Yes, this is what you think it is

Zebentino Alecto spammed me with this. He then tried to tell me that I am confused.

You decide for yourself who is confused.

Yes I've blurred it because of google terms of service. The original is much larger.

Heartbeat post.

More sometime I think.

A shivering in my blood

There was this morning a shivering in my blood. It was an awakening, and a realization that since whoring is all we do, whatever the activity, there are people who have been granted permission to order little people around, and there are little people like me who get ordered around, that not only is there no shame in escorting, it is all we do anyway. So it was time to tell the world to just deal with it and keep going, at least it makes someone happy in the end of it all and that's all that really matters if we are going to keeping going on to the end of our silly existence in the world.

Why I felt this I do not know, perhaps because I have seen all those pretty promises that people make that if you play the white game by the rules that you will be able to go through life without spreading your legs and letting the embers burn an incense perfume that draws men to it eager to dip their tongue in the forbidden well from which all desires flow and from which all life begins. But really I know better now, there is no white world, it is that some places people are fooled to thinking that it is there, while some people play the black game with white checkers and white pieces, but really they are as soot upon the world. And everyone wonders why they win.

And it isn't just people who everyone knows are black, but people who are credited with being saints and lights in the world.

Transcript of a Rape Scene

This is a transcript of a rape scene. The play was consensual, and for my part specifically to write an article, not because this is my fantasy, so it should be taken as an actor and an actress playing a scene in a movie or any place else.

I had a safe word. Never play, rl or sl, without safe words.


