Only When We Dance

Three weeks prior to the end of season recital performance for my sister's dance studio, my sister caught her fiancé cheating. A week-long attempt as reconciliation ensued, led primarily by my forgiving and wonderful sister. It ended in her fiancée's sudden departure not just from their apartment, but from town altogether.

I had not been privy to any of this until our Aunt called me and blabbed about it. She was hunting for juicy details, but I had none to give. I texted my sister to say how sorry I was.

The next day, my sister called me to ask if I might perform in her recital in place of Nick, her ex-fiancée.

I did not want to, so I questioned her decisions. "Okay. You're the teacher. Why are you dancing?"

"It's kind of expected around here. The kids love it, and the parents and grandparents want to see just how good the instructor really is," she explained. "Plus, it builds my classes. People from the community come. Word of mouth spreads."

"Why not just do a solo?"

"The programs are already printed."

"Okay. So, who cares? Do a solo anyway."

"The music is for a partner. It wouldn't make sense."

"Okay. Change the music."

Silence followed—a very familiar, very miserable silence.

I knew I had made her cry.

A few seconds elapsed, and then I heard her ultra-soprano weeping voice. "If you don't want to help me, just say so, but please quit trying to tell me what to do. I need a partner, and you're a beautiful dancer. That's it."

"Okay. Okay. When?"

Sniffles.

"Really?" she asked, now sounding like a five-year-old just offered a free lollipop.

"I don't know, Gia. When?"

"The 17th at 6:30."

"That a Friday?"

"Yeah."

I didn't want to, but I could. I'd be home for a three-week summer break before I had to head back to campus for summer conditioning. I could do it. I should do it, but I was mad about it. I knew it would upset her when I grumbled, "Okay, I'll do it, for fuck's fuckin' fuck."

Silence. Sniffles.

I should not have said it. I tried to bypass the ugliness by quickly asking her a question. "I'm coming back tomorrow. When's our first practice?"

"No!" she cried. "Only do it if you want to!"

"I'm going to do it, Gia. When?"

"Do you want to or not?"

"I want to help you."

"Then, why did you say 'fucking fuck-fuck'?"

"I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have said it."

Sniffles. Silence. "Okay," she muttered. "My last class ends at nine. Can you come after that?"

"Yes," I said. "Wait. Gia, will I have to wear one of those tight-ass, flaming pirate-ice skater dance outfits?"

This description astonished and silenced Gia, and from frustrated tears, she suddenly burst out in laughter. I had hit upon a truth.

Even so, the answer was yes, that's exactly what I'd be wearing.

***

I was not a dancer anymore; I was a college football player.

To earn a starting position for the next season, my collegiate life had been downright monastic since January. I spent my days in class, lifting, studying, and doing conditioning drills. There was no time for a girlfriend or parties. In fact, the last time I made out with a girl was before finals last December. I wanted that starting position, even if it meant blue balls.

I loved football, but I had a sister and two parents who loved dance. So, much of my childhood was spent in dance studios. Gia was right; I had the skills to fill in for her ex.

When I walked into the studio at 9:15 pm, Gia called out for me. "I'm in the office!"

"Changing!" I replied. I slipped out of my trainers in the vestibule area, put on dance shoes, and then I walked through the door onto the shiny wood floor in my sweatpants and a tank top.

Gia emerged from the office like a cool summer breeze. Smiling, she skipped to me and jumped into my arms. "I'm so glad you're back!"

Holding her was like carrying a toddler. Her body was slight and weightless.

I set her down and got a look at her.

She wore a simple white leotard and nothing but canvas shoes. Her hair was drawn back to a high ponytail. I didn't understand it—the big break up was just a few days old—but she looked fresh and joyful.

My sister is a rare beauty. Olive-skinned, brown-haired, but with stunning aquamarine eyes. She never took a bad picture. Even when she made a ridiculous face, she looked gorgeous.

Always leggy and boney as a kid, when she hit her teens, she grew taller and stronger, but she never quite developed curves until after college. She had small, perky breasts and only the tiniest hint of feminine hips. She looked, simply put, like a professional dancer—a delighted professional dancer.

"You—you look great," I said, surprising myself. She really did.

"I do?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you!" She looked at my chest and arms. "You're a lot bigger."

"Conditioning," I responded. "Hey, you okay?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, nodding. "I'm past it. Now, you're here. Come on, let me show you what we're doing."

