I once saw his paycheck and aside from discovering how little he actually gets paid, I found out his name is George. It apparently is a big secret because I've never once heard anyone actually call him that. He's a hot-tempered Greek and you'd have to have absolutely no brains in your head to seriously consider pissing him off. At six foot three he's surprisingly tall and built more like a pro wrestler than a dancer. Brown hair and eyes, Dudley Do Right chin and a matching smile help create a very All-American Boy look and if it weren't for the perpetual five o'clock shadow, that picture would be perfect. He's the kind of guy who could get through life on his looks alone but aside from being a visual treat he's also one hell of an amazing dancer and has been a principal with CCB for several seasons now. I�m a little old to be having crushes on my teachers like some stupid 7th grader but fate continually conspires against me. To make matters worse, we often change together, so every time he walks by I have no trouble at all imagining what's under those tights.
You can imagine the bun head feathers he ruffled everywhere on his arrival here and I�d never seen so many people try to get into one persons� pants at the same time in my entire life. I was naturally hoping to be somewhere in line and at first, the scales seemed tipped in my favor. There aren�t many guys here, so it�s not unusual for guy teachers and students to hang out together. We took to each other right away and eventually, he invited me out after class one day. I wondered if he could read the disappointment in my face when the entire conversation centered on detailed (and I mean detailed) descriptions of he and his girlfriend "fucking like rabbits" as he so delicately liked to put it. I decided to bide my time and go along with the Super-Straight-All-American-Fags-Should-Be-Shot game. Yes, it�s 1983 but after all, he�s a man working in what is still generally considered a feminine (re: gay) profession. A certain amount of male posturing is pretty much par for the course. I mean, we all do it to a certain extent.
We�ve become close in that very "good buddy" sorta way that most straight boys seem fond of but no one is a bigger source of constant confusion. See, once in a while he�ll actually relax a little bit (usually after a few beers) and he�ll look at me a certain way. Or leave his hand on my leg just a hair too long. Or actually say something nice to me. At moments like these I can hardly stand it because I start to think that maybe there�s a little crack in the veneer after all. It never lasts though and without any prior notice his mood will suddenly change for the worse and I realize I�ve been deluding myself, imagining what isn�t there. Once again I�m back on the receiving end getting hammered as usual.
"And set her down, six, and turn, eight, and you�re ready for the same thing on the other side."
Troyos looks up in the mirror and catches me staring. I quickly look up
"Uh, where does the preparation for the turn come in?" I ask, instantly realizing my mistake.
He glares at me.
"There ISN�T one! When you put her down, she goes right into fifth position and the turns come from there! There IS no preparation!"
"Sorry."
He quickly turns away. "Ethel, you ready?" The accompanist nods. "All right everyone, let�s go. And a five, six, seven, eight!"
My partner Katia and I are in the first group and off we go...
"Tombe, pas de bourre, glissaade, lift, set her down, six, and pirouette, eight... That�s it Katia and G.C., you�ve got it..."
We finish our combination right by the door where Clark stands watching, broom in hand.
"Hey buddy, yer missing all the fun." I tease him.
"Well, some of us have to work for our scholarships."
"Hey there Clark! You still warmed up from class earlier?" Troyos calls from across the studio. "Get in here and help us partner these young ladies and we�ll get through a lot faster."
"Aw right!" he says as he kicks off his high tops and he removes his sweater leaving his white tank top underneath. His St. Christopher medal gleams on his smooth chest...
"You got the combination?" Troyos asks.
"Yup."
"Then let�s go!"
We start all over with different partners. I�m with Gina now who�s a bit of a challenge �cause she�s at least three inches taller than me on pointe and a bit heavier than the others. We�ve worked together lots of times so she trusts me.
"And set her down, six, and turn..."
"Whoah!"
Gina totally wipes out on her pirouette and falls but I save her.
"Are you all right?" I ask holding her just inches from the floor.
"I�m fine thanks. My pride is another story." She replies grinning up at me
Not long ago, I struck up an odd friendship with this big dumb jock at school named Michael Kerrigan who when he found out I danced initially gave me the usual "I thought all guy dancers were fags." routine. O.K., yeah, maybe there are a few more gay dancers than there are say, truck drivers or football players. But, then I asked him to think about it for a second. Where else could a guy spend an hour and a half putting his hands all over 25 to 30 half dressed, gorgeous girls and practice putting them into positions all over his body that no amount of drugs or alcohol could get his own girlfriend to replicate? And that�s just in class. Performing is whole different ballgame, especially if you�re doing some romantic work like "Romeo and Juliet".
