How would I ever convince you we were worth the risk?
I spent the rest of the weekend reading and re-reading your weird journal. I’ve got to be honest with you, Henri, it was kind of crazy the level of detail you put into it. Like an obsessed stalker. All of my favorite foods were listed, along with those I hated. I’d never realized what a picky eater I was until you listed out my preferences. You’d made notes on my vices as well—I drank too much caffeine and didn’t get enough sleep. I needed more whole grains and fewer processed foods in my diet. You made lists of supplies—massage oils, candles, Band-Aids, vitamins—along with very specific instructions on procuring a leather belt. You listed my injuries, both those from ballet and the ones you gave me, along with the progress of how they were healing. There was also an extremely graphic description of my bathing suit, which read like pornography.
And that didn’t even include your entries on how I liked to be “handled.”
The journal on its own wasn’t so disturbing, but that you used it to communicate with Xavier… I mean, weren’t some things supposed to stay between us? But then I considered we’d been using Xavier’s body to facilitate our relationship, so I guess it all evened out in the end.
That last entry, though. You really didn’t hold back, did you? Your level of insight made me think you were there spying on me the whole time. At any point you could have stepped in and stopped it, but you hadn’t. Because you believed I was better off without you. And then I felt pretty shitty about you having to witness all of it. I decided to break things off with Sergei. He’d gotten a few weeks of solid blowjobs. Bruno and I had both landed good parts in our upcoming production ofLa Bayadère. I’d been cast as the Golden Idol. Sergei couldn’t expect me to be his whore for life in exchange for one good solo.
The next time he approached me about coming over to his apartment, I made up an excuse about having a conflict. Then I wasn’t feeling well. Then I had to do something with my mother.
“So busy,” Sergei remarked after my third refusal. “I’m getting the impression that you no longer wish to see me.”
We were in his office, a place I’d gotten way too familiar with lately. He’d once tried to get me to blow him right there in his leather chair, but I’d talked my way out of it. Just barely.
“Yeah, I think it’s time we end it, don’t you? Before it becomes a scandal?” Too late for that.
“I’d like to keep seeing you,” Sergei said, completely ignoring me. “Maybe you could even spend the night sometime. I want to return your favors.”
I stared at him. What more did he want from me? I wasn’t his boyfriend. I wasn’t even his friend-with-benefits.
“We don’t have that kind of relationship,” I told him, point-blank.
“But we could.”
I shook my head slowly. “Sergei, I’m not trying to be your boyfriend. This is a pretty straightforward thing we have going here. Blowjobs for solos.”
His eyebrows drew together in a wounded expression. “Sometimes I think you say things with the intention of hurting me.”
This man was a manipulator, I reminded myself, but I still felt bad.
“All I’m saying is we don’t need to complicate things.”
“I want to complicate things,” he said and drew his hand down my shoulder. I could handle his dick in my mouth, but I couldn’t stand him touching me like that.
“Well, I don’t,” I said and pulled away.
We were at a standoff, so I made an excuse about needing to be somewhere else and left. I didn’t plan on continuing the conversation or seeing him again, but then he sat me down a few days later and threatened to remove me from the company.
“You can’t do that,” I told him directly. “I’ll go to the board with a sexual harassment complaint.”
Sergei studied me, likely working out whether or not I was bluffing. I might have been, but I’d considered making a complaint before, if it came to it. He backed off then, but I didn’t get the impression he’d given up.
Then the bastard started picking on Bruno during rehearsals, similar to the way he used to hassle me. Bruno, hot-tempered as he was, didn’t take it very well and blew up at him more than once. I could easily see where it was headed, particularly when Sergei openly threatened Bruno’s apprenticeship, then looked directly at me. His message was clear. If Bruno lost his apprenticeship, he’d have to go back to Brazil, and there was no telling if he’d get another shot at a company position, here or anywhere else. The dance community was small, and a bad word from someone like Sergei could ruin Bruno’s career.
That afternoon I went to Sergei and told him we could continue our arrangement if he made both Bruno and me company members, because damn if I wasn’t going to get something out of this fucked-up situation. And that’s when the trouble really began.
I soon discoveredthe real reason for safe words. Thankfully I only had to endure Sergei’s brand of sadomasochism one day a week for three hours. That was the deal we struck, and I made sure we kept to the schedule.
Not unlike his methods in ballet, I think Sergei sought to break me down in order to reshape me into his version of who he thought I should be. Maybe he would have been successful if you hadn’t gotten to me first. But you’d understood me better than anyone else ever would. With you, I knew you were doing it for my pleasure. Sergei was only doing it for himself.
One day he expressed his frustrations by telling me I fucked like a corpse—probably because I was disassociating from the experience altogether. Like with Roger, I just froze up and waited for it to be over.
He was reclined on the bed and smoking a cigarette while I dressed, having just been uncuffed from the metal headboard. Sergei’s torture shed always gave me the willies. It was a squat cinderblock building behind his house, and it contained a bed, a drainage hole in the center of the room, an industrial-sized sink, and an apparatus Sergei referred to as “the rack.” It was hobbled together with old wooden pallets and resembled a set of widely spaced monkey bars. There was also a stainless-steel table covered with a cloth and lined with Sergei’s instruments. The room looked like a place where the mafia interrogated moles. I always dreaded coming and couldn’t wait to leave.
“That’s because I don’t like it,” I told him honestly. I thought it was obvious. It should have been apparent in the frequency I got off, which was not very often. I think some part of Sergei thought I’d come around.
“You want something more affectionate?” he asked, perplexed. It was crazy that he’d waited so long to ask me. Maybe it was my fault for not being more open, or for agreeing to this arrangement in the first place when I knew I didn’t want it. I seriously didn’t think Sergei could be gentle if he tried. Not with me, at least.
