Ex Ballerinas

I have to go shoot this interview for a film Celine's friend is making about ex ballerinas. He sent me an e-mail with the questions. I know I'm dutybound by the first rule of Fight Club to only say good things about Fight Club, and to talk about the instructors and choreographers and other dancers with adulation as hi fructose corn syrup oozes out of the corners of my mouth but I wanna say that as soulful and incredible as the life can be it's soulcrushing (and bonecrushing and anorexifying) for most, and that 999 out of 1000 ballerinas are ex ballerinas after a few years, and its kind of a dead art, like jazz or classical music or even a lot of theatre, sadly, most of whats done that's good is just, technix, if not PYROTECHNICS, which is really sad.

And that I'm eternally grateful for it because it got me the hell out of dodge and to all sorts of cool places I would've never gone...

And then one of the questions of course is: What do you do now? Do you use your dance training in any way today? And of course I'm gonna say, well, sure, the discipline I learned, the blafuckingbla, respect for my body (yeah right, most classical ballet dancers battle their bodies on the daily), and art and blah. And I'm a student, now. The truth would actually be great. Now? Oh, now I'm a dancer. Yes, I use my dance training. I make a living dancing.

But I don't actually, I feel like I've had to unlearn a lot of it, to dance "dance" no it's really dancing, it's just really different, I mean, it's all dancing, but with ballet, there are just some really unsexy specifics....

Anyway.

I have to go throw myself in the wash and do that right now. I'm kinda overit. Yesterday was genius. More later.

Ohhhh yea. Ohhhh yea. Uhhhh-huh.

I'm exhausted. I'm drained.

If I wrote this hours ago, if I wrote this entry this evening, when I got home, and not after midnight after being talked down from the clouds by Elena, back into the stratosphere, I'd sound different... In fact, I think I wouldn'tve been able to write at all...

I left Julian's office today shaking. Elated, scared, crying, I couldn't even listen to music or drive to school, but I didn't know what else to do, so I drove to school, and got lost even though Julian's office and school and my house are within 5 minutes of each other. And I kept calling Elena because I was losing it but she wasn't picking up. I got to counseling and they had some issues with registration for one of my classes and I started shaking again, near tears, like, "I can't... I can't do this... I can't... FIND THIS CRAP RIGHT NOW!" And then, I had to semi-break up with a guy-who-thinks- thought-he-is-was-my-boyfriend, and then Elena called while he was over, and I was like, "Hey Dan it's Elena I really have to talk to her!!!" and let him walk out without saying good-bye and he gave me the dirtiest look and he was totally gob-smacked crestfallen and I am SUCH an asshole and this is why.

I woke up really early and I couldn't get back to sleep and my phone was just inexplicably dead, like CONKED, so I just got up and went and bought it a new battery and a new vocal mic for my music and some other crap and a Starbucks and then I got home with still like a good 5 hours before Julian, 5 hours in an leaky hourglass.

I knew what I wanted to talk to him about, kinda, I had questions planned out, and ideas, like I always do, and I wanted to record something with the new mic but planning my outfit became an operatic event. And I wanted to walk to Julian's and then school to get my daily 5 miles in (I'm kind of obsessed with my legs... they're naturally kinda muscular and always were when I was dancing ballet but then I got kinda skinny until I started working at the club again and now I work it out and wear shorts or skirts whenever possible, especially to see certain men... even in the winter... over panty-hose, anyway!) but then Father Time started shaking his sceptre and I was like Ok, Ok, S-O, you're gonna drive it's fine. So I found some really high shorts and panty-hose, and boots, and a top that was both womanly European feminine sophisticated and still with a handsome dip of cleavage, and I got in my little beater and made my way over there, getting whistled at and propositioned, and driving like a maniac, weaving through lanes, beautiful parking karma, made it, made it, made it.

I got in the waiting room and flicked his little light thingy. No noise. Two minutes. Two minutes late. My heart sank and I panicked. I feel like he's been doing that a lot lately. He used to come out 30 seconds after I showed up. I looked at my phone... I found a magazine with a cover story about something I knew he probably read or wanted to read... And then I saw him strolling into his office from the hallway and he waved.

He was dressed a little more casual today, no blazer, he looked a little breathless.

"Sorry I'm late!"

"No, no!"

.....

"How's your kitty doing?" I made sure to ask, so he'd see that I'm not, under normal circumstances, 100% self-absorbed all the time.

"Making progress," his smile lit up the goddamn zip-code.