[9:56] You: oh hi!
[9:57] You: can you help me?
[9:57] You: I'm really lost
[9:57] The Perp: hmmmm
[9:57] You: and my cell is out of batteries
[9:57] The Perp: where are you headed?
[9:57] You: I almost tripped on that group of people having sex there
[9:57] You: sorry
[9:57] You: I'm a bit shaken
[9:57] You: ... is there a phone around here.
[9:57] You: here?
[9:57] Lillie Yifu shivers, even though it is not cold.
[9:57] The Perp: yes there is
[9:57] You: I was looking for the boutiques
[9:58] You: a friend of mine said
[9:58] You: hmm
[9:58] You: there was a place to get some thigns really cheap around here... but I must have gotten the directions mixed up.
[9:58] You: does that phone work?
[9:58] The Perp: id be glad to help you get help
[9:58] The Perp: sure it does
[9:59] Lillie Yifu fiddles with her purse.
[9:59] You: I'm out of change
[9:59] You: do you have a quarter?
[9:59] Lillie Yifu moves forward uncomfortably
[9:59] The Perp: reaches in his pocket
[9:59] The Perp: quickly pushing you against the wall
[10:00] The Perp: forcing my self against you
[10:00] Lillie Yifu bends forward topick up her lipstick that hse dropped onthe ground, her hips push against her dress
[10:01] The Perp pawing at your dress
[10:01] Lillie Yifu lurches forward
[10:01] You: heh!
[10:01] You: what are you doing?
[10:01] The Perp is ripping your top
[10:01] Lillie Yifu treis to scramble to the left, but her heel breaks and she stumbles
[10:02] Lillie Yifu reaches out a tthe phone to catch herself
[10:02] The Perp grabs your arms
[10:02] The Perp: clinching them tightly
[10:03] The Perp running my hands down your body
[10:03] Lillie Yifu bangs her knees and squeels
[10:03] The Perp: shut up
[10:03] The Perp: get over here
[10:04] Lillie Yifu gives out a muffled squeek
[10:04] You: please don't hurt me
[10:04] You: here
[10:04] The Perp forcing your body against the phone
[10:04] You: you can have the cash in my wallet
[10:04] You: please
[10:04] The Perp throws your wallet to the ground
[10:05] Lillie Yifu shakes in terror and tries to push against the phone to prevent herself from beign forced into it.
[10:05] You: what is it you want?
[10:05] You: no
[10:05] You: please
[10:05] You: no
[10:05] The Perp sliding my big cock out
[10:06] Lillie Yifu tries to turn around and look behind her at the sound of the zipper sliding down.
[10:06] The Perp: thrusting forcefully into your tightened pussy
[10:06] You: What are you doing
[10:06] You: help!
[10:06] You: help!
[10:06] You: pleeeaaase
[10:06] You: help!
[10:06] You: anyone?
[10:06] The Perp hand goes over your mouth pushing your face forward
[10:07] Lillie Yifu gives out horse wrasps as his cock scrapes her dry vagina.
[10:07] The Perp: you are gunna take this cock
[10:07] Lillie Yifu tries to move her hips away and clehnches in terror
[10:07] Lillie Yifu gasps several times
[10:08] The Perp gave you PIC.
[10:08] The Perp grasps a handfull of hair ripping your head back
[10:08] Lillie Yifu shrieks
[10:08] You: ouch!
[10:08] You: please
[10:08] You: you're hurting me
[10:08] The Perp shoving harder into you
[10:08] You: please
[10:08] You: I'm not on the pill or anything
[10:08] You: you could make me pregnant
[10:08] Lillie Yifu sobs
[10:08] You: pleeeasee... don't
[10:09] The Perp: mmmmmmmm
[10:09] The Perp like the sound of this
[10:09] The Perp reaches up to rip your shirt off quickly tearing from your body
[10:10] Lillie Yifu turns and looks in all directions... she's caught, if she doens't push against the phen she is banged into it, if she does, it presses her body down his cock.
[10:10] Lillie Yifu clasps her hands over her body to protect the scraps of her blouse,
[10:11] Lillie Yifu lurches forward her face banging into the phone, her lip is cut and starts to bleed.
[10:11] The Perp ramming so hard your face is forced against the cold metal of the phone
[10:11] Lillie Yifu grunts as his cock punches through the outside of her vagina.
[10:11] You: nooo please don't press it in
[10:11] You: it huuuurts like that
[10:11] You: it hurts
[10:11] Lillie Yifu whimpes
[10:11] The Perp: shoving all 10 inches inside your pussy
[10:12] You: whimpers ...
[10:12] You: please no
[10:12] You: noo
[10:12] You: don't
[10:12] The Perp: grinding hard into your pussy
[10:12] Lillie Yifu is reduced to crying into herhands
[10:12] The Perp: take it
[10:12] Lillie Yifu sways back and forth, his cock renching along her vagina and pulping her insides
[10:13] Lillie Yifu coughs and tries to say something
[10:13] The Perp grunts as forces his way deep inside you
[10:13] Lillie Yifu looks around, she cakn hear foot steps
[10:13] Lillie Yifu me tries to cough out a plea for help
