Strip by Andrew Binks Read Free Book Online

himself—shirt first; how many times he washed his hands—frequently; when he washed his hands—always after touching me. What did he think of me, and the way I piled my clothes on the chair, and how my bed-head looked, and how my breath smelled and how the sheets had creased my face? Did he notice?
    We rushed out the door, Daniel looking far more together than I felt.
    â€œWelcome to your first day as an independent person, not following the pack.”
    â€œIt feels strange.”
    â€œGood I hope.”
    â€œGood.” But I felt like the prodigal son, again.
    Â 
    Back at the beginning of my big dreams, I had this groovy little dance bag I’d bought at Army & Navy. After a year of dancing, disguised as swim practice, it all came out. I was between swim practice and dance class, and I had come home to wolf down my dinner. I tossed the bag by the front door and, as bags do, it fell open. Dad came home a few mouthfuls into my meatloaf. After the called Hi and the requisite, Do you want a drink? he walked into the living room with the bag, threw it on the floor, where the contents spilled—the shoes, tights, leg warmers, the layers of ripped t -shirts and sweat socks and the dance belt. “What are these?” he asked. “Something for Halloween?”
    Ballet slippers . For my father, I imagine this was something that only happened to other people’s children, in other cities. This was something you only heard about and never, ever dreaded because it seemed so far-fetched.
    â€œIt’s my dance stuff.” It lay on the living room floor, deflated, dirty too.
    â€œDance stuff? What kind of dance stuff?”
    â€œShoes.” ( Ballet slippers caught in my throat.) “Slippers.”
    â€œSlippers. What the Christ?” he said. Well, wouldn’t it have been an education to see me sew the elastics on them, and carefully sew exactly where the shoe folds down? You can’t sew the elastic just anywhere, and if you want two elastics to hug the slipper to your foot, then you’ve got a little geometry to do.
    â€œWhat’s this?” he asked in a confident monotone, as if the battle had been won and he was simply making a point. “A bathing suit or some queer kind of jockstrap?”
    â€œIt’s a dance belt.”
    â€œA what?”
    I wanted so badly to tell it like this: tighter than a Speedo and smaller than one. It cuts up your ass-crack. You pull it on, then grab your nuts and dick and pull up. The old ladies in the audiences watching The Nutcracker for the umpteenth time say why do they have to have those horrid bulges? It’s anatomy, honey. Arms, legs, boobs and cocks. They’ve been around for a while. So your nuts are crammed into these things because between your entrechat and anything else that slams your thighs together at the speed of light, if your nuts aren’t out of the way, you could end up seeing stars. The only hazard when the equipment is out there is turning to your Swan or Princess or Sultana and in the midst of careless fouetté or pirouette having her knee whack your nuts. The pain. The numbing, bent-over-crippling, dizzying pain. It happens to all of us at least once.
    â€œWhat else? A goddamn tutu?”
    â€œA t -shirt.” Something loose and rag-like, showing tendon. Muscle. Line. That’s the dance bag. Maybe a skanky towel for the shower. “It’s ballet dance stuff. Tights, too, for men. Black, is that okay? Male dancers wear them.”
    â€œPart of your school work?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd what about swimming?”
    â€œI still swim.”
    â€œIn your tights?”
    â€œIn my Speedo.”
    â€œHow long has this been going on?”
    â€œAbout a year.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThe studio—the one near your office. Madame…”
    â€œDéfilé?”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œShe’s been there for years. She came in for