These Violent Delights

by Whitecroft, Jess

  I feel Tom relax slightly at my side. He snuggles in, his thigh settling between mine.

  “Just this tiny head at the top of this thick, red neck. He looked like Alex Jones, only worse, like the human embodiment of meat sweats.”

  Tom starts to laugh. “What did you do? Did you try out?”

  “I did not. I looked at him and I thought ‘fuck it – I’d rather be a fat homo than look like that.’ I was still sensitive, you see. Ever since I was a little boy I had a very specific picture of what beauty looked like. To me the most beautiful thing in the world was Dame Margot Fonteyn, dancing the Rose Adagio. You can’t forget that kind of beauty. She was light and grace and of course I saw her in my head in that moment, because I was looking straight at her mirror opposite. This beet red troll person.” I start to giggle at the memory. “And I looked straight at him and I said ‘Fuck you, I’m a dancer.’”

  He stares at me. “What did he do?”

  “What do you think he did? He laughed his ass off. Who wouldn’t? This fat little twelve year old insisting he’s the next Baryshnikov. He didn’t even have the breath to tell me off for cursing; I practically took him out at the knees. What the fuck kind of moves was I going to bring to the floor? The truffle shuffle? I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was furious. So mad. And the rage carried me through it all. All the workouts, all the runs, all the rehearsals, all the times I went without dessert. And the really tough part – my mother.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I kick off the covers, overheated, and stretch out on my belly. “Oh, you know. The usual. She never let me forget those five years that I quit. Even now she’s always talking about back up plans in case it doesn’t work out. Like, yeah – okay, so I quit for five years, but I’ve been back at it for nearly nine. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?”

  Tom pushes back the covers on his side of the bed, like he can’t stand to be covered up while I’m naked. “Parents are difficult,” he says, stroking the small of my back. He trails his fingers over my ribs, threatening to make me squirm as he skims ticklish spots.

  “What about yours?” I ask.

  “Parents? Oh, not much to say, really. Dad died when I was your age.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it is what it is,” he says, his fingers tracing the shape of my upper arm. He runs them up over my shoulder, under my chin, stroking my neck. “You get over it. It sounds awful when I say it like that, but you do.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Still teaches. University of Bath. She’s always on at me to come home. Can’t understand why I came here in the first place.”

  “Why did you?”

  He shrugs. “I liked traveling. Still do. I never meant to stay on the East Coast as long as I did, but then I met Simon and it started to feel like we’d stumbled on our Happily Ever After, so we went with it.”

  “But it didn’t work out.”

  Tom sighs and kisses me softly on the mouth. “No, but you live. And you learn. And you fall in love with smoking hot twenty year old ballet dancers.”

  “What a terrible life.”

  “I know. Such an awful hardship. Especially the constant sex.”

  “Oh, that. That’s the worst.”

  He runs a hand through my hair and kisses me again, teasing with his tongue this time. I’m down for more, but he’s got other things on his mind. He strokes the back of my hand with his fingertips, making small, soft circles on my skin.

  “Your rose tattoo,” he says. “Why a rose? Because of the Rose Adagio?”

  “You got it.”

  “So do they all mean something?”

  I shake my head. “The stars were just some basic, entry level shit I did to get used to the needle.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Sure, but you get used to it.”

  He laughs. “Used to pain. Does not compute.” He strokes my bicep. “What about the wolf?”

  “Peter and the Wolf. I was the wolf.”

  “In a ballet? You danced the role of the wolf?”

  “Yep.”

  “How does a wolf dance?”

  “Wolfishly.”

  “Oh. Of course.” He looks at me like I’m precious, special, and my heart flips over. “And the pine tree?” he says. “On your other arm?”

  “The Sleeping Beauty. My debut role. I was six, and I was a tree. And don’t ask me how a tree dances–”

  “–because the answer is treeishly. Right. You were serving Ent realness, I’m sure.”

  “Damn straight I was.”