"Ahhh, are you treating him?" He'd made a joke about his cat having psychological issues... so we joked about that... and then my cat... And then I brought out my opener:

"So... my blow-off list is getting really long... Florida guy wants to-- wanted to come over, I mean-- he IS coming over, and like, I just... I downright can't stand the guy anymore. I mean he's an idiot. Like... How could I not have seen it? He's like, borderline-retarded. I'm just NOT."

"Hey why don't you tell me how you really feel." J jokes. He's made that joke before when I'm ranting about some kangaroo I've been seeing for the free goodies.

And I started to talk about why it was so hard for me to say no to the duderz, not sexually, but like, that no I wasn't interested romantically, even though I wasn't, and being with someone I don't really like makes me really uncomfortable actually, and he got me to admit that I kinda liked the option of having people to pay for stuff, and he said, Okay, fair enough, and I said that sounds awful, that's terrible, and he said (and he quoted verbatim from an e-mail I sent him once about this writer we both like who thinks it's human nature for men to pay for sex) "What happened to 'Thank you, PINKER!'?"

"I know! I don't know... I guess that one year of Sunday school did its thing... Societal norms..."

"Well," he said, and he's starting to give his opinion more and more now, "I think, Buddhistically, sorry, but that maybe it's not Right Practice."

"I know. It's not."

"Did this guy leave yet?"

"No- maybe- I don't know- I was just thinking the same thing-" I pulled out my phone, "Should I just? What do I say?"

And now comes the part where J dictates How to Blow a Guy Off Without Being a Total Asshole about it, as I text. When Dan would respond, I'd show it to J, like a little kid, and he'd advise. And Dan called frantically like 5 times while I was there, and, and...

And then I started talking about being lonely, and Elena not returning my calls, and all the fake conversations at the club and the fact that I don't talk to a soul "except her... and you..." and how all I do all week is listen, listen, smile and laugh and feign interest and "I'm sure you can relate" and then I started crying, which I never do in front of him, but I couldn't help it, and he just said, "I think you're just saying you have to pay a price for solitude..." and then we just looked at each other silently, well, stared, and my heart made its way up my trachea, and I couldn't look at him, and then I looked at him, and he was looking at my legs, and I realized I'd been running my hands up and down them for probably 20 minutes, and my face flushed and he looked back at me and I realized my lips were parted and I caught my breath and looked away and then at him and sort of smiled and then away and then up and down him and then at the floor and his blue eyes were burning through me and it was like probably a whole minute that felt like forever like glorious, glorious, blazing forever.

Then he asked me about the YouTube link he sent me. (Last week, off-hand, at the end of an e-mail about some insurance thing... got me going. Really got me going.)

And then we talked about movies. I told him he has to see Lars and the Real Girl. I found myself describing the whole plot to him and then stopping myself and then he described a whole movie to me, a depressing movie, and then he said, and on that happy note! And, as always,

"Last thoughts?" and then, "I actually had something terribly important to say but I lost it so I guess it will have to wait till next time." Which is what I said a couple sessions back. ("Last thoughts?" "Yeah but... they're not like two-minute thoughts so, no...") And he got up and then he slowly turned back and said, "Well actually I was late so, we have two more minutes."

"Oh. Yes. I need my two minutes."

He sat back down and my phone buzzed again. "Florida guy?"

"Not during my two minutes!" I smacked the phone.

We looked at each other again.

"It's really beautiful outside today." I said.

"It is, I like this kind of weather."

"I get to wear shorts-"

"I've been meaning to say this, since we need to tell each other these things," Julian is saying and time again stood still because before I had time to fucking melt or scream or jump on him-- "Your makeup has run completely afoul."

My hands flew up to my face and I'm sure I was bright, neon, stop-light, fire-truck, sex-doll-mouth, First Aid cross, Coke can fucking RED, stained black (and white all over), "Oh! Oh, wow, yeah-"

"I didn't want you to leave without being aware of that."

FUCK.

And is he FUCKING with me??? Ugh, I'm a wreck. Wreck. He's fucking with me. He's like, really good, and I can't keep up with the innuendos, though I don't let it show too much, but, he's a goddamn psychologist, I'm sure it's obvious, but I like this game. I am game. He rifled through his planner.

"So we're on for Thursday at... noon?"

"Four."

"Four..." He stood up.

"Uh-huh." I stood up.

He stepped over to the door, and I stepped over to the door, and we said "Bye," in unison.

