Tango
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Tango
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters
I came from a family of dancers, so of course I danced. In their day my
parents, David and Penny Cyprien, had been Ballroom and Latin Dance
Champions and continued to compete at a high level when we were growing
up. My mother taught dance. My father was involved in the
administration of dance competitions. My older brother Daniel and my
sister Beatrice had been junior champions and were near the top now that
she was out of High School. My aunt (my father's sister Jeanne) was
also heavily involved, and was my mother's family, but on the other side
of the country.
For myself, as the youngest I had rebelled slightly. I suppose that
because my brother and sister danced together, and my parents were dance
partners of course, I struck out alone for a while, but in dance. I
stepped away from ballroom and became involved in "interpretive dance"
with a local troupe. I was probably the most instinctive dancer in our
family, except for perhaps my mother. I loved her and everything that
she could do on the floor or the stage. It was the subtlety of her
movement that was so alluring. Nobody could do it like she could.
My limitation was in upper body strength. My father had it, and so do
my brother. It allowed them to do lifts and even throws. It is not
essential in ballroom, but it can be spectacular. In other forms of
dance that strength is also desirable for all male dancers. It is not
expected for female dancers.
So my style was heavily influenced by my mother. She encouraged me and
I think that it was well known that I was her favourite. Perhaps that
was why her death was such a tragedy for me. After a short but
horrifying battle with cervical cancer she was dead at 46 and I was
motherless at 18.
It was a sorrowful time for us all. My father was deeply depressed for
a while. My aunt Jeanne came to stay with us, and she encouraged all of
us to get up and get back dancing. In truth she was a poor dancer. Her
skills and her enthusiasm were for the costumes and the presentation of
the ladies dancing, but she was good enough to get my father motivated.
I came back into ballroom too, dancing with a girl Tilly, who my sister
had introduced. She was not a great dancer, but she was good in bed.
Many guys think of dancing as not a masculine activity, but it has
always been a great way to get the girls.
But when It came to practice I still worked with my family. We had a
dance studio in our home. Beatrice and I still lived there and Daniel
lived with his new wife only a block away. When there was only the four
of us, I would find myself dancing the female role with either my father
or my sister. I was light enough to present no problem, and I knew all
the moves. I even danced in heels when with my brother as he was much
taller than me. My feet were the same size as my sister.
And that is the reason why this whole thing happened to me. It was when
Beatrice got injured on the eve of a big competition. It was a serious
injury and she would be out for months. Daniel's wife was a dancer too,
but she was pregnant. All the family's hopes were pinned on Dan's
success in this contest. Tilly and I were really not in the running.
That is when Aunt Jeanne came up with her outrageous idea.
"You could be your brother's partner," she said. "You know all the
moves and you have that extra flourish that could be an advantage."
"Nice idea," I said, "but I don't think to men dancing together have a
chance of winning."
"Well, there's no rule against it," she said. "But that is not what I
was thinking. You would need to appear female, at least in front of the
judges. To keep it in the family you could be my daughter, come in to
cover for your cousin."
My father and brother laughed, and I almost joined them, but I could see
that Aunt Jeanne was serious. Dad and Dan stopped laughing and looked
at me.
"You do have your mother's legs," my father said.
It was true. I was not muscular like my brother. I always thought of
myself as having a dancer's body. I was slim but rounded. My limbs
were not angularly or sinewy. They were legs that any women would be
happy to have.
"You have a good head of hair," Dan snickered. He often teased me about
my longish hair and "man bun" I sometimes wore, where his hair was
short, more suited to his day job in accounting. I was still a student
and I could wear it as I liked.
"Just some padding and tucking needed, and some work on the face," said
my aunt, moving in for a closer inspection. "That wispy beard and
moustache will have to go, but beneath it I see a very attractive young
woman."
There was a moment of silence with everybody looking at me, before my
father asked: "Would you do it?" His look pleaded for a positive
response. To confirm it he added: "I think your mother would have been
thrilled to fill in for Bea, in these circumstances. You dance so much
like her."
If I had said no at this point, my life would so different now. I had
almost turned my back on my family to find my own life, and then my
mother had died and I was back. I was needed. There was love, and
there was guilt in that moment, but most of all there was the desire.
The desire to dance.
I shrugged my shoulders. "Okay," I said.
I think that most people, particularly men, do not understand how much
of femininity is in movement and gesture. I have always understood it
because of dance. As a dancer I understand what movements of the hand,
or the feet, or the body, are the signals of a woman, and what would
look ungainly and unfeminine in a man pretending to be a woman. I
already had a head start.
The other thing that was up to me was to speak with a female voice. It
was agreed by everybody that I would need to present myself as a woman
throughout a contest, and that meant learning to speak like a woman.