  “And what about Tybalt?” he says. “Do you have one for him yet?”

  “No. Still deciding what to get for that one. That and I’m superstitious; I don’t want to get the tattoo until I’m done, in case I wind up popping a tendon and my understudy ends up dancing instead.” I reach out and touch his hip, where the skin is fine and white. A perfect canvas. “How come you never got one?”

  “What? A tattoo? Not me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a rebel,” says Tom, making me laugh. “Even pumpkin-spiced Pinteresters have tattoos these days. I refuse to conform.”

  “You should get one. At least one. Everyone should have a tattoo, even if it’s so they can regret it.”

  “Milos, by that logic everyone should be walking around with infinity symbols on their foreheads.”

  “Yeah. Or those dandelion seeds that turn into birds.”

  He giggles and slaps me on the ass. “I’ve got it. I should get a bird. A big, screaming American Eagle back piece incorporating all the exciting American landmarks I didn’t bother to visit while I was over here. You know – Lady Liberty, the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate, that…giant ball of string in Wisconsin somewhere.”

  I collapse face down into the pillow, laughing. “The Statue of Liberty? You never even visited that?”

  “Briefly, but then Simon happened and I don’t know…I just stayed in one place. I should probably pick up the slack now that I can. Go back to New York. Philadelphia, San Francisco. Florida.”

  “Florida? Why the fuck would you want to go to Florida?”

  “I’m a Hemingway fan,” he says. “And I’d quite like to see Key West before it sinks. Same with Venice. Never got to Venice when I was in Italy.”

  I stop laughing, uneasy. “You’re gonna leave?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it before.” He sees the look on my face and pulls me close. “Relax. I’m thinking long term here. I’ve got a home, a job. I can’t just up and leave.”

  “But you might want to?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, and kisses me. “Don’t worry. You came into my life at a time when a lot of things were ending for me. There’s no reason you can’t be a part of the things that are just beginning.”

  11

  Tom

  No Milos today.

  Before class I was braced, as if for impact, the same way I was that first time when a whole weekend away from campus couldn’t seem to rinse the taste of him out of my mouth. I feel like there’s a neon sign over my head, blinking continually – IDIOT IN LOVE WITH A STUDENT.

  Perhaps it’s just as well he doesn’t show up, because all through the lesson he keeps coming back to me in flashes of flesh and echoing sighs. Even the smell of chalk is loaded with erotic significance, and the line “Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,” sets the texture of his lips sparking through my brain all over again. I’m doomed, completely gone.

  As I clear away and the class files out there’s a knock on the back of my door. It’s Kate Colver – one of our better student counselors. “Hey,” she says, looking like a young Alice Walker in her bright striped shirt. “I was trying to catch you before class, but–”

  “–yeah. What’s up?”

  “You got Milos Waxman, right? Supposed to be here?”

  My stomach does a roller coaster dip. “Yes. Why? Is he okay?” I
suddenly have a grim premonition of why his counselor might come to me with news. An accident? Oh God, he was still driving around with that broken tail light.

  “Yeah, he’s fine,” says Kate, and my heart crawls down out of my mouth. “He’s just not gonna be here any more. He’s dropping English.”

  I lean on the desk, locking my knees against the shake that threatens to give me away. I’m frightened by how fast he became so precious to me, but we’re in this thing now, for good or ill. He’s too far under my skin. “Oh. Okay. He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  “Well, he probably didn’t want to you to try and talk him out of it,” she says. “I was under the impression he was under some pressure from his folks to keep it up, but…yeah. You’ve seen his grades, right?”

  “Yeah. They’re not great.”

  “It’s a drag on his GPA, frankly. And it speaks to his sense of time management if he just quit now while he was ahead.” She shrugs. “Shame he can’t turn it around, what with your focus on Elizabethan dramatists. It’d be a great addition to a Performing Arts degree, but let’s face it, he’s flunking.”