[10:14] Lillie Yifu body grows limp as the footsteps grow faint
[10:14] The Perp forces his finers into your mouth, shutting you up
[10:14] Lillie Yifu coughs and gags
[10:14] Lillie Yifu bites the finger
[10:14] The Perp: clawing at your breasts
[10:14] The Perp: oouch bitch
[10:14] The Perp slaps you across the mouth
[10:15] Lillie Yifu tries to trip his legs, but his weight makes it impossible for her to do much mor ethan bang his calf a little.
[10:15] Lillie Yifu cries out in pain and wipes the blood off her mouth on her arm
[10:15] You: plese don't cum inside me
[10:15] You: I don't want to be prgnat
[10:15] You: please
[10:15] You: please stop
[10:16] You: pleheeease
[10:16] Lillie Yifu breaks down into tears
[10:16] The Perp: take it bitch
[10:16] The Perp: you are gunna have my cum
[10:16] Lillie Yifu feeels her nipples grow stiff as they ar pressed into the cold hard edge of the phone
[10:16] Lady Lillie's nipples: **Your Lady Lillie's nipples is being touched by The Perp
[10:16] The Perp stretches Lillie's nipple and then snaps it.
[10:16] You: noohooooo
[10:17] You: ouch!
[10:17] Lillie Yifu looks down at her peirced nipples, they are red and hard from the abuse
[10:17] You: pleasee somebody help me
[10:17] The Perp pulls his cock out and shoves it into your ass ripping you open
[10:17] Lillie Yifu tries to scream but her voice is hoarse from shouting so much
[10:18] The Perp pulls on Lillie's nipples, causing her to squirm.
[10:18] Lillie Yifu clenches her hips and tries to roll out of his grasp.
[10:18] Lillie Yifu snaps back underneath him, pulled along by her breasts.
[10:18] The Perp: can you take you 10 in the ass girl?
[10:19] You: noooo
[10:19] The Perp: cuz it doesnt matter
[10:19] Lillie Yifu tightns her hole body.
[10:19] The Perp spreads your asshole wide with four fingers
[10:19] Lillie Yifu coughs up and clenches her hands around the phone as if it will protect her.
[10:19] Lillie Yifu kicks him up in his balls.
[10:20] The Perp doesnt slow down for a moment
[10:20] Lillie Yifu flails an arm around ineffectually in th air trying to hit him
[10:20] The Perp rams with all his body tearing into your tight asshole
[10:21] Lillie Yifu rolls forward, her muscles preventing easy entry
[10:21] The Perp: grrrrrrrr
[10:21] You: pleheease
[10:21] You: not in my ass..
[10:21] Lillie Yifu stops and gather her thoughts.
[10:21] You: ok
[10:21] You: you want that...
[10:21] You: ok
[10:22] Lillie Yifu bends forward farther and lets her hips part.
[10:22] Lillie Yifu turns upwards present her anus to his cock.
[10:22] The Perp grunting loudly as i push inside you
[10:22] The Perp: fuck
[10:23] Lillie Yifu relaxes and lets his cock slide relentlessly in through the out door.
[10:23] Lillie Yifu spasms as her stomach heaves in pian.
[10:24] Lillie Yifu feels his cock split her ass open, and scarape in to her soft moist depths.
[10:24] The Perp reaches around to shove three fingers in your cunt
[10:24] Lillie Yifu feels him slide more and mroe easily into her
[10:24] The Perp traps Lillie's nipple between their teeth as they bite gently.
[10:24] Lillie Yifu squeaks as his fingers probe her pussy.
[10:24] You: ouch!
[10:24] Lillie Yifu sucks air in and tries to relax
[10:25] Lillie Yifu clenches her ass muscles around his cock trying to squeeze him to orgasm with the feling of gith penetration.
[10:25] The Perp pushes all 10 inches into your tight asshole
[10:25] The Perp: grinding as i reach full entry
[10:25] Lillie Yifu feels his balls slap aganst her tender skin.
[10:25] You: mmmmmfff
[10:26] You: hummmf
[10:26] You: huaa
[10:26] The Perp: holding my cock so deep in your ass
[10:26] Lillie Yifu bites her lip to avoid screamign or crying out any more
[10:26] You: just do it
[10:26] You: get it over with
[10:26] You: please
[10:26] You: just get it over with
[10:26] The Perp reaches around to turn you towards him
[10:27] The Perp: shoving my tongue into your mouth
[10:27] Lillie Yifu fumbes with her hands and the contents of her purse spill out all over
[10:27] Lillie Yifu eyes grow wide as she is forced to look into the eyes of her tormentor
[10:28] Lillie Yifu sucks on his tongue and straddles a leg over his shoulder
[10:28] You: come
[10:28] You: or aren't you able to?
[10:28] Lillie Yifu gets a nasty look on her face.
[10:28] The Perp 's swollen cock ripping harder and harder into you
[10:29] The Perp pinches Lillie's nipples between their fingers.
[10:29] Lillie Yifu grabs her cellphone and snaps his picture.
[10:29] Lillie Yifu snaps another as the flash form the picture phone goes off in his face.
[10:30] Lillie Yifu pushes away and runs , clutching the cellphone

