ransvestia

The dance called the twist, and rock and roll had run its course, and now, couples do "touch" dancing the fox trot, waltz, rhumba, and big bands were coming back into fashion. What other dance team worked out there? I felt that it was the right time, with the right idea; how could I lose? And I was good. Everyone who saw me knew that I was good. If I heard a tap dancer doing his routine I could duplicate it, and then I could embellish it. I had ideas which I could express and dramatize in time to music.

That is why my sister, Janet, and I practiced in the old hall with the mirrors lining it, and the junky straight-backed chairs standing about. We had a record player. I would start the record going, and Janet and I went over the steps and patterns that I had developed, doing them time and time again, trying to refine our gestures, adding to the lines of our bodies, striving for a harmonious whole. I drove the two of us, hour after hour, altering this, suggesting that; and as I look back, I wonder how much of this was an effort to reduce the fattiness of my hips; they were rounded, not the lean-hipped slimness that I yearned for.

Alas, my physical body did not meet the ideal of a saturine dancer which was in my mind's eye. I was small-boned, short, and slender, but my figure did not have the muscular ruggedness that many men have. My flesh was soft and curved, much to my irritation, despite the weights that I lifted, and the calisthenics that I did. I would do a lift with Janet, or a twirl, or whatever, and I could feel my muscles strain, and sometimes crack. Often fatigue would roll over me, and we would stop for a short breather. It was almost too much for me, but my deter- mination drove me on.

Poor Janet she danced as my partner because of her affection for me, her loyalty to our family, since both of our parents were dead, and her wish to help me succeed. Her heart was not in it, not in the way that mine was, but I was not sensitive enough to this. A small, pert girl, with long dark hair, she sometimes drooped with fatigue and discouragement, especially after a period when I had drilled her on one step, time and time again.

She wore a leotard and tights that final day, and I wore a sweat suit. Her straight hair was bound back by a leather thong; my hair was long, too, as I hadn't decided how I wanted it shaped, and it hung down to my shoulders.