Fortunately there are resources available on the web for transgendered
people, and exercises that can be done to adjust resonance. I was able
to acquire the skill and be accepted as female over the phone, within a
fairly short time.
The rest was up to my aunt Jeanne - the physical transformation.
At the outset she said that I would need to adopt and hair and skin
regime to improve the quality of both, and that included taking pills
and adjusting my diet. I was only joking when I asked her whether the
pills were female hormones, so I was a little dismayed when she said
what they were.
"Not exactly female hormones," she said. "They are synthetic and mimic
hormones, but they are not them. They will do you no harm, I promise."
I accepted what she said and I did not push further as I should have.
In fact these synthetic compounds act exactly like hormones but are even
more powerful, and tend to stay in the system to continuing effect. But
I was not to learn that until later.
My aunt had decided what my measurements would be and she prepared a
body stocking to give me that shape. Then she had a number of outfits
that she had sketched out for the tournaments, some re-cycling but
modernising outfits that both my mother and my sister had worn, and
adjusting them to my size. This was the kind of thing that she was
really good at.
She had also sketched the hairstyles and makeup that she was proposing
for each outfit. For most of the hairstyles the hair would be worn up
or back, so it was necessary to use my own hair. Using a wig was hardly
an option even if the style was loose, as it could fly around, and with
the heat and movement of the dancefloor, keeping a wig on could be a
problem.
"And we will need to do some work on your face," said Aunt Jeanne. "The
eyebrows will have to be done and we will need to get rid of all traces
of facial hair."
This meant that when dressed as a male I would certainly appear
different. I might be able to conceal my brows under a cap, but Tilly
would certainly know. I had to bring her in the plan.
She was not at all happy. I think that she understood that she was not
good enough, and that with another partner I had more chance of winning,
but she did not want me to win disguised as a woman. "Who would know
that it was you who is winning?" she asked.
My simple reply was: "I would." Because winning is winning. Even
winning as Cherise instead of Chuck, I would still be the best. That is
what mattered.
Tilly told me later that the last time that we had sex, it was weird.
My body was hairless and she said that when she looked at me with my
smooth face, shaped eyebrows and long hair, she felt like a lesbian! It
was the last time.
The first dance was out of town, so Aunt Jeanne and my sister Bea had me
travel the whole way dressed as Cherise. I wore jeans and a simple top,
but both were tight fitting. They showed me how to apply light
'daytime' makeup. As a theatrical dancer I knew about makeup, but not
like this. Anyway, I thought that I looked entirely convincing as a
woman, and nobody disagreed.
When we got to the venue there was enough space and some screens, so two
costume changes were not a problem. There was an outfit for the Latin
dances with a red rose in my hair and smokey eyes, and one for classical
ballroom with curls added to my bun. My aunt had done well, and I felt
that I had the best costume on display that night.
My brother and I danced up a storm. We came second, but the opinion was
that the judges should have given us first. That was the only second
placing we got. After that we got firsts only. We both knew that we
had to put the effort in. He took time off work. I arranged to do my
studies on an extramural basis. We practiced extensively.
When I was not practising dance, I was practising being Cherise off the
dancefloor. Tilly had drifted away from me, without a formal breakup,
but my aunt and sister were there to help. I think that we all
understood that the best way to adopt a character is by immersion in
that character. That is how I came to spend more and more time living
as Cherise.
My aunt's "not-really-hormones" were starting have an effect too. There
was some softening of my body, but with no effect on my fitness or
flexibility. My penis rarely got hard, but that was useful as I needed
to tuck myself in public. And there was swelling in the chest which was
easier to ignore as a bra became a regular item of clothing.
It was unimportant because Dan and I were winning. We won the next two
competitions, clean sweeping all the dance styles, which is almost
unheard of. But then two things happened to upset the plan. Dan's wife
had the baby and that became his focus. And my sister Beatrice
recovered and was ready to dance again with Dan when he was ready. We
were two weeks from a major competition and I had no partner. We had to
withdraw.
Then I had the call that changed my life. Dario Alvarado was well known
dancer who not only competed, but did exhibition dances. It was well
known that he had fallen out with his dance partner of many years (Maria
somebody) and while they continued to dance together, it was awkward.
He was looking for a new partner and he wanted me.
Now, it is a very different thing to pretend to be female when you are
dancing with somebody who knows, but Dario had no idea that I was really
a man. I wanted to dance with him, as he was probably one of the best
ballroom dancers in the country, if not the best. But how could I tell
him that I was only pretending to be a woman? Or could I get away with
being Cherise and not telling him?
My family were all supportive. They wanted me to compete. They would
all be in the audience.