I must have sex with him. Like. Right now. Thursday. UGH. Oh god. And a bunch more shit happened today, but... it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

Ten Cents a Dance

Ten cents a dance
That's what they pay me
Gee, how they weigh me
Down...

I bet after adjusting for inflation since 1930, Ella and I get paid about the same for our services... and it might as well be monopoly money in either case, hell, she is complaining about it. Hear, hear, sister. Actually it is monopoly money. A lot of the men buy, with their real money-- or, usually, with their company card-- wads of fake cash with the club's name printed on it, which they use to tip us, which we exchange at the end of the night for real cash with a 20% cut. I guess the point is that they can use their company cards, and get drunk, and start feeling like it is just monopoly money (it is), and spend freely since they can't very well hang onto it and give it to the wife to get groceries the following day. I know it's good for the club, and maybe for us too, even with the exchange rate. But it's peanut money anyway. And there are still those who come in and say they can't afford a dance, and watch, and don't tip, and chat away like it's Match.com. Come on dude, at least fork over the thimble.

But I made out pretty well last night, like I usually do when I stumble in late, dragging ass, forgetting my makeup bag, all sorts of overit, and finish my first gin and ginger before I even get up on stage.

I used to be a real dancer, classically trained real-life ballerina, and it translates, though chaine turns and grand plies would be ridiculous in fishnets, to Danzig, and sliding upside-down down a pole was a move I had to learn onstage, on air, without a teacher. It was easy though... I like to think the dance training helped. So it's actually fun for me. This gig. And, more importantly, it's the easiest job in the world. Lax schedule, short hours, low expectations, no micromanaging bosses; we're independent contractors in a kind of co-op situation where we actually pay for the luxury of working there, with that 20% cut and a significant house-fee to boot. Perfect job for free-thinkers and lazy people.

And, though I would never say it, I feel that Dr. Julian Darcy and I have quite a bit in common, professionally. I pay him an exorbitant fee for 45 minutes of his company, he listens to me, he acts like he cares, and then when my time is up he holds open the back door for me as I leave, closes it behind me, takes a breather at his desk, maybe calls the girlfriend, and sets up for the next pretty hysteric. ...They pay me a comparably exorbitant sum (after doing the arithmetic, it can be even twice or three times more per minute, but that doesn't include the unpaid time sitting, chatting, lubing up for expenditure-- just trust me, it's peanut-money) for my company, I listen to them, I act like I care, like I'm fascinated, titillated, dance around on them with my contrived-genuine lust, never take my eyes off them (while a rectangular bouncer does the same), lead them out of the back room, and head over to the dressing room to smoke, text, whine, or sometimes even read, and stroll back out onto the floor to troll for the next victim.

I would never say it, because it would be a damn insulting thing to say, and because I know Julian is light-years beyond me, and does real things, and is actually helping me and would help me more if I had a real malady other than a serious crush or real true love for him. And he does lots of other things and is very respected in his field, and it's just beyond comparison and I'm not even comparing. The previous paragraph was, well, one long comparison, but... well, only in my twisted little universe. Point is, really, just that sometimes I'm doing multiplication tables in my head when talking and laughing with these monkey-men, but sometimes I meet men there I really do like quite a bit. I've even dated a couple. There was one I met that I totally fell for and ended up seeing for a while, turned out to be a lying, philandering asshole, of course, but to his own credit he warned me he would. I told Julian about him the day after we met, joking warmly that he was the first person who'd ever complimented my clunker when he drove us from the club to a diner down the street and J briefly dropped the poker-face to look at me like I just came crashing down onto his couch through the roof in a Soviet spacesuit, cradling the corpse of Laika in my arms.

"Do you even know anything about this guy?"

Errrrp... I did not, no. I do now, again, thanks to my knack for espionage. But, no.

"Well, maybe a guy you meet at the dance club is not the best candidate for a positive relationship."

He always says "dance club," never "strip club," and only once said "dumb stripper bitches" ironically, after I said it, also ironically, to qualify a certain type of girl. He never swears, either. I don't swear much myself, but I find that I do it more when I talk to him. I guess he gets me going. Speaking emphatically.

I'm seeing him tomorrow. I'm not as nervous as I've been before the last several sessions, because last time was normal, while the times before were... not exactly. I won't explain now but something had intensified and reached boiling temperature I guess, and now it's subsided, which, is sorta cool, and sorta sucks.

Anyway. Check in later maybe, with my audience of none. Off to make my red hair redder.



Love and late-night diversions,

Scarlet O.