It was probably one of those suburb things, one of those insider deals that people who grew up in tract houses understood and Ed never would.
And oh yeah, Ed knew he was in the ‘burbs. Even if the parking lot hadn't been full of SUVs and minivans, the people who came in and out of Laurie's studio were a big clue. Last time, in addition to the Baptist couples, there had been scores of little blonde girls in leotards being chased by little blonde mothers in yoga pants. Tonight it was sleek, model-esque teen girls giggling to one another and texting madly on their cell phones as their parents waited impatiently in idling vehicles to retrieve them. Everyone in the parking lot and the waiting room of the studio looked like they'd been dipped in Tidy and dusted with Proper and Nice. Everyone here was polished and clean, and Ed felt a little too grungy and hulky to be among them.
You're here to dance, not impress people, he reminded himself, pressing back against the wall as another gaggle of girls came out of a dressing room. They paid no attention whatsoever to Ed, and he wondered if they thought he was just another dad, there to give a ride. Or maybe they thought he was a janitor. Ed glanced down at himself, at his dress pants and shoes. Nope. He didn't look like a janitor.
Did he?
“Can I help you?”
A petite, pretty woman with her hair drawn back into a loose bun approached him. Ed recognized her, he thought, as the woman who had been talking to Laurie last time when he'd arrived.
Ed cleared his throat. “Hi. I, ah—” He tried to grin. “I'm Ed. I'm just here—” He stepped back as another wave of girls came by, this time from the lobby back into the dressing room. When they were past, he turned to the woman. “Laurie? I was supposed to meet Laurie?”
The woman arched a neatly plucked auburn eyebrow. “The assistant. Yes, I remember.” She extended a graceful hand. “I'm Maggie Davies.”
Ed took her hand and shook it firmly. “Ed Maurer.” He nodded toward the room where he'd found Laurie last Tuesday. “He in there?”
Maggie shook her head. “He's in the smaller studio with the pointe class. They ought to be done any minute, though. There's no one in the office, if you'd like to wait there.”
Ed stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “I'll just wait here, if that's okay.”
“Of course.” Maggie weaved through the chaos of the lobby, heading back to a counter and a door to the office that hid behind it.
A class was getting out. They were coming from the big room he'd been in last time, heading straight for the lobby and for the dressing room off to the left side of the hall. There was another dressing room near the classroom itself, but this one was for males, and hardly anyone was coming out of it. Ed thought he'd seen two testosterone representatives slip through in one of the waves, but mostly this was an estrogen party.
The girls were chattering, talking over one another, whispering, waving their hands—in short, they were being teenage girls, and Ed found he'd somehow managed to forget what they were like until just now. There were only about fifteen of them, but they felt like thirty for the space they commanded, physically and otherwise. As Ed watched them, he felt himself sliding back to high school, ducking swarms of girls as he wove his way through the lockers and to class. He remembered hanging out with them, trying to peg the one out of the flock he thought he could date. It was never about how they looked so much as how they acted. He'd liked girls who were friendly and exuberant but not bossy. In hindsight, he knew he'd been looking for a good beard. Someone to call a girlfriend and someone he'd enjoy being with, maybe even occasionally necking with, and if things went really well, getting sweaty with in their bedrooms when their parents weren't home. But mostly girls had been an accessory. And ideally they would have wanted the same from him. And usually they did.
But sex happened with guys. Real attraction was for males: males with sleek stomachs and tapered waists. Ed had faked it with girls, but his passion had been and still was for hard thighs and tight asses. For cocks swinging boldly over a tender sac of balls. For tight nipples and corded necks and broad shoulders and mouths that tasted spicy, not sweet.
Somehow being here in the middle of all this teenage estrogen brought him back to that conflict, though, stirring up all those feelings of panic, of exposure. Exposure as the dirty kid from the wrong part of town, exposure as the guy who wanted cock when he should be happy with pussy. It was stupid, because he'd left all that years ago, but now he stood here, soaking in it like he'd never left.
