Measuring Up

How does a far from classy scouse lardarse wind up dating a ballet dancer?  It was one of those glorious unforeseeable things that ultimately didn’t work out but was huge fun while it lasted.

L is still one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in the flesh.  While I don’t have a real physical type, his was that lean, rangy, sinewy type for which I do have a soft spot.  Was he a good dancer?  Well he was no Carlos Acosta (Carlos Acosta… *sigh*).  He danced professionally, so yes he was very good indeed, but he was never a principal, so not quite that elite top tier where the general public would recognise his name.

He was curiously graceless when not dancing, slightly heavy-footed and more than a little shy.  He was in my area touring schools as part of a now-defunct arts program, and a teacher friend of mine asked whether I’d be willing to babysit him for a night: take him for dinner, show him some of the sights of Liverpool.  Being of a gregarious nature when the mood takes me I agreed and we spent a great evening of laughter and inconsequential chatter that turned into a heart to heart with surprising speed.

A thank you text from L the following morning quickly turned into a continuation of our conversation.  When he suggested he would spend the following weekend in Liverpool I readily agreed to meet up with him again.  I was working condensed hours at the time so was free to meet L at his hotel at lunchtime.  We spent a great tourist afternoon on the ferry, in and out of museums and galleries, admiring the architecture of the city and talking, always talking.  Conversation just flowed, and although I fancied L like mad I was quite easy because I didn’t imagine for one second he could possibly feel the same way.  He was, after all, a vision of physical perfection whereas I am… well, entirely not.

We had dinner in a Korean restaurant that was busy enough to have a buzz but not so rowdy we couldn’t talk, then walked down Bold Street in a not-quite-drunk golden glow.  I walked him through the city centre back to his hotel to make sure he could find his way, had one last drink in the bar and then made to leave before I missed my last train.

When L invited me to stay with him my surprise must’ve shown clearly, because he laughed and told me there was no issue if I didn’t want to, but the invitation was his entire intent in coming back for the weekend.  It wasn’t quite “I came across time for you, Sarah Connor”, but he was a lot more attractive to me than 1980s Michael Biehn, so I accepted with alacrity.

We stayed in the bar a little while longer, the tension building between us, then just as my nerves started to overcome my desire L leaned in for a kiss.  The lust was instant, and as I pushed my hands under his hoodie I could feel warm smooth skin and muscle that twitched under my touch.

Not wanting to get thrown out of the hotel for outraging public decency we found our way to the lifts, and as the door closed he pushed me against the wall, wrapped his hands in my hair and pulled my head back for a bruising kiss.  When the doors opened he looked completely unaffected whereas I looked like I’d just made my way through an army assault course – breathing hard, a hectic flush on my face, hair sticking out at odd angles.

When we got into the room I removed L’s hoodie and the tshirt he wore underneath.  His chest and arms were completely hairless, and he assured me he was entirely hairless from the neck down, because nobody wants to see hairs rudely poking out of a pair of tights or a leotard.

I’ve never been particularly bothered about a man’s height.  I know women who won’t consider a guy less than 6’ tall, but I’ve never been one of them.  Yes, I draw the line at an actual dwarf (more a question of logistics in fairness), but given I’m 5’8”ish I’ve spent plenty of time in the company of men my own height with no issues at all.

L undressed was far more imposing than L in jeans.  I hadn’t realised his height or his build until he was naked in front of me.  He had long, well defined arms and shoulders, nothing too muscled but a perfect anatomical study.

Normally in this situation I don’t believe it would be rude or in any way unexpected for me to study my partner’s penis in detail, but I found myself unable to tear my gaze from L’s thighs.  While his upper half was all lean long lines, his legs were the most highly muscled legs I’ve ever seen.  The skin was taut over them, and as he saw where my gaze was directed he started flexing different muscles in turn, rippling and moving as I watched, awed.

I was still fully dressed, having removed only my jacket in the distraction of watching L remove his jeans. Palms now sweaty, I was clutching my jacket in one hand and my handbag in the other, mesmerised by the show L was putting on for me.  As he walked towards me the movement and the bunching of his muscles was a beautiful thing to observe, and I was so lost in it that it startled me when he took hold of the jacket and bag and put them aside.