***

While Gia stretched on the dance floor, I watched a video on her tablet of her and her ex rehearsing. It was a contemporary medley performance.

The first section was a romp of athletic and technical moves, alternating between the partners. The music transitioned into a slow love song, and the dancers came together.

I glanced at Gia.

On the screen, my sister and her ex, bodies press together, executed supports and close partner steps with alarming sensuality.

I turned to her. "Hey, uh..."

"What's up?"

"This is a pretty intimate dance, Gia."

"You've done it all before."

"Okay. So have you, but not with each other. Won't people think it's inappropriate?" I turned back to the video. "Look at this!"

Gia and her partner caressed each other's faces lovingly. He spun her around, clutched her waist, and drew her back against his front. They moved across the floor, pressed together this way. Then, he lifted her above his head, and held her, spinning, with one hand on her butt.

Beside me, Gia looked at the screen. She said, "It's fine. Brothers and sisters dance like this all the time. Do you know how many Olympic ice dancers and pairs are brother-sister teams?"

"Okay. I suppose, but..."

"Come on. Let's get started."

***

An hour later, I had the rudiments of the first part memorized; we just needed to get our timing right.

She called it quits, and I walked past the office to the bathroom.

I had been in her studio before. She'd been running it for two years, but when I walked into the bathroom, I looked around, surprised. It was a small space, barely fitting a pedestal sink, a small toilet, and a stall shower. There were clothes strewn about the floor, the sink was a mess of toiletries, multiple towels hung on the shower door.

When I finished, I walked slowly past the storage room across from her office, peeking in the door. Plastic bins with clothes. Mattress on the floor.

"Gia, are you fucking living here?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"What about the apartment?"

Silence.

Oh, shit.

She didn't break down, but her voice definitely quavered when she said, "I can't afford it by myself. Nick...he left on the 31st, and I couldn't pay this month's rent."

"Okay. So, you get a loan from Mom and Dad."

"I'm an adult."

"Yeah. In a jam. You ask for help."

"I can't afford it without Nick. The studio doesn't make enough."

"Okay. Move-in back home. Don't live at your fucking job."

This sent her over. She burst into tears, sitting crosslegged on the shiny wood floor.

Not only was my sister strikingly beautiful, but when she cried, it was irresistibly heartrending. I swear, my sister could stand on a city block with an empty mug in her hand, cry for eight hours a day, 52 weeks a year, and make a six-figure salary, easy. Her ugly cry was most women's wedding picture day.

I went over to her and knelt in front of her. "I'm sorry, Gia. I didn't mean to..." I didn't finish.

Sobbing, she uncrossed her legs and laid back on the floor with her hands cupped over her heart. She wept, "He hurt me. He hurt me so much."

Any other girl and I would have been completely inarticulate at a moment like this, but with her, finding the words seemed easy. I said, "I know he did. He did. You deserve only good things, Gia. I'm so sorry."

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and haltingly whispered, "Thank you for saying that."

Then, I glanced at her pussy.

I wasn't consciously looking for it. I was looking at her—seeing her—and my eyes just happened to fall between her legs for an instant.

She was on her back, on the floor, and her legs were spread wide with slightly bent knees. I was kneeling between those long legs. Then, yes, I glanced at my sister's crotch.

And I couldn't drag my eyes away. If I had turned my head completely sideways, my irises would have remained stock still. If I had tried to cover my face with my hands, my fingers would have risen up already divided so that my view could remain unbroken.

She wasn't naked, of course. She was in that white leotard. I could not see any pubic hairs; the crotch of her leotard was not ripped or out of place so as to reveal any of the precious flesh underneath.

There were three reasons why I could not look away from my sister's pussy.

First, by laying back, she had inadvertently drawn tight the front of her leotard, revealing the cleft of her labia—the camel toe, as my football buddies would have said. Hell, as I would have said had it been some other woman. Seeing it, my first thought was, "Oh, there's my sister's pussy." Nothing more.

Second, with her privates somewhat on display, her position on the floor became a kind of double image in my mind. On the one hand, it was a heartbreaking posture. On the other, I now saw, it was charged with sexuality. It was, my second thoughts indicated, how she probably looked when she awaited oral sex from a partner.