When the girls cleared the hall enough that Ed could move, he made his way down to the room Maggie had indicated Laurie was in. Wedging into the corner of the doorway, Ed peered beneath the gap in the privacy curtain someone had hung over the window in the door, trying to see what a pointe class was. At first he didn't see anything, but then a dancer stepped into view: another girl, older than those Ed had nearly been run over by in the hall. This one was all leg, and she was leaping like a gazelle across the floor before she stopped, rose up on the tips of her toes, and turned.
“No, Kelly,” a familiar voice said, and then Ed watched, mouth going dry as Laurie crossed to the girl.
Laurie was wearing tights. The other night at the dance class he'd worn some sort of sleek black pair of pants that clung to him but still hung loosely around his body; at the aerobics classes, he wore what looked like knee-length running shorts. These were tights. This was a pair of white, tight tights, and God help them all, that was all Laurie had on south of the border. No leotard. Nothing over it, not even a pair of Superman-like underwear. He had a T-shirt on over the top, a very striking royal blue, but—goddamn! Tights!
It was hard to believe nobody ever thought to point out to Laurie that his tights were borderline obscene. Not that Ed minded, obviously. But Jesus. Talk about a tight ass. The thighs weren't bad either. Ed would have written Laurie off as scrawny, but now that he got a good look at him—a practical X-ray of him—he had to admit that, actually, Laurie had some meat on him. Some nice, toned meat. Legs, arms, abs—Laurie looked good. Laurie had a very fine body.
Laurie turned, facing the door as he rose up on his toes before coming down into a sort of squat. Ed's eyes fixed on the bulge of Laurie's white-clad crotch.
Really nice meat.
Feeling suddenly overheated, Ed stepped away from the door.
Spying a drinking fountain along the wall by the men's dressing room, Ed headed for it, took a deep drink, then braced an arm against the wall above it as he stared down into the drain and collected himself. But it didn't work so well. First he'd been yanked back to adolescence, and now all he could think about was the way Laurie had filled out his tights. He wondered how he'd ever look the man in the eye again without imagining the way the Lycra had strained against his thighs or remembering the way it had both smoothed out and defined his cock at once. Maybe because it was white? Maybe that was why the image grabbed him around the throat so bad? Ed had no idea. All he knew was that he'd safely written Laurie off as a bit of a poof, that at best he might be a nice guy Ed could get to know, maybe even have sex with for something different, but now the wires in Ed's brain had rerouted, and “Laurie” was not associated with “ridiculous idiot at the gym” or even “nice guy teaching you how to dance” but was now “man with tight butt, hard thighs, and bulging cock.”
An image flashed into Ed's brain, and he saw himself kneeling in the middle of a dance floor as Laurie walked toward him wearing those tights, just those tights, and Ed stared up at the bulge at Laurie's groin as it came closer. When it was before him, he nuzzled it, and then, as Laurie put his hand on the back of Ed's head, Ed reached up, pulled down the white waistband and groaned in pleasure as Laurie fed that bulge to Ed's eager mouth—
Blinking, Ed bent back down over the fountain and aimed the icy water right at his face.
He rubbed it in with both hands as he rose, telling himself to fucking knock it off. He stared at the poster over the drinking fountain, trying to use it as some sort of centering device to ca
lm himself down. Then he realized what it was he was actually looking at, and he forgot Laurie and his tights, forgot everything, and he just stared.
It was a poster of a ballet, and in the center of it was Laurie. Oddly enough, he was wearing tights here too, but they didn't seem as obscene as they did live and in person. In fact, there was nothing obscene about anything in the picture. Laurie was lit like a god; he was caught in mid-leap, his muscled thighs bulging again, yes, but—God. It was just beautiful. He looked like art. He was all arches and lines and light and shadow; it was amazing. And it absolutely was Laurie. The bottom of the poster said “Joffrey Ballet 2001: Light Rain,” but that was Laurie leaping in the photo.
