The hardest part in ballet is balance. Lucky for me, I have the perfect training tool.
My sub.
Watch as I step onto his body, my hard pointe shoes digging into his flesh. He knows his purpose. He exists to support me. To suffer for me. To swallow every ounce of pain I deliver while I perfect my craft.
I don’t use a barre. I don’t use a wall. I use him.
His stomach, his chest, his ribs – all just floorboards beneath my feet. I jump. I land. The wooden tips of my pointe shoes crash into his soft tissue, and he takes it. He swallows it. He stays silent and still because his only job is to keep me balanced, keep me elevated, keep me perfect.
I barely notice him beneath me. He’s furniture. Equipment. A means to my flawless balance.
Think your body could handle my weight, or would you crumble beneath my pointe shoes?