In The Rhythm: Tell A Story for SL Sex.

Why is it, that some times a romantic scene, rl or sl, goes along just fine, with one touch, or one sigh leading to another, deeper, gesture of intimacy, and other times it all falls flat? Some of it is, of course, mood. There are days that almost nothing could spark interest, and others where trouble just wants to happen. But a big part of it is whether two people have locked into a rhythm with each other. Because cyber sex and second life, even if aided by voice, are different from real world sex and seduction, rhythm is set by different means. It's still got to get to the same place, but it's got to get there by different means.

Some people are textual purists, for them, it is about the lines in the chat. While the visual is important for personal identification, what they want is the speed of the characters, and the quality of the prose/poem that they create. Other people are highly visual. And some need to hear the words in living sound. But these differences are tactical. I've met many guys who tell me they aren't into cybersex, and generally are willing to participate if good, free and no strings attached is on offer.

However, in the end, sex is going on inside, in the mind, and in the body, and in the flow between them. That's why rhythm is all important. Rhythm is about cutting down your number of choices to the good ones, and then applying your creativity to the choice you make.

But how to get rhythm? There are, after all, many kinds of rhythm. In sl sex, the first part of is setting one. SL sex comes in bursts, a burst tells a little story. Every story has three parts, a beginning, a middle and an end. In sl sex there are three elements, descriptions, actions and reactions. An SL burst is a little story, and ideally it has one of each of the elements: one action, one description, one reaction. There are two kinds of chat: emotes and chats, and rhythm is made by mixing emote and chat. Action is best done in emote, reaction can be either. Description is easiest in a chat, or in the second half of an emote.

These can be in any order. That means that there are the following sl stories to be told:

An action, a reaction, a description.
An action, a description, a reaction.
A reaction, a description, an action.
A reaction, an action, a description.
A description, an action, a reaction
A description, a reaction, an action.


What comes first shapes the sl story.

Because emotes always start with the first person, action first stories are the easiest to tell. /me smiles, /me wiggles her hips, /me sways from side to side. All actions, all simple. But what to follow it up with? Well first there is no reason that the action part of your story has to stop with one verb.

/me pulls up off the bed.
/me straddles over him.
/me looks down into his eyes and gives a wicked smile.

But what makes this a story is to move to a different element. Let's move to a description element. Description elements are best joined on the same line as the action or reaction they follow. So…

/me pumps her hips forward, her pinkness flashing out at the top of every arc.

Then follow with a reaction, phrased as an action:
/me closes her eyes and licks her lips in pleasure.

It's not the action that's important here, it is what it says about what you are feeling. And then finish with direct chat.


Oooooo, yummmm….

There you go, a simple story, action, description, reaction.

Reaction and description stories are best started with a line of chat, not an emote.

Oooooo…. your cock is so large….

Is a description. For a description, reaction, action story, follow this up with something that says how you feel.

May I put it inside me? It will feel sooooo good.

Then, after waiting for the affirmative, finish with a burst of action.

So rhythm is about telling a little story. A story has three parts, and each part should focus on action, description, or reaction. So after you have started a burst, ask yourself "describe first? Act first? React first?" If your partner has just done something, the react first. If you want to move sex to the next level, act first. If you want to go into richer detail in what you are doing, describe first.

The Pearl Fishers

The Pearl Fishers

Hmmm. One thing I've learned about being on SL, is that there is a wide range of sexual taste and experience. What works for some of us doesn't do a thing for others. I've had more sex talk with other women than I've had in the rest of my life. Likes, dislikes, facts, fantasies and fictions. I know that many of the people I have been with are much older than I am, and have come out of sexless, or loveless, or vanilla plain, marriages. Many of my partners in sl haven't dated since before I was out of pony tails. Things were different back then. There is a great deal more knowledge out there, but a little bit of knowledge can be a dangerous thing.

One example that strikes me looking at rl porn poses. They are meant to expose. Now I can understand wanting to see the penetration, whether by a real cock, or by a toy. But poses that are meant to give a good camera angle aren't really designed for comfort. And that is just one example. The same is true with a lot of the sex stories that tend to run to what is the "suck and fuck" pattern. They don't ring true to my experience, and they certainly don't get the range.

One simple example is the clit. There are a huge range of feelings and a huge range of approaches. I've heard some girls who are so sensitized that they never want their pearls directly touched… it's just too ticklish. Others are VS, that's Vibrator Spoiled. A vibrator can induce orgasms so fast and intense that it is hard to stay conscious. Even a relatively ordinary one can produce a clitoral climax in a few minutes. And that means that regular oral sex isn't always enough to bring a VS girl off.

Now that's rl, avies are often very much like the person who runs them in this, because most people don't spend a good deal of time making their avie different in sexual stimulation. The exception being BDSM, where people often allow much higher pain tolerances for their avie. But for most cases, if it gets the player off, it is the right thing to do.

So let's talk about one reality. Only if a woman has had FGM will the clit just be out there and exposed. Instead there are three layers of wrapping and protection, the "mons pubis," or "mons veneris," that's where the pubic hair is. There are lots of nerves there and since it is fatty, it presses backwards and is soft, then there are the labia majora or the outer lips, and the prepuce, or hood. And in general, sexual stimulation involves you using these veils to send sensation into the center. So instead of just stripping the panties off and putting tongue to clit, try a little tenderness.

