Barre Tail

I'm at the bar. But not the bar you think, the ballet barre.

I'm a stranger here, not only am I the only male in the class, I'm the only male in the entire dance school. This is the throne room of the feminine. The house that estrogen built. Though I've been in the class for more than a year, I never tire of hot bodies and tight clothes. The women probably have no idea what is going on in my dirty little mind. I love to dance, of course, but the hobby has its own fringe benefits.

We're already deep into warmup, the ancient, well known routine; plies, stretches, long extensions.

This feline Peruvian beauty arrives late and takes the spot in front of me. The line adjusts to her addition, we're all dancers after all, changes to the line are just minor challenges.

As we finish a series of jettes, the teacher calls for "Grande Battlements!" (high kicks). She paces up and down the line in full drill sergeant. She's got a staff and she's striking it on the wooden floor, emphasizing each count as she commands "5, 6, 7, 8!"

My carefully pointed foot is peaking over the head of the woman in front of me. Sweat is dripping down my face, making it a challenge to not to kick her in the skull. It's hard work, and to deal with it, I desperately need a distraction.

"Turn!" the teacher yells, and in unison the entire line changes direction; "5, 6, 7, 8!" I admire the line of fine toned asses, and tight bodies. There is rarely much left to the imagination, and I've grown used to the shapes and curves and beautiful lines.

"Turn!", goes the command.

We turn again.

"5, 6, 7, 8!"

She's not in the traditional leotard. Maybe she's come from work, traffic in the city may have been impossible, maybe she was just running late. Her dark strappy tight top shows the lovely expanse of her muscular shoulders, the lines of her strong back are defined and well formed. She's got on a pair of sweatpants, rolled up at the top, New York style. Those sweatpants are losing a fight with gravity. There's an enticing little strip of dark velvet skin just above the hem. She's dark and smooth, and I wonder what it would be like to touch her there; what her skin might taste like.

"Turn!", the teacher commands. In the camera roll of my mind, I savor that little glimpse; secretly hoping she doesn't adjust her pants.

"Turn!" my teacher yells, the dancer in front of me has not yet adjusted her pants. I steal discreet glimpses, knowing that to be caught eyeing the girls would be disastrous. Her hem has fallen even further on her toned hips, where her slim waist goes wider, leading down to her beautiful legs. There is a sweet little expanse of skin visible over the horizon of her pants. I can tell she's wearing one of those thong things. I love thong things. This is exactly the distraction I need, as our teacher relentlessly hounds us to kick higher.

"5, 6, 7, 8!", the teacher yells.

I turn back, hoping it's all gone unnoticed. To my delight she has made no adjustment to her pants. They've ridden even lower revealing two cute little freckles on the soft skin of her hips. Two tiny chocolate islands awash in a soft mocha sea.

Again we turn, kicking to the shattering strike of the staff on the wooden dance floor. The line of women in front of me are in perfect unison. It's like living in a can-can club. Toulouse Lautrec never had it so good.

"5, 6, 7, 8!" My teacher is standing next to me, and I dare not get caught looking. It's crucial that I pretend to be fully in, laser focused on the dance. I'm taller than her, and I know her presence next to me is a challenge. Focusing my concentration inward, I'm kicking higher than my teacher's shoulder, exerting the additional finesse required to not kick her also. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, my hamstrings are screaming out for a break.

At the teacher's command we turn back. She's still watching me, wordlessly driving me higher. It's all in the swing, all in managing the momentum. Finally, my teacher moves on.

I steal a glance down.

They were not freckles at all.

But a little tattoo.

Of a devil.