Unravel

Some mature/sexual content. Read at your own discretion.

Your shaved head glistening with sweat, a foreign body among the whiteness. I want to know what your skin feels like against my fingertips. I want to rub your sweat onto my skin until I smell like you. I want you to grab me by the hair and push my head down, down, down. The cool sticky floor against my bare knees, sending shivers through my limp body. Goosebumps on my arms and shoulders. The taste of your come in my mouth. I want you to claim me, like you own the space around you. Can you feel me looking? I move slowly in the changing room. Try to make the minutes before class last longer. Pretend to be looking for something. A clean pair of socks. Stalling until everyone else is gone. I’m aware that you’re aware. Suddenly uncomfortable in my nakedness. Too exposed, too obvious. Is it safe to admire you from a distance. To think about you when I’m lying in bed at night, allow my mind and hands to wander. Re-creating the fluidity of your moves in the studio. The way the light plays on your dark skin. Something stirs within me when we dance. I can feel myself unravel. I come. Loose. Undone. Unguarded. The whites of your eyes and teeth gleaming in the half-darkness when we leave the building at night. I wait for you to catch up. I try to act casual, like I’m waiting for someone else. Skin and hair damp from the shower, shirt sticking to my back. Too nervous to make eye contact. Too nervous to say anything at all. Music pumping in my ears, too loud for comfort. The noise creating a wall between us. Pretend, pretend, pretense. I want to lick the sweat from your upper lip. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to move me to the point of crying. Your muscular arms resting on top of mine. The weight of your body restricting my breathing. Face buried in the sheets. Everything smells like you. Short, shallow breaths. Replace the dull pain with something else. Something tangible that I can touch, see and smell. Can I trust you? This otherness, this sense of being apart. Separate from everyone else. Do you ever doubt yourself? The way you navigate the world so effortlessly, like everything belongs to you. A proud young man. You’re nothing like me. Always the quiet gay kid, trapped in his anger and insecurities. It will destroy me. I watch as you’re paired with a petite brunette. Jealousy raging inside me. It hurts to be this close to you, not being able to touch. I can’t focus on my partner, my hands on her skinny waist. The tension is making me nauseous. I can’t stand to be in the same space, in the same room. The choreography tells the story of a man who destroys the only thing he loves. His love for her is unrequited, her heart belongs to someone else. But if he can’t have her, no one else will. I want your angry gaze to tear me apart, the way only a man can look at another. A look that says I’m ready to fight, I want to challenge you. I want you to hurt me, leave your mark on my body as a permanent reminder. The only language we speak is a physical one. Please, stop resisting. I parade around the changing room, making a spectacle of myself. Your stare burning imaginary holes in my naked skin. You cocky little shit. Stomach tight like a clenched fist, face flushed with want and anger. I love you, but I don’t know how to love myself. The first time I danced I cried from relief, because at that moment I knew. Why didn't exist then, only how.

　

Bodies

What do you need, she’ll ask. Repeatedly. What does Charlie need? Shrug. A short embarrassed laugh. It sounds more like a snort. He doesn’t know. Nails digging into palms. Leaving angry red marks, half-moon shapes glaring back at him. Same as before. Nothing’s changed. The room is too familiar, like a feeling stuck in his throat.

 

The anger is still there. It’s still there. Visible in every step and movement. Always present in his dancing. Mr. Suarez recognizes something in him. There’s comfort in his unspoken understanding. Never loses his patience, never raises his voice. He was an angry young man, too. The world is full of them. Dance it out, sweat out the pain like an exorcism. I see you. Your presence makes everything okay. It's never been said, but we both know.

 

You look so much like your father.

Doesn’t he? It’s just like seeing Simon at that age.

Bitch. You’re dead. He nods instead. Thanks, I guess.

 

Trying to accept. Learning to appreciate the beauty of his own body and everything that it’s capable of. Its surprising strength. It catches him off guard at times. An instrument of self-expression. Tracing the lines with his fingertips. Adult shapes, foreign and threatening. Hardness worn like armor. Something to protect him from their stares. I’m in control now. Never the object. Never again. Wanting it, craving attention at the same time. Who wouldn’t. He’s still so young. Everything is about stealing glances and private fantasies. About being seen, about having it all. Those straight boys and their bragging. They made it clear from day one. We’re not like you. So much easier to become one of the girls. Less risk of getting hurt. On bad days all he sees is the language of violence, crudely written on his skin, forever marked and singled out. Staring at his naked image in the mirror. Does his father know? This way, he’ll never leave.

 

I dance because I ran out of words.

Shedding Skin

Dance is like shedding skin. I am slowly getting to know myself, really becoming aware of my body for the first time. I enjoy pushing myself, I enjoy the repetitiveness, I even enjoy the pain that follows practice. I feel safe, I feel at home, I feel happy. I remember watching dancers on TV when I was younger, admiring their strength, their stamina, their sensuality. Wishing, wanting it so desperately, but too afraid to ask. It was out of the question, my parents would never pay for lessons. Boys don’t dance and the ones who do…well they’re different in the worst possible way. Girly, effeminate, soft, fruity, flaming, faggy, gay. Boys shouldn’t appreciate beauty, it’s better, so much safer to worship mud and dirt, to graze your elbows and knees, to only use your body for running and climbing. Bold, brash and confident. Don’t think before you act, just do it. Being a boy should be automatic like breathing, but I had to think about it. I had to create this other persona, this façade to hide behind. Neutral, somewhere safe in the middle. A little too nice, a little too quiet, but never obvious. If you can’t be aggressive, and God knows I tried, the second best thing is to become invisible, to cease being a person. And then you can start erasing your body. You’ll take up even less space. You’re no fun to mess with because you’re too weak to fight back. The only person who won’t leave you alone is dad, but he can’t hurt you any more because you’ve stopped feeling. You don’t feel sad, you don’t feel happy, you’re not even in the room while it’s happening. And then one day it stops. You’re safe, that’s what they keep telling you, over and over. You have to re-learn everything, replace your fucked-up dictionary, become a boy, a person again. But I am out of control, suddenly aggressive, so confused, who am I really? Am I turning into him? Everything is turmoil, pitch-black angry chaos. Acting out, they call it. Like a pat on the head. This is normal, this is recovery. A return to normalcy, yet I feel anything but normal. I’m fighting myself, fighting my body, I want out. Why is every attempt unsuccessful, what am I doing wrong? Do I want to live after all? I’m not used to feeling, now I’m feeling too much, I’m overwhelmed, please make it stop. There’s no progress, nothing visible to the eye, nothing tangible, I’m not getting well fast enough. I read somewhere that the mind chooses to forget, but the body always remembers. It’s a painful reminder. How can I learn to like myself, to accept my body and its history, the fact that I’m turning into a man? Can I get to know him, little by little? Can I write it out, can I talk about it? Is it safe to explore, to come out of hiding, can I dance now?

I don't think anyone can illustrate dance like Jakob Karr.