That means instead of "I lick your swollen clit," if the level of foreplay has been low, start with the mons. "I like my way down through your soft bush," is a bit direct, but it's a start. Pet me, stroke me, tease me. The second step is applying the softness of the outer lips. There aren't any bones in there, and they don't get hard, though they do get, hmmmm warm. Pressing the outer lips inward to start to awaken the clit and other more sensitive parts, is definitely sexy. Think about rl sex. How often have you rubbed your manhood against, pants, panties, or just dry skin. It's not just that we are keeping you waiting, it is that it feels good.

Then there's a moment. There is a reason why cultures all over the world call parts of the female anatomy "petals" that's because they open. There's even a whole Romance about "the opening of the rose." When the outer lips get swollen, the open more and more. That's when it is time to shift to the hood or prepuce. Oral, manual, penile, they can all be good. For some of us, direct oral other stimulation on the clit is next, for others, it's a bit ticklish.

So instead of rushing to hit the spot, realize that this is more like opening of the veils. Different partners are going to be different. Sometimes it's fun to act out the runny slut who's just aching to be slammed in the service hole. But often, it's not. And Johnny one note, doesn't get to play as often.

Midnight Eclipse Pas de Deux

entrée


It was the dying days of a doomed dream. I had taken ballet classes since I was a young pixie, and despite being thin and flexible, despite having applied myself with all the application that my determined nature has. I was not to be.

I
Was
Not
To
Be

The ballet stage is a cruel place. And while children can fill space with ease, when the time comes to dance truly dance, and won your place on stage. I was not to be.

Auditions had come and gone, and even when, often by mere lack of applicants, I had found myself on the stage, it was always in the least of roles, the back of the corps de ballet, and expected to do the least. I cold do the steps, at best, with a roteworthy machineship of the natural born grade grubber. I could not, in such a place, befriend the teacher, let my eyes glow and transport him or her to glorious dreams for me. Instead, I was, and this was at my best, an enthusiast whose best hope was to stand outside the door selling brick a brack to support the more worthy and more truly artistic souls who would appear on stage.

So this was that moment. I was 17, and this was, in the words of a song I played a thousand times, my very last chance.

I was on the class floor, it was grotto of light wood, and smelled of layers of water, sweat and frozen rosin, that held lost dreams like droplets of amber. The mirrors stared at each other across the floor, reflecting each other into a thousand eyes a thousand. It was, by the standards of when I ought to be home, late. Every night I stayed as late as could be allowed, generally under the eye of a teacher, who was filling out cards, or doing some paperwork associated with the school.

Every night I worked on fundamental things. I did not practice steps for the audition, because I feared doing them wrong a dozen times and having to unlearn them. Instead it was basic stretches, the barre and simple physical recitations of the basic positions that I placed my faith in. I have always placed my faith in technique, because, I know, I did not have the artistry to be more than that. It is a disease, a syndrome with me.

I was split on the floor, my arms in a round circle, sweeping over and over, nearly brushing the floor with a delicate turn of wrist. I could have brushed the edge of my fingers against the floor, and in truth, with each time tried to come so close as to feel the drag of air between my fingers and the floor.

One and two and three and four and.
One and two and three and four and.
And again two and three and four and.

So maketh the moments of my wretchedness. I felt a burning pull along my inner thigh, I felt a stretching of my pelvis. And I did not allow myself to think of being on stage. I could not let my self think of costume, or lights, or tutu, or anything at all. My legwarmers and tights and frail thin undergarments were all that I could allow. The sheen of sweat that formed a third skin was all that I could focus on. I did not want to dream and let slip even a moment's concentration on the slow elucidating pain. There were tears always at the corners fo my eyes, and I looked at my figure in the mirror constantly

This was me. And me was not enough. I could see it in the mirror, my arms were not quite there, nor my torso quite right, and some how I did not fit all together. I was toned, and tight and taut and a tumble of pieces that did not fit together.

I stared at her in the mirror, who was with me stretching. Her face was so clearly nearly on the verge of frustration, she could not make her limbs fall such into place. But there we were, this companion and I.