Laurie was beautiful. Laurie was the most fucking beautiful thing Ed had ever seen.
“Oh, don't look at that.”
Ed startled and turned around—and there the real Laurie was, still wearing his white tights. Sweat beaded at his brow and ran in erotic rivulets down his throat, disappearing over his clavicle and into the neckline of his shirt. But he didn't look at Ed, just at the poster, and he was glaring at it.
“Maggie insists on hanging it for the snob value.” Laurie grimaced, dabbing at his neck with a towel. “This isn't even an actual poster they used for the show. Someone decided it was too minimalist. But Maggie found it in a box of my stuff, and now here it hangs.”
Ed really didn't understand anything Laurie had just said, so he seized on the obvious. “You do ballet, huh?”
He winced inwardly. God, that was stupid.
And why, he wondered, did he suddenly care about looking stupid in front of Laurie?
Laurie didn't seem to notice. “Ballet, jazz, tap, and everything in between. Except Irish.” Laurie put his hands on his hips and gave Ed a quelling look. “I suppose, given the way you keep surprising me, you're going to tell me you've performed too, and that you're some sort of closet Fred Astaire?”
Ed worked very hard not to let his eyes slide down to Laurie's crotch. “No. Sorry. Just the occasional ballroom dancing.”
Laurie wiped his face again with his towel before tossing it over his shoulder. “Speaking of, are you ready for more?”
“Sure,” Ed said, trying to sound cool.
“Great. Give me a few minutes, and I'll be ready too.” Laurie bent, took a long drink of water, then rose, wiping his lips as he stood upright again. “Just need to change. Do you want to wait in the small studio for me?”
Change. That meant he wouldn't get to dance with Laurie in his tights. That was probably for the best, Ed acknowledged.
Still.
The squat came back into his mind, and his own cock filled at the memory of Laurie's cock straining against that tight white—
“Ed?” Laurie's frowning face appeared in front of his own. “Are you okay?”
Ed blinked. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Okay.” Laurie regarded him dubiously for a minute before nodding at the dressing-room door. “I'm going to go in there now,” he said.
And take off his tight white tights, his brain added unhelpfully. And free his hard thighs and bulging cock, probably touching them, sliding his hands over them—
“Ed!” This time Laurie gripped his shoulder too.
So he could push Ed down to his knees—
Another group of girls came out of the dressing room, interrupting Ed's carnal thoughts, and he drew back sharply and cleared his throat. “I'm fine. Fine. I'll just wait for you inside.”
He turned away from Laurie and made a beeline for the studio. He caught Maggie giving him a hard look from across the room, but he ignored her, too intent on getting out of the hall and into a space where he was the only person there. He ducked beneath the outstretched arm of a girl demonstrating a move to her friend, shutting the door behind him with more force than was necessary. Then he leaned back against the door, shut his eyes, took deep breaths, and tried once again to think of what the fuck Tuesday Morning could be about, because it was impossible to figure out and did not, no matter how his brain might try to force it, successfully support any image of Laurie and those goddamned fucking tights.
“So,” Laurie asked Ed, “what dances do you know?”
They were seated on stools opposite one another near the shelf that held the sound system and other various supplies. Laurie had debated in the dressing room over what exactly he should wear—he hadn't really brought the right clothes, he realized, so focused on whether or not this would go well that clothes hadn't even been on his radar. As a result, he had his jeans and his tights. He'd gone with the jeans in the end, but now as he sat across from Ed in his dress clothes, he felt ridiculous. He was glad he at least had the right shoes.
He took some comfort in the fact that Ed seemed uncomfortable too, shifting on his stool and huddling in a sort of protective slouch. “Well, I started with ‘Rumba Rehab,’ which was supposed to help get me moving again after the surgery. And that got me into the other Latin dances, but I forget all the names.”
“Salsa, I assume,” Laurie suggested, and Ed nodded. “Merengue? Mambo?” More nods. “Cha-cha? Samba? What about cumbia?”
