him make love to me was the only thing that would cure that blankness he said he saw. I was still technically a virgin; I wanted Daniel to change that.
    Sure I’ve had moments where I thought I could see what was going to save me, change me, open me up, turn me into a great dancer. I never believed it had anything to do with love. Every new teacher I encountered held new hope, and many of them fulfilled that hope, with a gem of their knowledge. I owed my grand jeté to these gems (think of jumping after you’ve left the ground; if that doesn’t work think of a hot poker up your ass). Then, with another, my body changed its interpretation of a tour en l’air (think of one side of your body trying to catch up with the other, think of the stability of a brick shit-house). But after all is said and done, it’s love that fills in all the empty spaces and makes you dance better, love that transcends the physical plane, love that couples the true material with the ethereal, joins the dance with desire. I became weightless for that week, and for weeks following the Company’s departure. All I could think was, This is my moment at last , and God, I am so ready for it—from now on, things will be perfect . But it was lust, that’s all. And I’m starting to think that the uplifting effects of lust, like caffeine, alcohol or cigarettes, eventually wear off and leave us feeling and looking like shit.
    My Winnipeg roommates—hunky Peter, a solid and story-book-prince stunning Ukrainian, and the chain-smoking Rachelle (who was our landlady, also happened to be our roommate while on tour, and also happened to be a co-corps de ballet member, pas de deux partner and confidante)—both forced me to come clean in an empty coffee shop, one rainy morning on Rue Crescent. We sat in idle chat, commenting on stylish or down-and-out passers-by, dreading the matinee, until Rachelle spoke. “So? Come on. You’ve made up your mind haven’t you? Is it love? Are you moving in with him?”
    â€œIt’s time to move on,” I said. “I can’t get comfortable with the Company. I’ll end up rotting on the prairie.” I actually had myself convinced. Looking back I can see how