On the bends back I looked up at the naked incandescent lights, set in conical tin fixtures, hanging down from a high ceiling. This room was atop a gym, the ballet school renting it from the private school that housed it. There were from time to time stepping echoes, and I could see those echoes bounce with insect enervation of the white ceiling with its scabs of pealing paint, and hit my eyes. I bent back one final time, and then heard a clanging ring of the black, rectangular, plastic phone, with its old rotary dialer that would only call into the building, and which had a number given out to parents as a way of summoning offspring to waiting cars, or other, more lumbering, forms of conveyance. The windows had that chicken wire class, and were set into high dormers with triangular tops. The ceiling's middle crease formed a sharp point.

This room was my church, and for so many years I had been in it, or others like it, praying to the muses of all the arts, from every ancient world into now, with whatever my past lives had done or allowed to not be done, as the karmic offering on this alter of sacrifice. I say alter, because I wished to be a butterfly and spread my wings, a swan from grey to purest white.

I swept the floor again once more, heard the endless tape on the music box, which repeated the same loop over and over again. I had grown to worship the clacks of changing direction as signs of my devotion. A rosary of sorts.

The clanging came again, I rolled sideways from my split, and then around to seated on the floor, and then, without touching hands to the wooden slats, rolled up to standing. My tights pulled across my chest and I walked flatfooted in my floor shoes over to it. There was a distant voice that was my ma. She told me I had another hour before she could make it. I listened, bade her farewell, and knew that I was done for the night.

adagio

I surveyed the lack of wood, and the forest of reflections, saw my black clad figure standing there, with smooth curves that were barely sketched. I was impossibly thin, and hated myself. I had given up the burgeoning roundness of my peers, who compared cup sizes with nervous giggles, or flaunted dresses that showed as much cleavage, and sometimes more, as they had. I could have been mistaken for a girl still not ripe to adulthood. Except I could not, I stood, walked and looked the wrong way. There standing weight on one foot next to the phone, my stance was more dancer like than any I could attain on stage or in practice.

I looked at the far wall, with its dark green metal door, and reddish exit sign over it, the handle to escape a fire bent in from some forgotten mishap, black iron extra barre's leaning against the sides of the alcove that it was set in, and then to the mirrors again. She was finished too.

This evening I was party to a minor crime. The young teacher who was supposed to be there was not, and she had given me a copy of the keys. Her excuse had been the kind that a person just barely an adult gives when still unsure of that role, saying more than an adult would, but less than a fellow student, and enough to know that she should not have been absent. Of course, I assumed it was sex, but would later learn it was that she was behind on her rent and was working an extra job waitressing. She was caught that next year, but not disciplined, because the head teacher had done much much worse in her younger days. This the head teacher had told us, her features gaunt with vampiric age, in a tea and cookies gathering after the Nutcracker of the year before. We had been in her house, and in her small sitting room on the second floor, surrounded by plush furniture and seated with a giggly solemnity on her blue oriental carpets. There she had warned us that dancers live by their bodies, and once upon a time, she had been forced to sell hers. I didn't ever find out what she meant, only that she regarded it as a great sacrifice for her art.

I picked up my dance bag from the corner, and was startled to hear, quite softly, coming from the teacher's private practice room, music still. But I did not have the desire to check who it was, lest it be clear that I was leaving with a blasé disregard for needing someone to unlock the door and let me out.

From there I navigated down the dark green stairway, with the black rubber diamond impressed steps, set at very tiny increments. There was only one light, and I startled again at the bottom, because I thought I heard a click and the music stopping.

I had a tell tale heart moment as I fished for the keys, unhooked them from a ring on the inside of my pink hello kitty dance bag… yes I had the umbrella and the coat, though the coat had long since been given away… and drew them up with an exaggerated exactness, and with perfect aim slide them into the slit. I turned the keys with an unyielding pressure, and the deadbolt lock slipped open from the other side. I clicked off the light switches that controlled the main teaching room, and there was a gauzy not seeing in front of my eyes.

I slipped open, straining to hear the comforting sounds of the bad pianistic rendering of Ci Darem la Mano, but could to hear anything but the shifting bang of vents from the heating. The temperature was warm, and I half thought to turn the thermostat down, but knew that it was now the responsibility of who ever had the light that shown like a rim around the teacher's door.

