Proud is the Dancer, Pride is the Dance

Danny had laughed when Herminio told him Calyx was famous. But then Herminio showed Danny pictures of international tours by a Cuban company—"ballet-folk innovators" is what he called them—and he saw for himself. His moody, deliberate lover almost unrecognizable in mambo sleeves and a beatific grin in articles from Spanish and German papers. The young man in the stills from ballet and modern productions in Canada and Brazil, Mexico and Italy, more closely resembled the Calyx Danny knew—brooding and terribly, terribly sexy. His Calyx, a cultural ambassador? Danny could scarcely convince Cal to have supper with his friends; he certainly couldn't get him to teach dance down at the Center. And now, evidently, he wasn't even persuasive enough for Calyx to agree to march in a small-city Pride parade with a bunch of queer kids and his—let's face it—boring, nerdy boyfriend.

"Ay, mi vida." Of all Cal's many endearments this one—my life—was Danny's favorite. Two arms reached around him in the patented Calyx full-body hug that was guaranteed to melt Danny right out of any funk. "I have disappointed you." Hands flowed up and down Danny's chest and belly, Calyx's callused fingers catching on his T-shirt.

Danny wasn't angry. He wasn't even disappointed. "I feel sad," he admitted. "Don't you miss dancing?"

"I'll dance with you," he purred in Danny's ear. "In the bed. Take your clothes off and dance with me." Even after almost a year together, the way he said 'clo-thes' with two distinct syllables made Danny's balls ache.

He forgot all about his questions about dancing, and the past, and their future.

And if Danny accidentally knocked the bags of feathers onto the floor in his haste to get to the bedroom, who could blame him?