The Sex Squad by David Leddick

Author:David Leddick
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: White Lake Press

Harry Thinks About Antony Tudor

There was something reptilian about Antony Tudor. Snake-like. He was one of those people you can’t care about. No matter what terrible thing you might hear had happened to them, you wouldn’t care. He was very unlikable. He probably wanted it that way. He didn’t like me.

Our paths never crossed except in partnering class. He taught regular class once a day, but I never took his class. I only took Miss Craske’s. He had a kind of movement style that I really didn’t want to develop: a really erect spine with the legs under it, going this way and that. All on one plane. No leaping or turning. Something like someone balancing a broom on the tip of their finger. You know how that goes? The broom swaying slightly and the person under it lunging in all directions to keep it upright. That was sort of the way he put dance steps together.

In partnering class, he taught the classics: White Swan, Black Swan, Nutcracker, sometimes something from his Lilac Garden. Only the last had some of that skidding backwards and forwards.

I took one regular class from him and I didn’t like it. He had an annoying trick of placing his hand between a boy’s legs and demanding that they hold it there with the strength of the inner thigh muscles. Of course, the boys who were sucking up to him, trying to get into the company or thinking he could get better parts for them, smirked and flirted. I just stared him in the eye when he tried it with me and clamped down real hard so he had a hell of a time getting his little pink hand out. He even seemed a little embarrassed, which was unheard of in his case.

He was bald with fringe in the back, rather like Mr. Bing, the director of the opera. They both had a kind of bald-eagle shape to their heads, their noses a bit beaklike. Mr. Bing had a kinder and more open look in his eyes, which were dark. Antony Tudor’s were blue and hooded, like a snake, with the same dead, cobra gaze. He always seemed slightly drugged. Maybe he was.

Whenever I took his partnering class, he always affected that he couldn’t remember my name, although he knew everyone else’s. One day my partner Irene and I were doing that lifting part where the White Swan pas de deux starts and he wanted to correct something. “You,” he said, “Umm, umm, umm …”

“Harry,” I said, spelling it out across the chest of my T-shirt with my finger: “H-A-R-R-Y. Not such a hard name to remember.”

He blushed and said, “I’m sorry.” But he never called me by name after that, either.

It wasn’t a problem, really. We rarely saw each other, and I’m sure I never occupied his thoughts. One night, as I was coming into the theater, he was at the stage door, beautifully dressed, to accompany someone to the performance, I guess. He was wearing a navy blue suit and the vest was double-breasted with little curving lapels.

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