"You with Dario cannot lose," said my father. "You would be an
unbeatable combination."
So, I said yes. I called Dario back and told him to put our names down
as the new couple.
Dario really burnt his bridges on this. His ex-partner Maria was
furious, or pretended to be. I think she was relieved to be out of it,
but she wanted him to know that she would never dance with him again,
anywhere.
"Would you be able to help me with some exhibition dances as well?" he
asked me.
This was my dream come true. Exhibition dances means shows put on in
clubs or functions where expert dancers display their skills and get
paid for it. The best can demand high performance fees and Dario was
the best. It meant the prospect of being a professional dancer. What
could I say?
My only condition was that we needed to avoid becoming personally
involved. I did not want a working relationship being complicated by
any overtures from him, especially because I was a man, although he did
not know it, and a heterosexual man besides. He readily agreed. He
told me that he had learned his lesson from his most recent partner.
Keep it strictly professional.
But somehow I knew that things were different. When I danced the female
role with my father or my brother, the physical contact was about
closeness as a family. When Dario held me it was not like that.
His real skill was in the Latin dances, and in particular the tango and
the Argentinian tango. These are dances of passion, and he had bucket-
loads of that. I needed to reflect that passion with disdain, but also
add my own movements signalling the repressed desire for sex. When it
is danced properly the tango is the most titillating vision imaginable.
It should affect the audience, so how could it not affect the dancers?
For the competition (which we won easily) we followed a strict agreed
choreography. But the first demonstration we did, which was as guest
performers at a large private function, Dario said that we should push
ourselves a little. He had a signal with his right hand if I went too
far, but he never used it. I was all over him throughout the dance. I
was up and down his leg, I was pushing his head towards me, I was
turning away or pulling away, to flick my full skirt at him, before
twirling back into his arms. In tango we say that the man drives the
woman across the floor. The woman responds by accepting the movement,
but not yielding to him. She plays with him. She frustrates him. It
has the effect of increasing his passion. We were fantastic. The whole
room stood and applauded that dance.
But more importantly, at the end of it we sat down for our break, and I
felt as if I had just had the most incredible sex. I had not had an
erection for weeks, for reasons that I did not then understand, but I
felt as if I had just orgasmed at least 3 times. And I had been with a
man.
There was nothing gay about this. In interpretive dance we are always
seeking to "live the dance," to be absorbed by the character we are
playing. For me I had become the woman in the arms of a man. I had
responded as a woman and I had been sexually fulfilled. It was all a
fantasy of course, but it translated into a great performance.
But Dario looked at me after that dance and I knew something had changed
between us. Something that would change me forever. He did not say the
words, but he wanted to fuck me. I said nothing either, but he knew
that I wanted to be fucked by him.
I knew that I had to end the fantasy, and soon. I had to tell him who I
was. I was reluctant for two reasons. The first was that I worried
that our dance partnership might end just as we were fulfilling the
hopes we both had. But the second reason was harder to describe - I
suppose I did not want to disappoint him, or hurt him, by the
revelation.
There was an all night caf? near the venue and he suggested we go there.
I asked for decaf but he drank only espressos.
"I told you when we started all this, that I could not be involved with
you," I said.
"That was your plan, and mine," he began. "But it is clear to both of
us ..."
"Please stop right there Dario." I held up my hand. I could not help
but notice how feminine it looked - softened with twice daily hand cream
and with long painted nails. "I want to dance, but I cannot be involved
with you because I am not a woman."
It was said. It was as if I had pulled my penis out and slammed in on
the table, if it had been big enough to get out of my panties. His
expression was blank. Shock, I guess. We sat there looking at one
another, as if daring one another to blink first.
Then I felt a tear in my right eye. I have no idea where it came from.
Then it dripped hot onto my flushed cheek. It turned the potential for
anger in his face into sympathy.
"We can make this work," he said.
"So, we are still partners?" I reached out my hand so that he could
shake it to seal the deal. But he took it and kissed it.
"Partners," he echoed.
It was just as well, because we had another competition coming up. We
were great, and we won all of the dances. There was no trace of reserve
in Dario, although the tango was strictly to plan.
It was not until the next exhibition dance that the shooting box was re-
opened. And to make it worse it was well away from our home city, in a
resort on the coast.
The organiser had booked adjoining rooms for us at the hotel where we
were to perform. There was a live band so we had to be there in the
afternoon for a rehearsal. After we had done that, Dario ran through
the music while I went to have my hair done. I was without my entourage
so I had to book a salon. They were very good, but it was not as my
aunt would have done it. She loved hairspray. The style delivered was
loose curls held up with two clips and my Spanish comb on top.
