Under the spotlight, he draws the eye. It’s impossible not to look at him, even with a stage full of people. His posture is erect—shoulders back, chest puffed out and thrust forward, arms drawn back in an arc that points to the floor. One pointed foot delineates an invisible line before him. The other is thrust sideways, toward the audience. I don’t know enough about dance to know how good Spencer is, but he commands attention. He has stage presence. When he flies across the boards on nimble, quick feet and propels himself into the air, every head turns to follow him.
It’s an impossible leap that seems to crawl to slow motion. His costume cape flies out behind, a geometric curve of velvet and embroidery, scarlet and glinting gold. When he lands, it’s with a light foot. Time moves normally again as he spins and turns to raise his arms menacingly to the hero. The cloak spirals with him, wrapping around his waist and exposing his lower half. I’ve never seen his parts so tightly bound before. The dance belt makes him seem almost sexless, a Ken doll of a figure with broad shoulders and a deep chest, a narrower waist, a perfectly round butt, and a genderless mound where his genitals should be.
I know better, though. I’ve seen the man naked, on his knees, with his generous helping of dick erect and swinging between his legs. I’ve been inside that boy more times that I can easily count, at this point. Over and over I’ve shot seed into him. I’ve told Spencer that every load makes him more and more mine, and he’s agreed with me in cries and grunts and whispered pleas.
An object flies from the heroine’s hands; it strikes my dancer in the head. The hero’s weapon finishes him off. Spencer falls onto the ground gracefully, his body a curlicue of anguish and death. To great applause, the company carries him into the wings.
I’m curiously proud of him for the performance. The pleasure it gives me to see the smiles on the faces nearby is like a furnace in my chest, glowing and bright. I haven’t had any part in the production, or in Spencer’s training, but somehow I still take personally the approbation, the applause, the murmured whispers of praise. You’ve picked really well, they seem to tell me, maybe.
His part is done, but I can still see him. Beyond the first tormentor that hides the wings from the audience, he’s struggling to remove the bulkier parts of his costume. The last-minute seat for the performance I purchased ended being close to the stage, but to the extreme left of the house. I have a straight view into the left stage wing that others in the audience don’t. He hands his sword to a waiting hand nearby. Two others help him struggle out of the tunic he’s been wearing.
For a moment, he’s shirtless. That muscled body I’ve been getting to know is exposed and naked beneath the wing lighting. I’m close enough to spot the trail of hair that leads down his abdomen and past his waistband. When he turns and bends for something on the floor, I get a glimpse of the very tops of his buttocks squeezing out of his tights. There’s almost too much bounty there to be accommodated. I can even see the corresponding line of light fur that leads to the hole I’ve spent so much time and effort making mine.
He’s beautiful. So beautiful. My lips part. I almost gasp.
Then he stands, turns, and pulls on a tight-fitting black T-shirt that hugs every curve and bulge. Arms crossed, he stands with legs stretching to either side, and a hand rubbing his mouth. He’s lost in thought as he watches the other dancers on the stage.
I’d forgotten there was any other performance than his.