Once more I was struck by just how tall L was, as he leaned his head down to kiss me.  He led me to the bathroom and turned the shower on to warm up, then started to remove my clothes.  As he pulled my jumper over my head I suddenly came back to myself and felt highly embarrassed to have been caught so openly leering.  I blush very easily and very deeply, and I could feel the glow of a beet-red flush spread from my face to my neck and chest, but L just laughed and watched as I took off the rest of my clothes.

When we showered we lathered each other up well, but it was a remarkably innocent shower.  There was no concentrated groping, or sliding a finger into me, and as L crouched to soap my calves he refrained from pushing his face between my legs.  It struck me so much that I did the same, and although I soaped up his cock and his balls, as I leaned down to soap those wonderful legs I stopped myself running my tongue over his cock.

As L switched the shower off we wrapped ourselves in the fluffy hotel towels.  He sat on the edge of the bath and tugged me towards him, then carefully dried me off.  It’s still one of the sweetest moments I’ve ever had with a man, full of intimacy.  It’s also one of the most nerve-racking moments, all the deficiencies of my body exposed to his gaze under the bright bathroom lights, contrasting so powerfully with his own flawlessness.

That night L adored me.  There is no more appropriate way of putting it.  He adored me.  He stroked my face as he thrust into me, he kissed my shoulders as he took me from behind.  When I was on my back with my calves at his shoulders he took a maddeningly unhurried steady pace, withdrawing almost entirely before pushing fully back into me, watching as I grew increasingly desperate.  At one point he stopped moving completely as I came around him, clenching and pulsing against his cock.

As we recovered in each other’s arms he told me he knew every measurement of his body – he needed to for work, for costumes and positioning.  He started to tell me each one, from the width of each gorgeous calf to the length of his neck, from his hand span to the circumference of his flexed biceps.  Was he making them up?  I don’t know.  Sometimes I think I ought to message him and ask.  As lines go it was certainly a good one, and it did ensure I admired every bit of him in turn.

We spent the night dozing and having sex, and in the morning we decided to abandon any further plans in favour of a day spent in bed.  On Sunday I saw him off pleasantly sore and aching, with promises to visit him in the near future.

I had imagined his invitation to be more of a goodbye than it actually was, so I was a little surprised when he followed through and asked me for dates I could manage.  I found myself spending weekends on a south-bound train, or entertaining L in my home.  Even then the fact we were actually dating crept up on me gradually.

I had gone to stay with him for the weekend, and he’d taken me to a party hosted by friends of friends.  While I liked L’s friends that I’d met, I found the party to be more than a little pretentious and was struggling to make conversation.  Thankfully the bar we were in was noisy enough that a lack of conversation went unnoticed for a while.  L had his arm round my shoulder, his thumb stroking my neck as he tried to chat to a friend, when I found myself physically pushed to the side.  A gorgeously dressed but slightly frozen-faced beauty had literally shoved me to the side to stand next to L.  I could feel the laughter build as I looked at the expression of distaste on his face, but he politely moved to put his arm around me once more, and explained that we were a couple, before steering me away and into another group of people.

I’ve been asked numerous times whether I get jealous if my partners are flirty, do I suspect them of infidelity on the occasions I accept monogamy, and there is always a little disbelief when I say I don’t ever get jealous.  Sometimes I envy people their skills (I envy creative types almost as much as I am in awe of them), but if I can stand to know that my current inamorato is spending his days with his body pressed against beautiful lithe ballerinas and his evenings with people who would literally shove me aside to stand next to him without feeling a burning jealousy then I’m pretty sure I’m safe from the emotion.

Maybe I’m too cold for jealousy.  Maybe I’m lacking something emotionally.  Maybe it’s a sense of my own inadequacy that I don’t feel the entitlement that would occasion me to feel jealous.  Standing next to L it was tough not to feel inadequate.  When faced with such physical beauty who could possibly measure up?

We dated for months, but eventually L’s educational tour ended and he was back to dancing 6 nights a week.  We crept along for a while with promises to make time for each other, but I took a contract involving a huge amount of travel and before we knew it months had passed without us spending any time together. We parted friends, and he left me with a new appreciation of ballet and a penchant for muscled thighs.