Updated: Aug 22, 2021
I wanted to share with you some of the videos I used to help me write this. I don't know if there's interest. I'll also post some dance terms here. But if you don't want 'em, just head to the story.
Roberto Bolle Dancing -- now you'll see why I'm newly obsessed.
Pirouettes -- this also has some of the other terms used like relevé and passé
Breaking in Pointe shoes! -- I watched a couple of videos and combined them. Everyone does it different but this was the main video I followed.
Plié, plier. To bend.
Relevé, relever. to rise.
Tendu, etendre. To stretch.
Glissade, glisser. To glide.
Signor is Mister in Italian. (Verified with an Italian person)
Andiamo is "let's go." My nonna sometimes used it as "hurry up". lol
I loved all the dance stuff and I can't wait to write more of it. Now that we've met everyone, they can begin to intermingle. But I think there needs to be one more of Wyatt and Darius on their own. At least a scene or two. Or, well it's me so probably ten.
I have two different Silas pictures here. Not sure which one is more him. They both have some of the attributes I see in my head. Does the crowd lean one way or the other?
En Pointe Passion ~ Julius and Oliver Part 2/2
I pay dearly for what I put my foot through. When the Advil wears off, it hates me. “Fuck you, Advil.” I pour myself some vino. I usually don’t drink, especially when I’ve got to teach the next day but after that. That … I don’t even know what, I need a fucking drink.
I kissed a dancer. A fucking company member. And while he may be a member who is a grown man he’s still under my tutelage.
Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell don’t care about that shit because they met on the dance floor. They were vocal about the love stories that happen in their Company. They’re proud of them even. They’re not why I’m freaking out. I have my own rules about this kind of thing. And it’s not that I’m opposed to the idea, it’s that I didn’t think it through, I didn’t think period. I acted. On impulse.
The only time I let go at all is when I dance. And even then, I have a level of command and authority. This is bad. This can’t happen. And … I groan out loud. I gave him my brand fucking new pointe shoes. My nine-hundred-dollar pointe shoes I got Nonna to send me from Italy.
They were a guilty pleasure, especially with how quickly I go through pointe shoes—though it’s a lot less frequent now that I’m not performing. When I did it was a pair a week. But the Valencianas were collector. Aside from being designer, they come dyed black. This year I forked out the cash but I used to get given two pair when I was performing. One I’d sign and auction off for charity. One I’d keep to dance in and save as a memento of that year.
Normally, you need to do a fitting, but I’ve been buying these a long time. I know feet and I especially know my own feet. I’ve bought in every brand out there and I’ve gotten good at guessing what I’ll need. I’ve gotten good at making any necessary adjustments to suit my feet.
I also do this thing—a superstition really. I carry any new set of pointe shoes around in my bag with me to give them luck and so I can enjoy how pretty they are before I cut and smash the fuck out of them.
I scrub both hands over my face. My beautiful Valencianas.
I sip my wine and consider calling him—I have all their phone numbers—and asking for them back. I have other pairs, older pairs that would do for a few days. I immediately reject the idea. I’m a sentimental fuck when it comes down to it and my older shoes are more meaningful than a new set of Valencianas.
I toast to their loss. Drink my wine. Have a salt bath. Rub more Tiger Balm into my foot. Eat a nutritious meal of white fish, salad and rice and get to bed early.
Randall doesn’t show to class. It pisses me off. I know I have no right to be pissed off but I am. I know he was in today. I saw him in the hallway at lunch. He avoided me.
My foot isn’t awesome today, especially seeing as I had to teach my pointe class, but I stay after to stretch and move through some stuff for tomorrow. I get into my stretching which has become anger stretching. Who does Randall think he is? Skipping class after I gave him my fucking Valencianas.
I barely hear the throat clear. When I turn, he’s there. I burn all my rage at him, he’s burning equal amounts of rage toward me. “You said not to come to class without shoes, sir.” He pulls the shoes out of the bag. “I know what these are. I can’t accept them. I begged Shane to take me—”
“—who the fuck is Shane?” My jealous-anger surprises me. It’s not like Randall is mine, it just feels like he is. The shoes are now the least of my worries.
I expect him to cow like he has been, under my intense gaze—it’s roaring through me like a rolling boil—but he doesn’t. He gets that cocky, brat-smirk, like he’s channeling a whole other person, reminding me why I want nothing to do with him. “Shane is no one, just some guy I’m fucking.” He licks his lips, then he drops his bag and prances in on his perfect legs still in his dance tights.
If he was trying to make me more jealous, he’s succeeded. He moves to the center of the room, kicks off his shoes and presses the tops of his bare feet into the floor. He preps with a leg behind him and then he bounces into a series of fouettés. Of course, he’s the kind to do fouettés for fun. I watch, mesmerized for a few. He smiles his gorgeous, sunny smile at me, makes me his mark for spotting with his head so he can time perfect rotation. He looks to my crotch; his smile shifts to a smirk. He knows what his dancing does to me. The little asshole. I move to him and grab his arm to stop him. “You’re going to tear up your feet like that.”
