Balletomane ladies, don’t tell me you’ve never fallen for one of those ballet princes. Come on, I’ve just seen a 14-page forum comparing their charms, and look at all the tweets about the in every way gorgeous Marcelo Gomes. (And my friends’ reactions on hearing that he ‘Follows’ me on Twitter – don’t worry girls, the sweetie probably just mistook my MEN DANCING novel for a technique book).
Perhaps I’ll start the ball rolling by admitting to having checked into Acostaholics Anonymous. Well, the next best thing: I wrote a novel about a woman’s obsession with a ballet dancer – a guy who’s probably a mixture between Carlos Acosta, Rudolf Nureyev and my charismatic salsa teacher. It helped. I got over it. But then I’ve also been busy with research on flamenco artists for my second novel…
Anyway, here’s an excerpt from MEN DANCING, when my (sorry, ‘the’) character is very much at the beginning of her journey to recovery…
He made his entrance to the usual burst of applause: all handsome Russian prince and swirling overcoat, looking mightily pleased with himself. And then he came towards us with that male ballet dancer walk that’s always both courtly elegance and potent, crotch-displaying swagger. He took his seat: legs politely arranged – unlike in the train – but at an angle that drew my eye up from the gracefully arched feet to the shapely calves, to those sculpted thighs, to the irresistibly slim, belted waist and then, uncontrollably, back down to the mystery of that bulge, where on occasion – and this was one of them – one could pick out a provocative bit of outline behind the padding.
There was a nudge from Emma, pulling a box of Maltesers from her bag; cruel, but then it was my fault for not telling her about what had happened.
The prince’s mother arrived and was doing ring-on-finger mime about how he had to choose a bride. But he wasn’t ready to marry, and nor was the spoilt ballet prince inside of course – but at least his mother had managed to instil a sense of family. He didn’t want to miss playing baseball with his kids while flying around the world performing, he’d said in an interview, so he’d wait until he retired and then go back to Cuba and have them. Around the time I’d be contemplating the menopause.
Then the prince beamed as he prepared for his solo, defying the mothers’ plans, living for the moment, the party guests dispersing to give him centre stage. There was the pure joy of his elegant side steps to the sweeping music of the waltz, the effortless jumps and turns, the ecstatic extension of his legs in flight… then a moment where his powerful but seemingly weightless limbs lifted into a statue – perfection right to the twist of his wrist and sensitive hands. A ravishing fusion of athleticism and art, of virility and gentleness.