  “It’s a shame, yes. Milos is very intuitive.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I have a brief but vivid memory of Milos intuiting his way to my prostate with two slicked fingers and a look in his eye that would make a whore blush. “He’s…um…very emotionally connected to the material, but just reading the words off the page doesn’t do it for him. It’s not his fault; they’re plays. They’re not meant to be read. They’re meant to be performed and seen–”

  “–but we don’t have the funds to send them to the theater,” says Kate. “I know. Fucking tell me about it.”

  “It’s bad, I know.”

  “Oh honey, it’s a farce. Do you know they’re even talking about cutting janitorial services to every other day?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I wish. Have they even seen what kind of animals walk through these halls on a daily basis? We’ll be knee deep in Starbucks cups and Twinkie wrappers overnight.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know who people think are going to clean up after them once Trump gets done deporting everyone he wants to deport.”

  “Robots?”

  Kate snorts. “Yeah. A chicken in every bucket and a Roomba for every floor. Hooverville, here we come. Again.”

  I head to my office, unsure how I feel about this new development. On one hand it does make life a lot easier for us, but does it make it easier for him? His mother doesn’t sound like she’s going to be happy about this.

  I’m thinking about calling him when my phone rings anyway. “Hello,” I say. “I was just thinking about you. Guess who I just ran into after class?”

  “I don’t know,” says Milos. He sounds distracted, and anxious. Maybe the maternal shitstorm has already begun. “Who?”

  “Kate Colver.”

  “Ri-ght.”

  “So you’re no longer my student?”

  “Which frees me up to be your full-time fuck toy. What’s the problem?”

  “I was under the impression there might be consequences for you,” I say, sidling towards the door in case this conversation takes a turn for the dirty. “And fuck toy? Is that what we’re calling each other? It’s not that I’m in love with the word ‘boyfriend’ but ‘fuck toy’ might be awkward when we’re introducing one another to our families and all…”

  There’s a commotion in the hallway outside. “Nice tights, Sugar Plum,” someone yells, and I fling open the door to see Milos twirling defiantly – phone in one hand and the other raising a middle finger. He’s in rehearsal clothes, an old Ramones t-shirt ripped down to the heart, black tights and ballet shoes. I didn’t even know men went en pointe, let alone while flipping the bird, but I’ve never before seen anyone being insulted so gracefully. He turns, jetes back towards me and almost flubs the landing when he sees me.

  “I need you,” he says, killing the phone and pushing past me into the office. I’m down with whatever he wants right now because those tights are unbelievable. His thigh muscles look like they could fill the room, and his bum…Jesus. Did I really spend all weekend in bed with that? I should be throwing some kind of Can You Believe My Fucking Luck party right now.

  “Um, okay,” I say, glancing at the desk and wondering if I should clear it. It’s a fantasy of his.

  He catches the direction of my gaze. “No, not like that,” he says. “Although definitely later.”

  “Definitely. Yes.” I tear my eyes from the desk but there are still thighs in front of me. He’s smooth in the front; they put on these tight jockstrap things that press everything down to a polite Ken Doll bulge, so as to prevent everyone in the front row finding out if the male lead is circumcised or not. And I know it’s just a dance thing but I can’t stop looking at it. He’s short but he’s hung; there’s a whole lot of cock squashed into that dance belt.

  “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Focus,” says Milos. “Quit staring at my dick.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying not to. It’s just…thighs. And things. God, you look sexy.”

  He sighs and reaches up, cupping my face in his hands. “Baby,” he says, making me melt the way he always does when he uses an endearment. He’s so completely unafraid. “You know I love you, and I know you love me, and I promise we can have all kinds of sex later, but right now I desperately need an expert on Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Um…okay. That sounds like me.”

  “It is. You have a doctorate in Elizabethan dramatists and you are exactly what I need right now.”

  “Said no one, ever. That’s why we have no arts funding.”

  “Just come with me, will you?”

  I smooth down the front of my pants and deliberately picture Donald Trump attempting to stick his hand up Theresa May’s skirt. Yep. That’s done it. Erection well and truly neutralized. Milos leads the way down the hall. “What’s going on?”