Ed gave two nods that time, but his head jerked back at the last. “Cumbia? Never heard of that one.”
“What about the more traditional dances?” Laurie went on. “I know you know the fox-trot. What about the waltz? Which one?” he pressed when Ed nodded.
“There's more than one?” Ed said, looking surprised.
“Probably the slow waltz, then.” Laurie tapped his thumb against his leg. “Hustle?”
“Hustle what?” Ed asked.
Laurie smiled despite himself. “That's a no. Tango?”
Ed brightened. “Oh yeah. I like that one.”
So did Laurie. “Do you know what kind you learned? American-style? International? Argentine?” When Ed just blinked at him, he had to bite back a smile. “Ah. Well, why don't we just try and see? I'll put on some music, and you lead me in whatever style you know.”
“Okay,” Ed agreed.
They rose from their stools at the same time, and for a second they were mere inches from one another, all but dancing already. Ed's hands came up, and for a moment, Laurie thought Ed was going to grab his shoulders. But instead he stepped back and cleared his throat before ducking around the stool and heading out to the floor.
Laurie frowned after him, wondering what the hell that had been about, then went to cue the music before going out to meet Ed.
“Just start whenever you feel ready.” Laurie stepped into position and raised his arms for the embrace.
Ed put his hands on Laurie's waist and shoulder tentatively, hesitating before leading them somewhat clumsily into a basic American-style tango. For this being Ed's favorite dance, he was certainly awkward about it, especially compared to his performance in the other dances the week before. Laurie was tempted to ask if he was feeling okay, but something held him back. Instead he pulled back into instructor mode, dissecting Ed's movement, noting where he did well and where he could improve. Except it was difficult, because it had been a long time since Laurie had followed in a tango, and he found that his inner teacher was being crowded out by his own itchy feet. Clearly his nerves about ballroom were limited to teaching a class. Either that or Ed simply dispelled them all, because all he could think of right now was how much he wanted to dance.
“What would you say,” he asked after a few turns around the room, “to learning the Argentine tango?”
Ed pulled back a little in the embrace to look at him. “What's the one I've been doing?”
“Ballroom. The Argentine tango is closer to the original. It started in the brothels.”
He didn't know why he added that last, but it was interesting, he had to admit, the way it made Ed's eyes darken. “Oh?” Then he cleared his throat. “How is it different?”
“There's a lot more variation,” Laurie said. “It's more of a conversation than the ballroom tango. Lots of push and pull.” He smiled ruefully. “The follo
wer's part is a little more involved than the leader's, but the leader is very important. The leader keeps the balance and the structure of the embrace. And, of course, he instigates the steps.”
“Okay.” Ed flexed his hand against Laurie's. “So what do I do?”
Laurie walked him through the adjustment of the steps between ballroom and Argentine tango, which initially wasn't much, mostly getting him to go toe-heel instead of heel-toe. That took the better portion of a song, which didn't bother Laurie except that he was impatient. His real goal was to teach Ed ochos. And boleos. He was aching to do an arrastre, but he knew that was likely a dream, at least for tonight.
But it's been so long.
The desire—not panic, just bald, aching desire—that had been creeping up on him grabbed him briefly by the throat, and he paused.
Ed stumbled as he ran into Laurie, because Laurie had paused in body as well as in thought. “Did I do something wrong?”
Laurie shook his head, chasing the ghosts away. “No. You're just fine.” He cleared his throat and wrenched his focus back on the lesson. “I want to teach you the boleo. Again, it's a step mostly I'll be doing, but I can't do it without you. Your job is to bear the balance, not just of our bodies but of the dance itself. The tango can be aggressive or gentle, and it's best when it's a bit of both. Some of the best steps are a sort of fight between the leader and the follower; you can trap my feet, or you can step in front of my leg and stop me midstep, forcing me to change direction. You can ‘drag’ my feet, and I can do the same to you. You can sort of push my foot along, almost stepping on it. And this doesn't even count turns or pitter-patter.”
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