Strip Read Online Free Page A

easily I can make myself believe anything.
    â€œRotting on the prairie? Mr. Rottam is rotting? They’re planning The Rite of Spring and The Firebird and you say rotting, Rottam?”
    â€œThey’ve been planning those for years. It’s some kind of publicity stunt. Do you actually think they’ll get around to it before we retire?”
    â€œKharkov has started running ideas for Serenade .”
    â€œMore Tchaikovsky?” I teased Rachelle. She loved Tchaikovsky; so did I, but he became our whipping board for everything from music to sexuality. “Feh! If he were alive, he’d be writing movie music.”
    â€œSo John Williams is a slouch? What the hell’s wrong with movie music?”
    But my leaving was a betrayal. Peter was mum, resting his chin on his hands like a scolded puppy, and most likely worrying about being an understudy that afternoon for an injured Paris. He’d rehearsed it to death and the dancing wasn’t really that difficult. He just had to look good, which would be no problem. He finally spoke. “So, it’s about dance? Or him?”
    â€œI don’t know. My mind is too crowded. There’s him…”
    â€œAnd all the thousand and one nights you’ve yet to spend with him.” Rachelle said.
    â€œAnd the possibility that I could be better than a soloist, with some good coaching. He really believes…”
    â€œBut do you? Come on, dig deep.”
    â€œYou’ve seen me dancing these past few days.”
    â€œYes, we all have.” She droned, “ Big deal .”
    â€œBig deal? I can do it. I am so centred right now. I turn on a dime, and just keep turning. Did you see me today? I turned five times…”
    â€œI’ve turned seven, and on my dick, and with my eyes closed.”
    â€œCorrection, Peter. You were on someone’s dick.”
    â€œHey. No potty mouth around me—you cocksuckers.”
    â€œâ€¦and then I just stood there on demi-pointe in a perfect retiré with everything so aligned. If it hadn’t been for having to have coffee with you two I could still be there. And my grand jeté is…”
    â€œYeah, we know, grand. We saw it. Come on. Cut this shit,” she said, holding in a drag. “You’re in love with that frog. Am I going to have to clean out your room back home? That’s all I want to know.” She paused for a moment savouring the smoke. “God, I love how everyone smokes here.”
    Rachelle had never babied me, not from the moment she parked herself outside our upstairs bathroom with a can of cleanser in one hand and a sponge in the other, telling me it was my turn to clean up the pubes in the bathtub. Peter could be as harsh, too, but he knew when to stop. He never let on if he had actually had sex with a man but he had become a friend after some fumbled attempts for us to be bed buddies. Not a good idea for roommates—we ended up just cuddling.
    There is something like a double negative about doing it with someone you know, as a friend, who also happens to be a dancer; it takes an awful lot to become aroused, simply because you know all the ins and outs of their physique, mostly their flaws, and it is almost clinical as to how you know them. But he was definitely the hottest dancer I had seen that side of the Ontario–Manitoba border. As well as cuddling, we spent time physically close to each other, massaging shoulders, feet, ankles while watching whatever Rachelle and her husband wanted, usually Wheel of Fortune . Making it even less of an issue, we both talked about his body like it was a commodity we could both appreciate from the outside. We’d agreed that it was my weaknesses—low arch, tight tendons, feet that wouldn’t stretch—that would make me a strong dancer. And it was his gifts—perfect feet, high arches, a beautiful line, flexibility for days and visible muscle beneath his paper-thin olive