He tilts his head. “What are you going to do about it?”
I yank him to my body and let my forehead fall to his. “Stop fucking, Shane.” It comes out unbidden just like everything else with him.
“No.” He slides away, continuing his dance but without anything feet-tearing, I notice.
“I take it he couldn’t bring you to get the shoes?” I squeeze my fists. I want to punch something.
“He wanted to, but he had to work late. He was on a break as it was.”
“Why is it you can’t drive or take the bus?” I continue to watch him, and it calms me.
“Because Silas says I can’t.” He hops, catches the air and floats to the next jump, bounding off the sprung floor.
“Who’s Silas?” I say, anger rising up. How many fuck partners does he have?
He laughs. “My older brother.”
“Oh.” I flush, embarrassed. I need to calm down. “You do everything your older brother says? Aren’t you an adult? What about your parents?”
“I am but you pick your battles with, Silas. That’s not one of them. My parents are dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Signor Randall.”
“S’okay. They’ve been gone a long time.”
But I understand that he’s not going to have shoes until Saturday which means he’s not going to return to class until then and I’m not going to be able to go that long without seeing him. I move over to the shoes while he dances around me and pull out the stuff I brought to class.
Half the fun of pointe shoes is smashing them to fuck.
I wanted my dancers to have this moment because I remember how much fun it was for me to do this to my first pair. With Randall, I relish in doing it for him. I watch his feet as he dances. I envision how we’ll condition them, make them more flexible and then I get to work shaping the shoes for his feet.
I squash the box and bang it against the ground until it sounds right. I bend the heel. I cut the shank out, by ripping the heel of the insole up, cutting with a Stanley knife, remove the nail and then super glue the material inside down again. I shave the bottom, cut the top bit of satin from the pointe away so he doesn’t slip. I bend the demi-pointe and then sew the ribbons and elastic where I know it will suit his foot best.
It takes me a good thirty minutes all the while, he dances and watches me work. “Come here,” I say when I’m done. He sits on the ground with me. “Give me your right foot.”
I slide his foot into one of my toe pads and then put the shoe on, lacing it up his ankle. Valencianas are over the top and lace up far past where they need to for aesthetic purposes. When he’s got them on, I admire his feet in them. Feet are not a fetish of mine, especially a dancer’s gnarly feet but feet in pointe shoes do something for me.
Especially his feet in pointe shoes.
I dump water on the heels, using my water bottle. “Stand,” I instruct. When he does, I lead him over to the barre. “Second position and press up.” I take a sharp inhale at the vision of him. I did a good job. The shoes fit him perfectly. I can see every muscle in his lean dancer’s legs through his tights and the black laces are snug and pretty up his calves, tying at the back of his knee.
“Go into fifth.”
He moves into the position placing his right foot in front of the left, still up on his toes. “Any pain?”
“Other than the pain of my entire body weight being on one fucking toe? No.”
“Good. You’ll get used to it. Now bring your feet together and squat down.”
He does. Because of the backward arched shape the pointe shoe gives his foot, there will be a good stretch down the fronts of his feet. “Now what?”
“Stay like that for four minutes.”
I laugh. “You’ll thank me later.”
He fumes at me, but he does it. He winces when we get to the halfway mark, whines some more, complains. I enjoy his torment a little. I don’t feel bad knowing he enjoys tormenting me just as much. When I give him the nod to come down, he sits back on his bum and collapses on the floor. I don’t let him rest. “You’re not done. You skipped my class,” I say, pulling him up. He lets me.
“In my defense, you said not to come without shoes.”
“You had shoes. Nine hundred and fifty dollar Valencianas. Now come on, take your punishment,” I tease, allowing a crooked smile to grace my lips.
His face falls. “I didn’t want to take your nice shoes and now you’ve destroyed them to fuck to fit my feet.”
“Actually, these will still fit me.”
His brow frowns. “How is that possible? Not only are you a lot bigger than I am, no two set of feet are exactly alike. And I thought you said my feet were too tight?”
The scowl I know of him returns. “Our feet are similar enough with the exception that mine are more flexible, even with my injury. But your feet can be conditioned, and they will be like mine. Better than.”
He nods, eyeing my injured foot. The one that had been burning but I’ve forgotten about it.
“Anyway, enough stalling. Up. I want at least an hour of barre work from you. You’re my lead. You can’t miss a day.”
I lead him through the work we did in class, performing the barre work with him so I can stretch too. He complains about his feet, I help him stretch them out—no I did not do this for the other dancers—but I push him to continue.
It’s getting late when I remember. “Won’t Shane be picking you up?”
He shakes his head. “Darius today. He’s always late if he even shows.”
“How many men are you with?” I guess I should expect him to have many. I don’t have to like it.
He laughs. “Darius is my other older brother.”
“How many brothers do you have?” He’s on the ground now, I begin untying the pointe shoes.
“Just the two.”