It was not until we had already taken the floor that Dario warned me
that he had extended the tango. I should have been angry, but I knew
that he wanted us to give a performance that would please the audience,
and we knew what we were best at. I was up for it.
It was the last dance of the night, or supposed to be. It started as we
had rehearsed, and then close to the end, a single violin started
picking a rhythm. Dario started to push into me and I knew what to do.
The passion flowed. The loose curls danced around my head and into his
face as I whipped my head around. His eyes were fierce when I glanced
them. But I turned my head away as I teased him. In the final move I
ended up on the floor, holding his leg. The last minutes were
completely improvised, and they were perfect.
The house came down. The audience clapped their hands red.
They insisted on an encore. We had nothing, but Dario asked the band
whether they could do a particular number so we could dance a slow
rumba. It was not even in our repertoire for the night, but we knew
what to do. He held me and we danced. He oozed passion and his hips
and mine moved as if hungry for sex. As the last note played we were
standing on the dance floor face to face. He kissed me as the applause
rang around us. Somehow it was the right thing to do. It was part of
the performance ... surely it was? So why did it linger? Why were our
mouths open?
We broke to take a bow.
We mixed with the audience for a while afterwards, but Dario and I were
both keen to call it a night. And neither of us were tired. We kept
looking at one another across the room when we were separated.
He took my hand as we got into the lift. It seemed unbelievable that we
were behaving this way. We were two heterosexual men, although you
would not know I was. He kissed me at the door to my room and then we
both fell into it as the door opened.
I took the clips from my hair and my curls fell around my shoulders. It
was like gasoline on his fire, he seized me and kissed me, his hand
finding the zip at my back. My dress fell down, with the two gel
inserts holding up my tiny breasts escaping and lying on the floor like
dead fish.
"They not much," I apologised.
He bent down and licked my nipples. They suddenly stuck out like
bullets. I noticed that my breasts were in fact bigger than I thought
they were.
"They are perfect," he said.
"What's in my panties is a long way from perfect," I gasped as his
kisses played on my neck. "Perhaps I should keep them on?"
"I want to bring you to orgasm," he whispered. "Preferably before my
penis explodes."
I undid his belt and let his pants drop. I reached into his underpants
and held his stiffening penis. I had never dreamed that I would ever
hold another man's penis like this, but here I was, stroking it and
being thrilled by its reaction to me.
"I could blow you?" I said. I could hardly believe the words were
coming out of my mouth.
"No," he said. I want to look at your pretty face while we make love."
"I have never done this," I said. "Please don't hurt me." I knew that
I sounded pathetic, but I could see that he loved it. He kissed me
tenderly.
"Do you have lubrication?" he asked. My dressing table was nearby, and
I grabbed a tube of hand cream.
"I need to have a piss," I said. I rushed to my toilet and tore off the
gaff and tape before sitting down to piss, just like a girl should. I
was pleased to see that my embarrassing anatomy was largely undisturbed
by what was happening, and would be unlikely to get in the way.
I squirted the hand cream into my ass and around it. He was ready and
waiting, stark naked and fully erect. I lay on the bed and spread my
hair out across the pillow. He crawled between my smooth legs, and then
found a pillow to put under my bottom to better present my rosebud to
him.
Dario Alvarado entered me. With tenderness and love he pushed into me
and past the point of no return. Through the pain barrier and into the
true comfort to be had from having another person inside you, binding
you together as a single sexual being. His strokes were gentle. This
was love making and not fucking. I was not sure how my body would
respond. I just wanted him to be fulfilled. But as we reached a climax
I was first. The penis that had lain limply although enlarged, on my
belly, spewed clear liquid, at the very moment he cried out. Then I
felt the essence of him fill me. It was a perfect moment.
Somehow it felt so natural. What was totally unnatural seemed right.
We slept in one another's arms that night, with the sticky mix of two
semens and hand cream over our thighs and my sheets.
In the morning we woke together and just looked at one another in the
dappled light.
"So much for keeping it strictly professional," he said at last.
He looked at me lovingly. He was a good-looking man. I felt suddenly
filthy and inadequate. Despite the moment I felt a tear drip from my
eye onto the pillow.
"I'm sure you want a real woman," I said. "Not one like me."
"You are a real woman," he said. "Any deformities can be corrected.
You are the woman I want."
Deformities? Was he suggesting that I have sex change surgery? Was he
suggesting something permanent? Was this a true declaration of love? A
proposal?
If that is what it was, then I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it. Please
let it happen. Because there is nothing that I wanted more, than to be
with this man forever.
It was a year and only after I was fully healed, that we danced at our
own wedding, Dario and me. It was the Tango. It was the closest thing
to sex standing up that anybody had ever seen. Which is exactly how it
should be danced.
The End.
© Maryanne Peters 2018
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