Act 2. Part 3. "... at long last, lust."

A Chapter by B MacGregor

I was eighteen when I was first touched.

Act 2. Part 3.

“… at long last… lust.”

Eighteen.

I was eighteen the first time I was, you know, “touched.” It seems like such a long time ago.

Let’s see… what was I doing with my life way back then?

Oh yeah, I just started my first year at thee most prestigious dance school in New York City. I guess it was the courage to do something different with my life that led me to New York.

I had the courage to do something I wanted to do, despite how everyone else told me it was nothing more than a hobby. Dancing was not something people actually studied.

It took a feat of strength to do something I wanted to do.

My hometown people eventually got it. They wanted me to grow my wings and fly. That’s the nice thing about a small town. They protect their own.

I was their little engine that could. Yeah, the little train struggling to climb a small hill.

I guess they pushed me.

The churches and school raised money for my dance scholarship. They staged bake sales, flea markets, talent drives, and walk-a-thons. Anything they could think of to get rid of me in the most encouraging way possible.

Regardless of the money raised by that cozy little town, I had to prove to the New York School of Dance that I had the ability and talent to succeed. I’m not so certain the academic recruiters were convinced I could keep up. They thought my small town courage was unstable.

I worked. I danced. I didn’t tire. I didn’t complain. I kept up. I shoved their mediocre expectations down their throat, and one by one they accepted me at the New York School of Dance.

And… I loved every single minute of it.

I learned so much in the first year of instruction. I learned how to appreciate my inner voices, my spirit. I learned how to explore my passion. The whole learning thing made me want to explore what the world has to offer.

Learning taught me to be fearless.

The School of Dance taught me an “I can’t wait to meet you” attitude.

It was priceless.

My favorite instructor at the academy taught primitive and tribal dances.

The students and I secretly called the instructor Prime. It was an inside joke. Prime, like a primary number, one not to be divided evenly.

Prime was strong. One instructor never ever to be underestimated.

Prime waltzed across the floor with the assistance of a bamboo cane, no longer dancing due to a poorly timed car accident. A taxi cab to the leg left a permanent scar, below a twisted knee cap.

Prime kept perfect time, counting it precisely like an accountant, and measured it with the incessant rapping of a bamboo cane. The beat to the music was amplified by the cane, like a nurse can feel the beat of a heart, the pulse right below the skin. That’s how Prime knew I was broken, and what needed to be fixed.

I enjoyed dancing for Prime and Prime enjoyed me, relishing the way I threw my body into another realm. I let myself become possessed by wave after wave of culture and enthusiasm.

It was heroic.

I danced heroically.

Prime taught me to worship my primitive nature and release my sensual essence. They educated me on how to let go and how to take control of my eighteen year-old body.

I value those lessons. I value the mentoring. It was a gift, and I honored it.

I admit to stumbling at first, Prime offered me private lessons when nobody was looking. We developed a bond on one level or another. Maybe it was because I was a good listener, a perfect student. I was a sponge ready to absorb any element of knowledge or drop of wisdom. I desperately wanted to learn.

The more I wanted an education, the more Prime responded. An instructor needs to be stroked and encouraged. All educators want their pupils to succeed. A good teacher sees each student as a tiny seed ready to stretch its roots. However I wasn’t a dainty flower, not in those days. I was more like a weed, aggressive and tenacious.

My instructor saw something in me capable of redefining art and sensuality. I had a quality that broke the traditional expectations of interpretation. I was unexpected, primitive.

I could break definition. It’s a very powerful thing to be able to entice people to accept a new definition. Powerful indeed.

My teacher saw an ability in me. Something rarely seen in other students. My enthusiasm surprised my instructor. Yeah, I know it did.

MOXY.

Prime called it Moxy. I’ve never met someone who reduced a heavenly quality, a god-like miracle, like definition, to a thrust of a hip and delicate upturn of a finger. She noticed my unwilling perseverance to dance. I was primitive without a tribe.

I enjoyed primitive dance. It's full of spasm-like motions. Even though all societies are unique, every single tribe shares similar properties when they dance. Most of which involve a controlled turning motion of some kind, and flapping the wrists in the air. Stomping the ground, that’s another common step. And last, but not least… a dominant push of the hips.

Prime told me the secret to mastering any dance. I’m going to share it with you. But don’t tell anyone… ok? We’ll keep it our little secret.

Think of dancing as the beautiful composite of two people falling in love.

My instructor told me to consider my first euphoria. Dancing is sex, a finely tuned and choreographed step between two people.

As Prime coaxed and prodded me, I found the person inside me. I saw the reflection in the mirror. I saw the small town kid trying to awake a sleeping giant. I tried to discover an ounce of lust in my life, just one small drop of passion. One meager and desperate chance. I hoped. I prayed.

Then Prime touched me one day during a private lesson. With the touch, I discovered my lust, my passion.

"I like touching you Velvet. I hope you don't mind." I didn't.

It was The Dame. The Dame was Prime. Yeah, leave it to a woman to be a prime number.

The Dame taught me how to let lust overtake me, at just the right times in a relatively short life. Always at the perfect moment, the specific moment when I needed to know I was more than sexy.

When I needed to know I AM damn sexy!

Thank you for teaching me. I wish. Dame, I wish you were younger and fit to dance uninhibited. I’m sorry that I never saw you fully dance.

The school year ended. I moved onward and upward, another class and another instructor. Pity. I think I could learn more from Dame.

Goodbye Dame. Of all my suspects, you didn't cripple my heart. You certainly didn't cause the wealth of scars I carry. You weren't responsible for burning me. That's why I respect your touch... at long last.. lust.

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