I walked to the showers, there being only one set here, as opposed to the locker rooms below where they were safely ensconced.

variation

In that white tiled room, with its small windows, I undressed hurriedly, rolling down my leg warmers, pulling off everything. I was afraid, so afraid, but I could not bear the weight on my skin another moment. The tight tile of the walls induced a kind of vertigo. I reached out, turned a knob, and stood aside as the water spat out. That first burst would be cold, but now, on a night without a sporting event, it would be warm quickly enough. When the steam began to rise from the falling stream, it was time to twist the chrome knob, flecked with tarnish, to induce a small amount of cold water with the stream of warmth.

Under that stream I slide my body, still practicing my arm positions and trying to move with the grace that I imagined could still be reached.

It was after wetting myself down that I realized I had forgotten the soap, and stepped forward, still using floor shoe walking, pressed my palms to the wall, pulled my leg back and spun slow around to face my dance bag. It was then I startled.

variation

There was a fellow. Male. Student. I knew him well, he was destined for something. Perhaps not ballet, or even the dance, but something. It was the quality he had that made it impossible to take your eyes off of him. From the shock of straw blond hair, to the cruel line it traced swept away from his forehead, to the wide doe like blue green eyes, to the aquiline nose, to the flowering rose pink of his lips, to the setting of his jaw that traced just so a "V" that was sharp enough but not too sharp, to his neck that was slightly too thin for his head, to the perfect contours of his shoulders, to the flatness of his chest and purity of his abdomen, down to his very large and powerful thighs and legs.

Of course, this being of that age, he was sniggered as being homosexual, even though he always had a girlfriend if he wanted it. Adonis was a word that was coined to stamp his face on it, and he was both a gentleman, and rich with a love of purely beautiful things, and a mind that was a parade of sublime terrible hopes of other worlds far beyond suburbia.

He was completely naked, having carelessly and casually shed his clothes and dropped them on his dance bag before turning inward.

He now stared at my eyes.

I stepped back, my buns hitting the tile wall, and bending. The wall was not particularly cold, but a rattle chilled upwards. My face was flush, though I am sure he could not see it. My arms formed a circle in front of me, half trying to hide my nakedness, and half still following the exercises.

He stared. And I began to stare. Stare at his mid section, and the only thing on his body that was moving save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. It twinged upwards, and then in a continuous slow lift, as if it were pressing a ballerina high into the air above his head with one arm, reached upwards like an arm. Finally it was simply a spear that pointed upwards and was just shy of his navel.

There he stood like a statue.

There I stood like a victim of a car accident.

I could not help but trading my glance between that face, so swept by a natural wind with its sunken cheek bones and ruddy flesh, and the visible sign of his being not just a male, but a man.

It was at this particular moment that I realized how inarticulate my art as teacher had been. It was not that being nude had any terror or novelty for me. I had drawn enough naked works of art, and stared at enough art books that the mere fact of a man having his sexuality thrust forward did not stir anything in me as out of the ordinary. In fact, I thought of it as the natural condition, because in reality had had a mortal terror of interaction, and had only allowed my self to absorb the sights of the human body fully in art. I would later learn to overcome this.

Nor was it his being erect. I was not, in a sort of technical way, a virgin, I had clasped my hand over men locked in firm need and throbbing readiness. I had taken them inside me, though in a clumsy way, more than once. Though each time had produced a strange disconnect.

No, it was that no story, painting, sculpture or play, not film, nor ballet, had prepared me for this. The novels that were approved of had all been soft and gushing in their descriptions of something called love, and the stories talked in a kind of cliché about

Oh
I
Have
Never
Felt
This
Way
Before

As if a woman was a cow to be pulled along by desire, her consciousness dragged along like a sack behind. Neither the gooey weepy approved version of femininity, nor the sex stories of steaming holes were, in any way that I could understand, remotely like this moment.

I stared at his eyes at this.

Since I was very small, I had wanted something, to be rushed like a wave, stared at and overwhelmed by it. I had felt this tidal heave in my chest. I had often felt the sensations of arousal. But until this moment, that, and the erotomechanics of sex, the visual cues of sexuality and maleness, and lived in different places. I had felt warm waves in my mind, I had felt my body ripple with the pulsing of muscles, the wildfire sweep of goose bumps and the shiverpulsepointpush that begins in a place in front of the hips and behind the loosening relief of pissing.

