The Dancers

Raising a son as a single dad was tough. Raising a gay son who loved dance, as someone who knew nothing about that world, was even tougher.

But I was lucky in that he was kind, empathetic, and helped me help him. And before I knew it, he was attending a program from young contemporary dancers in our city. Contemporary dance, it turns out, is sort of like ballet, but...weirder? They hug their knees a lot and the "music" doesn't seem to have melody...or rhythm...most of the time. But he seems great at it, and he loves it, and it means that he's still around most of the time at an age when most parents don't get to see their kids any more.

Oh, yeah, and his classmates are 90% lithe, beautiful girls, generally around 19 years old.

Girls with nearly 0% body fat, incredibly flexible, and who come over to hang out with him still wearing their skintight leotards. Girls whose professional success depends on being beautiful.

Girls who never just sit on a couch, but are constantly stretching. Stretching with arms raised over their heads, exposing lean necks and pulling pert breasts up. Stretching with legs in a full split and leaning forward and back, wiggling their hips, making inviting Vs with their long legs.

Girls who, by and large, seem to constantly be looking for validation about themselves, and a lot of them with daddy issues.

Girls who love my son, and wish there was a more masculine, straight version of him.

This...this should be fun.