Third, and this may be a thing only heterosexual males—perhaps not all of them—can understand, was the absolute perfection of her blank.

I think of it as the stirring in the guts when I see, for example, a woman in panties or a bikini, but really, any clothes that hug a woman's crotch can work. One sees no hideous bulge in the front, only flat emptiness. The suit narrows toward the crotch and runs straight down, tucking neatly between her legs. There's nothing there in front. That emptiness or absence—that blank—is thrilling, and it is a small, but exciting part of a woman's sexual attractiveness.

Having lived through to nineteen, I can say that, in the same way I discern a great ass or awesome tits, I can spot a nice blank. And, I should add, spotting one does not require visible "camel toe." That would just be frosting on the cake.

Gia's blank mesmerized me. It was perfect. It was compact. Her body was fit and tight, and the shape of everything down there—how her legs melded into her ass, how her inner thigh curved into her crotch—struck me by its sexual efficiency and allure.

That, I thought, is where my hand is going to be tomorrow night when we begin working on the second section of the dance medley when I lift her up in the air over my head.

Gia sighed.

It awoke me. I had no idea how long I had been gazing, but it was long enough, I suddenly realized, for me to feel the onset of an erection. It was automatic; I hadn't touched a girl in six months.

At the moment, I didn't care. I returned my eyes to Gia's pussy. I began to remember several of my girlfriends, comparing Gia's body to each one as I fixated.

There was no comparison. Gia's was...

Her legs closed before me.

I blinked and glanced at her face.

She had seen me staring.

I turned away.

She cleared her throat, wiped her eyes, and asked me to help her up.

My new erection was a problem. Some are more tenuous than others and can diminish in thirty seconds. Others can take minutes to abate. This one raged, and I knew it would linger. It appallingly distended the front of my sweatpants. My tank top would be no help in covering it; it fit me snugly and barely tugged down to the waistband of my sweats. My knee jutted out, hiding it from her, but the moment I rose...

Gia's hands reached up. She was waiting for me.

Maybe she won't look. I stood, took her hands, and quickly lifted her.

She flew up and landed on her feet gracefully. I instantly turned away.

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

"No," I snapped, regretting the tone immediately after I'd used it. I cleared my throat and more gently said, "No, I'm fine."

"Hey," she said, approaching me. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not, Gia."

"I really appreciate your help," she offered.

"I know."

"Will you look at me?" she asked.

I turned my head and nothing else.

She put her hand on my shoulder and tugged.

I spun toward her, resigned to the imminent shame.

She studied my face; I was spared for the moment.

I said, "It's cool, Gia. We're going to be great."

She smiled and threw her arms around me. As our bodies came together, I pivoted myself so my engorged erection missed her body. My hands came up to reciprocate the hug just a bit late.

She noticed and drew back, glancing down.

I looked, too, and I didn't know whether to laugh, curse, or be ashamed. Shame seemed appropriate, but this boner was so monstrous that I choked back a guffaw when I saw it. It was hard enough that the waistband of my sweatpants and underwear had been drawn away from my stomach. I saw my pubic hairs; she probably could, too.

Gia's hands fell away from me.

Her eyes found mine.

I shrugged and said, "Sorry?" Then, a short, coughing burst of laughter erupted out of me.

Gia's face alternated between confusion and amusement. She looked at my erection again, and it seemed she settled on finding the situation humorous. "Is that...why are you hard?"

Her question awakened my shame. I could not possibly admit to my own sister that her body so aroused me. "Fuck, I—I'm sorry, Gia." I turned away, shaking my head.

Despite my embarrassment, the erection remained achingly turgid. I glanced at it and saw, again, just how ridiculous I looked.

"Don't be embarrassed," Gia urged. "It's nothing."

When I glanced back at her, Gia's eyes grew wide. She waved off her previous words, saying, "I didn't mean it's nothing like its small. It's not. It's really big." She pinched her eyes closed, shaking her head. "What I mean is it's no big deal—it doesn't matter."

Now she was mortified.

I stifled a grin. "I know what you meant, Gia. Geez."

Her lower lip trembled, and she coughed. Her hand covered her mouth. Then, she tried to say, "I'm so sorry," but she was laughing too hard.

I smiled and chuckled a bit.

"Were you staring at my crotch before?" she asked through fits and convulsions.

I nodded, and a new bout of cackling ensued for both of us.

