Lil Cate Stories

The Desire for the Ballet Dancer (Daisy Fuller)

It's your first time dancing as a ballerina in front of such a huge crowd, and never before have people seemed so infatuated with your movements. Not just with every jump, and not just with every pirouette. Even the Daisy Fuller seemed pleased impressed with your performance today. Never have you been so proud.

Daisy is still in her costume of Odette. You like the way she looks in that white short dress. The tulle of her skirt seems to be part of a new forever metamorphosis. You have no idea how long you stand in the dressing room with the other dancers, just watching Daisy's so strangely special figure. Your breath catches as she begins to slowly pull down the silver zipper and the costume slides down over her narrow hips and over her skinny legs until it is like a little pile of garbage around her feet. Now the only thing covering her from being naked in front of all the different dancers from all over the world is a pale pink satin kimono and her white almost see-through lace underwear. You are always so in your costume of Odile as well as a black swan in real life. Maybe that's why Mrs. Dumont cast you as this. The reasons didn't really matter to you, what counts is that you have the chance to play such an important role and that you can dance with Daisy Fuller for the first time in your life.

For a brief moment, your eyes meet. You have always been fascinated by her beautiful light blue eyes. I wonder if she perceives you the same way, or more like an unremarkable and irrelevant part of the play or your little world. You have seen many beautiful women, of every age group, of every known sexual and romantic preference, married, single, extroverted, ambivert, extrovert, blonde, brunette, dark as a black dahlia, rich, poor, happy or of deep felt hatred towards yourself or towards the opposite sex with your eyes. Never before did anyone really arouse your interest. Then came Daisy. You both took the entrance exam for the Juilliard School in New York. Chloë, one of the other dancers, once said Daisy was from New Orleans and that she grew up in a nursing home with her old grandmother. That seems very strange to you to this day. You strongly doubt that it's the truth, but never would you dare ask her about it. That would be going too far.

You drop your clothes like Daisy and like every other person present in the room. You don't stand out. You hope to the bottom of your heart. You don't want anyone to know about your Sapphic tendencies. Not even the women, ladies and girls you have loved and adored since childhood.

Yesterday just before you left for rehearsals, you didn't seek a Yellow Cab, the subway, or a ride from a strange man like the other girls. You walked down the streets of Fifth Avenue covered with cold snow. All the stores you could catch sight of, which always piqued your curious interest, didn't quite fit your budget. You wanted to buy something nice for the party that some of your colleagues wanted to throw after the premiere of the play. Otherwise, you're not really the type to mingle much. But today you're making an exception because Daisy will be there, as Sarah one of her friends had told you. Maybe in a few years, when you've danced with Daisy all over the world in front of select members of the human race. For then you could more easily fulfill small costly needs that your heart could still desire. As you walked into an uncrowded alley, you saw a small fashion store. Curious, you go closer until you stand pressed directly against the small shop window. In it stood on fashion mannequins artistically staged dresses, suits, pants, skirts and tops. Directly something for every taste.
There was something about the store that the many stores you knew didn't have. Not here, and not in your native New Orleans. What also puzzled you was the lack of a clientele. It was just you and a very old saleswoman who you thought looked very creepy. After looking at many different clothes, you decided on a very masculine looking sequined black suit with a white lace blouse of fine satin. It looked like an outfit from your favorite actress Katharine Hepburn. In a small corner of the store, you rummaged through a large pile of various hats. You especially like a Bordeaux colored top hat. Maybe it was because it reminded you of the one worn by Marlene Dietrich in the movie "Morocco".
You fall into a minor shopping frenzy, although you are not even invited to the party.
The cashier smiled at you kindly after you paid for the stuff for a ridiculous price and she started packing it up for you. You would definitely impress Daisy with this outfit, maybe even more. At least that's what you hoped for. So far, it had never worked. Daisy seems like a goddess and a free spirit. Even when you had performed a play or two together at school. You were never friends. You look at the little ear on your wrist. You are late.
The press seems to have finally disappeared. Neither your eyes were not made for the many white bright photo flashes, nor your soul for the many forced conversations, interviews. But that seems to be an inevitable part of it.