Maintaining integrity as a podium dancer

Beads of globule sweat gather in a line, incrested on his furrowed brow. My eyes run down the line of his body.His pink toes resemble rolls of ham stuffed with dough. The hotter our bodies become the more his toes expand. Soon they will puff out so much his toe-nail will burst off. The fluid that seeps from his pores runs past his face and forms in a puddle between hairy breasts and the crest of his swollen stomach, overflowing in riverlets through the course black hair that sprouts profusely from all visible areas of his body except for his scalp.
His eye meets mine and I look away, embarrassed that he might mistake the intention of my stare. A third occupant of the public sauna scoops more water over the heated coals. Steam forces itself into the compact room and I have to leave. The temperature of the sauna combined with the heat of my embarrassment is overwhelming. As I stand to go the absurd little man speaks. “Where’d ya get such muscley legs?” He asks. My nostrils flare and my posture stiffens. “I’m a dancer.” I reply, lying. It’s been atleat twelve months since I’ve attended a class and two years since I’ve taught one. But who is he to know? “I’m a D.J.” Now he’s mocking me so I smile lamely and try, once again, to exit the sauna and haed for the preasure spa.He catches the heavy door behind me and follows me into the plummeting temperature.
The blimp seats himself uncomfortably close and snuggles up against the jet next to me. His cheesy grin is annoying me. “My club is looking for dancers.” He states.He can’t honestly believe that I am that gullible? This squat, hairy yet bald man is truelly a D.J. It occurs to me that the kind of club that might employ him would more than likely to be looking for dancers with generous chest measurements my donut sized

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