"And is that what...is that why...?" she stammered.

Nodding again, I erupted in more laughter. "I'm sorry, Gia."

Gia still laughed, but in a diminished way. "And I said you had a big dick," she remarked. By the time she completed the thought, it didn't seem like true laughter anymore. It seemed feigned.

The mirth in the studio slowly evaporated; discomfort replaced it.

I cleared my throat. "Hey, I'm going to roll. You need anything?"

"Oh. No, I should be fine. Thanks, though."

I walked toward the door into the vestibule area, erection bouncing along. I stopped and turned. "Yeah, what time tomorrow?"

She glanced at the tent in my pants. "If you're free, you can come by anytime in the morning. Just text me before you come. Classes start at two. If not, then same time tomorrow night. Nine o'clock."

"I'll swing by in the morning. See you, Gia."

"Bye."

***

I really had nothing better to do, so I texted Gia outside the door or her studio at eight the next morning. It took her several minutes before she unlocked the door to let me in.

I brought her favorite coffee and a danish. When she grinned, I knew the boner incident could be forgotten.

"Give me fifteen minutes to get ready?"

I nodded, changing my shoes.

I practiced the first section on my own a few times. Gia came out twenty-five minutes later in a light grey leotard, and after she stretched out—which I did not watch even a little—we rehearsed it together. She seemed satisfied, so she began leading me in a walkthrough of the second—romantic—portion of the medley.

During a performance walkthrough, dancers are not expected to adopt their dance persona. It is about learning the order or the routine—where are you, when are you there, and what are you doing—for both partners. Once practicing and rehearsing begins, a qualified dancer puts away the self and becomes the persona.

Persona is part of dance theory. The idea is that when one dances, he or she needs to become some "other." What that "other" is depends on the dance. Maybe you're a snowflake. Maybe you're a warrior. It all depends on the music and the dance. So, for those who subscribe to Persona Theory, dancing becomes a bit like acting. To put on the absolute best performance, the dancer must become the persona.

In this case, my persona was Gia's lover--that was my take on it, at least. I'm sure it was Gia's, too. Some dance professor might have said, "Oh, no. You're not lovers. You're butterflies" or some other crazy horseshit. The simple answer was lovers. In the first part of the medley, we're showing off for one another. In the second, we fall in love. The third and final section is the expression of our newfound love.

The music during the second section, the falling in love part, was a really old love song from the 1980s called "Take My Breath Away." Not the whole thing, but a two-minute excerpt. The sound of this song was super retro—totally an 80's love song—but I had to admit it was smooth. It was sexy.

I could tell Gia loved it. After the walkthrough, she played it for me the first time. We sat on the dance floor and listened. She mouthed some of the lyrics. She tilted her head back and swayed. When it ended, she watched me expectantly—with a kind of "didn't you just love it" look in her eyes.

I gave her a thumbs up.

We began rehearsing. I had to look into Gia's eyes like Romeo into Juliet's at the balcony. Vice-versa for her. It is nearly impossible to describe how it feels when eyes like Gia's gaze into yours so passionately—big, aquamarine, and fully capable of raising or crushing a man's dreams. I forgot my part of the routine several times because those eyes so entrapped me.

The more challenging part, however, was keeping her body off mine.

In theory, the routine called for close contact almost throughout. We had to move together, and where we went, our bodies needed to be in contact—her chest against mine or her back to my front. When we parted, it was always with a sliding, lingering touch—across my chest and outstretched arm or down my leg. Her hands would be all over my body, and mine on hers.

In practice, I did my absolute best to keep us apart when, finally, she stopped me.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

"Just—you know—the inside partner step."

"But, you're pushing me. Let me come to you. Why are you pushing?"

I hesitated.

She went on. "You did the same thing on the cross-body lead. Is something wrong?"

She had me. I explained, "I'm just trying to keep a natural space between us."

Waving that off, she said, "If I weren't your sister, would you be pushing?"

She had me again. I shrugged and said, "No."

"It's an intimate dance. The natural distance is zero. Do it right," she said flatly.

She reset the music, and we started again. Our bodies mashed together. I felt her soft skin and the taut muscles underneath. A thin layer of perspiration infused her skin. I smelled her face, neck, and hair. My hands slid up and down her hips; they clutched her waist. Her butt rubbed against my pelvis and slid down my thigh.