Years of art had made me know the sights. Years of ballet had made me aware of my body. Years of movies had made me eager for romance. Years of being aimed at medical school had taught me both the words and the earnest matter of factness of the human condition known as sex. But they were, like my body in the mirrors, in pieces and all angled at strange points. The ceiling and I shared that pointedness.

So the sex story girls with their faux surprise, the romantic heroines with their protestations of "I am Heathcliff!" were there and then pressed aside in my mind. For the first time, I yearned. For the first time, I could feel the stretching sense in my palms that made my figures want to stretch out. The alignment of the bright sunlight of romance, and the dark moon of desire, came then and there into alignment. Then and there the easy words of romance were blotted out. Strange shapes of darkness crowded around the peripheries of my vision, and in the center of a shifting oval was his face.

Eclipsed was my waking world of articulate expression, but burning bright was the corona of my need. And in that moment of alignment I knew, that the only language that would speak to this moment, was taught in French, but was spoken in gesture. The dance. The dance. The. The. The.

It was then also that I was intensely aware of the slight prickle that came from having shaven pubic hair, but having missed an appointment with one of the pink razors I smuggled into the house. My Ba

Would.
Not.
Approve.

Again the cliché's were failing me. The romance novels talked of nothing but vague emotional rhapsodies, and the sex stories were about gallons of wetness. I was showering, of course I was wet. Instead, it was the prickliness, which I felt certain had to be imagination more than true sensation, the difficulty filling my lungs with air, the sense of my consciousness dropping down in my body.

But most of all, I was in the grip with the eclipse of alignment, that brought together my long long long wanting of something, with the sights and intense concentration on the body, and also, also also, my earnest checklist mentality of doing what was supposed to be done.

coda

I stared. His erection was still a great spear point, and he had fallen into the stance that every romantic hero takes, legs in second, arms in fourth. Beckoning. God, such turn out.

I banged my hard hips against the tile, and spread my feet to second as well, creating a sense of exposure and I hoped invitation.

"Lillian."

I rolled to standing, and settled into second position. I wanted him to come to me, and if my first, somewhat club inspired stance against the wall did not do it, then perhaps, I thought, this might. But I desperately wanted him to come to me. His saying of my name had put a burn to my cheeks. Both sets. I could feel not just blood, but an itch to my lips.

Both sets.

I wanted to pull myself up, and felt as if a wire drew straight through my body and pulled out the very top of my head was drawing me up. I wished, at that moment I knew more about the dance of men and women. The craving to align was so strong, I pulled on my muscles in a way that I imagined was opening myself for him.

But I did not advance. I knew that not only did I not have dance not 10, but I did not have looks anything like 10 either. No tits, no ass. And no time to see the wizard on Park and 73rd.

His lip twitched, and I could tell that he, like me, was locked.

"I don't have long."

I let myself slide under the water and let it run over my hair. But he did not even inch closer. I spread my legs wider and bent down, sweeping them against the tile floor, and then bent up.

He looked, but did not move. Nothing on him was moving.

"I'm not a virgin."

He looked at me.

"I have…"

"Is she a virgin?"

"Yes."

And with an edge from out of a soundtrack.

"Then you haven't had anything yet."

There was a bang of the heat going off. We didn't startle.

I pushed my hands up over my chest, I fiddled with my nipples, like they were knobs. I looked at him. He looked at me.

Then, ratcheting down, like gnome was manipulating a mechanical gear, his erection dropped step by step. First it grew smaller in my sight, as it pointed to me like a spear, and then it hung long downward, and finally the tip retreated upwards until it was, still larger than its relaxed state, but no longer more than the comb of a cock that crows, rather than the weapon of lust imagination.

He turned to face me.

"Not now."

I was left staring as he bent down and dressed. Each piece of clothing sliding back over his body and transforming him again into that distant unattainable. Had not gotten the part, I would not, when auditions came, do more than get the back of the corps.
But in that midnight eclipse, I had found alignment, and even as, in that moment, the moon slide away and lit me again with the ordinary need to be in the right place at the right time, came over me. My showering completed in double time, and I was on the back lobby chair doing homework when Ma arrived.

We would only dance once together for more than a few steps. We never would have sex, but once, once, once, before the eyes of a dozen catty fellow students, and two teachers and who knew how many parents, we would make love.