There was a guy in my dance class named Vincent. We got paired up together a lot because we were both so good with our bodies. G said men who danced in tights were all gay, but I thought he was wrong. Vincent had a strong body and nice eyes. He smiled a lot and I liked the way his hands felt when he held my waist or lifted me up in the air. Sometimes it seemed like we moved so good together it was almost like we were only one body.

For our dance midterm we were giving an evening performance on the school stage. I wanted G to come because I wanted him to be proud of what I had learned. But I should have known better. G had a front row seat, and waiting in the wings I could see him sitting there twirling his onyx ring.

The lights were shining on me and Vincent as we danced to Latino beats, then brought the tempo down easy with a few jazz routines. For the finale Vincent lifted me in the air and slid my body down against his until I reached the floor. We had been practicing this move for weeks and each time I slid down his front I felt his erection. At the end of the dance I put my leg up on his shoulder and bent my back until my head almost touched my ass. We stayed like this with our crotches touching as the audience clapped and the music faded. When I turned around to take my bow, G’s seat was empty.

I didn’t bother changing my clothes after the show. I just grabbed my bag and ran outside but there was no car waiting for me. No G, no Pacho, no ride home. I wanted to cry as I walked slowly back inside. I didn’t have any money to call a cab so I would have to change clothes and jump the turnstile to catch the downtown train to the G-Spot. This was the first time G had ever let me go home alone, and I knew it meant something bad.