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The dancer
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Dancer
I've seen her many times, since then. I have seen her,
watched her in a trance, as she executes beautiful,
skillfully timed jumps, leaps, and twirls. Sometimes when
I see her, I am in the balcony of an empty auditorium, the
sole partaker of her grace. Other times I am watching
television when static fills the screen, and suddenly,
there she is, torturing me, burning me, making me writhe
with longing for her. And once (the first time) I saw her
in the street...
I do not know who she is.
I was on the sidewalk. It was a long, wide, deserted
street with industrial buildings lining both sides. It
was around two in the morning, and the late night/early
morning chill sucked the warmth out of each of the cells
in my body. The one lamp post shone light on the street,
slanting it through the ethereal mist. I could see street
vagrants, dirty people wrapped in blankets, lining the
sidewalks, sleeping with their backs against the cold red
brick or thick concrete mortar walls. Broken window panes
glint with wide, gaping mouths in the cold.
She was in the middle of the street. Dancing. She had
no clothes on.
I could hear no music, but she kept time perfectly, with
as much precision as if she were a robot, or as if she had
a metronome built into her head. The smooth liquidity of
her motions made my head spin, but the bums did not seem
to notice. I cannot convey the chill I felt in my bones,
yet she seemed to take absolutely no notice of the cold.
She twirled, spun, and lept in the middle of the street
for an eternity before I moved.
I walked forward, plodding, so unnerved, I was shaking
uncontrollably. I had not one single thought in my brain.
She suffused all my thoughts and actions. I was not me.
But still I moved on, controlled, compelled by her body
and the soft sounds made by her feet on the pavement and
her sharp intakes of breath.
She stopped suddenly, coming out of a spin with her arms
spread out like wings, her long hair splayed out in all
directions, stopping to face me. I can see her as in a
picture, her body, silhouetted by the light and mist, the
building behind her out of focus. Her expression was not
one of surprise, as if I had frightened her, or startled
her, but as if she were inviting a guest into her house.
She was not smiling, but she looked overjoyed to see me.
"I can see it all, now," she had said, breathing heavily
from the exercise. "Now I understand everything."
She extended her hand. I numbly took it, and her warmth
flowed into my hand, and up my arm...
****
All I know is that she dances beautifully, that she
warms me when I am cold. She shocks me when I am blas^Fe;
she tortures me when I am comfortable. She feeds me when
I am hungry. And she weakens me when I am strong.
I have looked for her, in school, among my friends who are
female. I have looked for her in ^SCosmopolitan^S, ^SElle^S,
^STeen^S, and ^SPlayboy^S. I have searched for her exhaustively
on the television.
But she does not come to me when I need her. She comes to
me when I am weak, vulnerable, unable to fight against her
attraction, her dominance. She comes to me when she knows
I cannot resist... when I am asleep.
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