From: Marcus Andrews
Sent: Sunday, January 6, 2013 9:32 AM
To: Dane CarmichaelSubject: Re: Re: Re: Spoiled dancer
Thank you for writing me with your concern. We can revisit this issue in more detail, but I do not want you to worry for one unnecessary moment that your feelings could ever be incorrect.
Do I welcome your passion and your light? You bet that sweet, sweet ass of yours I do.
Dance well, boy.
From: Dane Carmichael
Sent: Sunday, January 6, 2013 9:33 AM
To: Marcus Andrews
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Spoiled dancer
Thank You, Master. Your message has eased my mind.
Scoring a single ticket to an off-Broadway matinee on a frigid January afternoon isn’t difficult, especially when the seat I want is far from the stage. Safe in the dark recesses of the theater, I find my hidden vantage point from which I can freely ogle my boy without jeopardizing his concentration.
The Playbill is a veritable scavenger hunt with tidbits about Dane hidden throughout. I savor the journey, thumbing through the pages one at a time, sifting through the endless ads and the schedule of upcoming shows until, finally, I reach tonight’s program. Scouring the cast listing, I identify Dane’s role and greedily tick off the musical numbers that include him. A deliberate trek through the cast bios takes me through the leads with their long lists of credentials and gratitude toward their families and Our Lord and Savior. I turn page after page, searching for the expressive brown eyes and soft layers of straight, dark hair. Will Dane’s head shot be serious or something lighter—?
And there he is.
At the bottom of page twenty-five, my heart takes an extra stutter as Dane’s radiant smile jumps right off the glossy paper. It’s a foolish sentiment—there’s no logical sequence of events that would allow it—but it feels as though Dane is smiling for me and me alone. I can’t look away from those eyes, and as I’m pinned in place by this intimate connection, I wonder how I’ll ever survive this odyssey without bursting.
The lights of St. Luke’s Theater flicker, sending last-minute patrons scurrying to their seats. The standard pre-theatre flutter is utterly eclipsed by the thrill that I’m about to see Dane in his element. The orchestra begins its overture; my eyes lift to the stage in the sweetest anticipation.
Everything is a blur of polyester as the cast performs a comical rendition of “Hot Stuff” that has the audience laughing from the first note. I’m levitating right out of my seat, searching for Dane like a greedy paparazzi looking for the money shot. He enters the scene with a disco flourish, dressed in tight tan slacks and a garish gold button-down, topped with a long furry vest. I don’t know how he can even walk—let alone dance—in the platform shoes.
I’m struck by a hot flash worthy of my menopausal female friends; the sudden rush of heat and uncontrollable perspiration feel as though the spotlight has been trained directly on me instead of the performers. I feel ludicrously exposed; surely, everyone in the theater must surely see that I’m ablaze. Careful not to curl the edges, I fan myself with the program, drawing irritated looks from my neighbors on both sides.
Fuck you, people. You see that boy right there? He’s MINE! If you knew him as I know him, you’d be squirming and sweating and . . . hardening.
It’s a long hundred and twenty minutes before the house lights come up, and the audience jumps to its collective feet, wildly cheering as the first row of performers takes their curtain call. In the eyes of my fellow spectators, I’m an ass not to rise, but they’ve become used to my wildly inappropriate behavior by this point. The typical matinee theater-goer is apparently not prone to involuntary gasps, overly enthusiastic laughter, and—most embarrassingly—the occasional moan; yet here I sit in a sheen of sweat, heaving exhausted breaths along with the performers I can barely make out through the mass ovation.
Waves of fresh applause, whistles, and yells of “Bravo!” crash to the stage with increasing intensity with each hand-linked group taking a bow. I was done at line one—Dane plus a few others I never even noticed. Hell, were there other people on stage tonight? I’d have to consult my mangled program to answer that question, and yeah, I’m gonna need a new Playbill.
Not a problem, I’ve already decided, because I’m coming back for the eight o’clock show. As if there were any chance you wouldn’t.
I slip out of my row under cover of the tut-tutting patrons, my final faux-pas duly chastised. All that matters is that Dane hasn’t seen me, and I plan to keep it that way. I stop at the box office and nab a seat in Row M for later, far away enough to remain hidden, but close enough to take in some of the finer details I missed the first time around—Dane’s facial expressions, for starters.
Hopping into the first available cab, I send the driver well out of Times Square. I don’t know Dane’s routine well enough to risk staying close to the theater. In fact, I don’t know nearly enough about the boy. Here, in Dane’s world for the first time, it hits me: I don’t know where he lives or how he gets to work—though I do know he uses public transportation. I know a bit about his eating habits, but I don’t know how he takes his coffee or if he’s a tea drinker. I know he sometimes goes out with friends, but I don’t know who or where or what they like to do. Does he have a family? I don’t have a clue how he spends his free time. Does he read? Is he a Broadway junkie, spending his days off from his own show going to others? Does he play video games? Ugh, I can’t bear the pang of he’s-too-young-for-you that comes with that visual. Please, God, don’t let him play Halo.
Shake it off, Marcus. Focus on what you do know.
I know that every session seems to move us forward with leaps and bounds. Dane’s thick shroud of silence is beginning to lift. So eager is this boy to please me that I actually need to challenge him to take his own pleasure, to feel deserving of his own joy. His body is toned perfection, restrained power, vacuum-sealed energy. The boy awakens with me on his mind and admits to “feelings.” That’s enough for now. The rest will come in due time.
Time. A topic worthy of reflection with my beet salad and pinot. Eight days into our thirty-day trial period. Not to get ahead of myself here, but it seems as though we’re heading toward a more permanent arrangement. What that might be, frankly, scares me.
I’m the rare dom who has never offered a collar. I’ve endured my friends’ teasing, calling me “old-fashioned”—sure, an old-fashioned kinky bastard who trains submissives for a living. I’ve wondered as they’ve wondered: Am I commitment-phobic? Am I destined to live out my life with an unending (God willing!) stream of submissives who matter to me in my dungeon but not beyond?
Could Dane be my first? Fuck, Marcus, now you’re a virgin?
“Sir, may I take your plate?”
“What? Oh, yeah . . . sorry.”
The waiter chuckles as I shift out of his way, careful to grasp the stem of my wine glass so he doesn’t bump it with my Tuna Provençal. The last thing I need is a big red wine stain on my gray slacks.
“Do you have everything you need, sir?”
I think I might.
The waiter smiles at his imbecile patron, bringing three things into clear view. First, the guy is drop-dead gorgeous; second, he is clearly flirting with me; and finally, I noticed neither of these details until just now. Damn good thing I won’t be called on to operate any heavy machinery today.
“I’m all set for now, thanks.”
“Okay, then. Enjoy.”
Mmm, I plan to.
Hmm, stalkerish? What do we think of Marcus spying on his boy? Can you blame him? Who wouldn't be in that theater every damn day?