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It was a quiet life but she liked it. At thirty-nine Theodora often laughed at what she had thought being a dancer was like. What it was really like was hard work. Since she had been eight Ted’s life had been a daily round of practice, exercises to twist her body into shapes nature had never intended a little girl’s bones to go.
It was, she reflected, very like a nun’s life except that it required more rigid vows and a greater dedication. A nun had to give up screwing. A dancer … Ted had been a virgin till she was nearly twenty-eight, thanks to the still uninvented pill. Pregnancy for a dancer was not just a social embarrassment. It was The End. Nobody in the world of ballet cared who fucked whom but if a dancer wanted to Make It she had to devote her whole body, every erg of energy to just one thing. There was no room for fucking. There was even less room for overeating.
Thinking back about it all, Ted knew it had been a waste. All those wonderful years … When she had been fifteen and all her friends had been out in parked cars getting their stockings pulled down their thin legs she, Ted, had been bellying up to the practice bar, exercising, practicing, turning herself into some kind of machine that made old men in the twenty-five-dollar seats sigh. But in street clothes she had been unable to turn the head of any man of any age. They were interested in a girl with some meat on her bones-an ass to grab, some tits to nuzzle. She had often thought of what she could have done for a man if she had been willing to give up her career-all the interesting positions she could twist her slight body into. And she had always felt safe walking down dark streets at night, knowing her thin, almost nonexistent body was as muscular as a rattlesnake’s and just about as deadly should any male try something she didn’t want tried.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.