  “Our director has lost her fucking mind,” he says. “That’s what. She wants to stick an extra pas de deux on the end as some kind of homage to Prokofiev’s ending, and Romeo and Juliet are just about losing their shit. They’ve nailed this. It’s perfect – and now we’re going to fuck it up with Romeo and Juliet coming back to life again and dancing a final pas de deux. It’s dumb.”

  “Okay,” I say, following in his wake as he barrels down the hall. “I may have a doctorate in Elizabethan drama, but I know next to nothing about ballet. What ending?”

  “Prokofiev’s,” says Milos. “When he wrote the music for the ballet he gave Romeo and Juliet a happy ending, right?”

  “Right. No, wrong. How the fuck do you write a happy ending to Romeo and Juliet? They die. That’s the whole point.”

  “I know, right? But he did. He wrote this happy ending where instead of Paris coming into the tomb–”

  “–and getting stabbed by Romeo–”

  “–right. Instead Friar Laurence swings by and tells Romeo that Juliet is not dead, just roofied. And then she wakes up and they dance off into the sunset. I mean, the music he wrote for it is fucking beautiful but–”

  I stop walking, struggling to process what I’m hearing. “–but they die. They’re supposed to die. You can’t give Romeo and Juliet a happy ending. It’s a travesty. It’s like…like adding in a scene where the Macbeths go to marriage counseling.”

  “Exactly,” says Milos, spreading both hands. “This is why I need you. It’s that thing you talked about. Trajectory error. Two households, alike in dignity, hating each other’s fucking guts. It was always supposed to end in tragedy, right?”

  “These violent delights have violent ends. Yes. Absolutely. If you change the ending you change the point of the whole play.”

  “I know,” he says, tugging me towards the door. “That’s what Stalin said. He said you don’t fuck with Shakespeare and that’s the end of the matter. Change the ending back.”

  I follow him out into the bright sunlight. F
or some reason I always thought Prokofiev was around earlier than the Soviets, but there it is. “And did he?”

  “Of course he did. He didn’t want to end up in the goddamn gulag.”

  “Smart cookie. Although I never had Stalin pegged for a Shakespeare purist.”

  “Yeah, well. He was, apparently.”

  “That’s probably the first time a totalitarian dictator has actually improved the arts,” I say, thinking of those kitsch Greco-Roman figures that the Nazis liked so much, or the twee, heavily airbrushed Kim family portraits that stink up every public and private space in Pyongyang.

  “Maybe,” says Milos, as we approach the Performing Arts building. “But right now you need to persuade our dictator that she’s making a terrible mistake trying to splice the two endings together. They still die but she wants to add the Prokofiev pas de deux as them dancing together in the afterlife or something. It’s going to suck balls, especially for Ed and Liane; it makes a fucking pantomime of their entire death scene.”

  “Okay, but I’m not sure what you want me to do or say. If your director has made up her mind…”

  “Just watch,” he says, opening the door for me. “Through here.”

  This is his turf, a sanctum I haven’t dared breach yet for various reasons. One, that I don’t know enough about ballet for my appreciation to satisfy him, and two, that I won’t be able to stand the sight of him in motion without crying, drooling or otherwise making a spectacle of myself in public. He is so very, very beautiful.

  We slip through the door into the corner of a wide rehearsal room with one wall given over to mirrors and barres. In the opposite corner is an old upright piano and towards the rear is what looks like a kind of low divan. The air is acrid with the kind of hard-wrung sweat that Milos often trails into my bedroom. The dancers are so hard at work that they don’t see us enter, but she – Madame Levonian, I’m guessing – turns her head and briefly glances at Milos out of the tail of her eye before returning her attention to the action. She looks exactly as I’d imagine a ballet director to look, a petite woman who might be as young as fifty or as old as seventy, but it’s impossible to tell because she still has the straight spine and tiny waist of a teenager.