lesbian heated rivalry wouldn’t be in hockey because there are already many out queer women in hockey due to the fact that hockey is viewed as a men’s sport. the whole reason hockey is captivating for mlm is because it is a toxically masculine sport and the idea of having out queer men in that sport is surprising (requiring them to stay closeted/have situationships/etc), whereas it is not nearly as surprising for queer women. therefore, lesbian heated rivalry would actually occur in a setting like ballet, gymnastics, or some other stereotypically feminine sport (that has toxic feminine standards) where queer women are not as visible. in this essay i will
this happened to me, by the way.
i was raised in the ballet; specifically the boston ballet. dancers are usually "jumpers" or "turners", i was solidly a jumper and a "good corps dancer". while i had some skill, i am "curvy", which genuinely is frowned upon in ballet. but i was short and technically-accurate enough to just keep-being-casted. I think I've been pretty much every character in the Nutcracker, minus the leads. I did sometimes land titled roles when dancing with smaller companies - including Sleeping Beauty, where i was the Evil Queen.
i got it over one of their permanent soloists. she was nice to me, even though she was a better dancer than i was (and a much better turner). i had shown up on audition day and taken the role from her. the choreographer had told her to her face: you have the dance skills, but she has the stage presence. that kind of conversation just happens in ballet. she cried about it later, i caught her coming out of the bathroom. i had apologized on his behalf. i said it's not fair. i asked her if she wanted to get dinner, my treat.
she was often knitting or listening to music, so we didn't talk a lot, but she had been nice. she just seemed introverted, and i am unfortunately an extrovert. i often tried to include her, but she would rarely participate. we were in one of those circles, discussing exes. i am always very careful in these conversations; and never out myself. i am often, after all, in a room of somewhat-naked women. i do not not want any of them to think i'm like that. i do not want the fuss. (it's happened to me before. it was ugly.)
we were putting on our pointe shoes, and I was laughing. "no i swear. we got into an argument about it. my ex was like - what do you mean you actually dance on your actual toes. i guess my ex thought it was like, a euphemism? mind you, i wasn't even the first dancer they dated." i flexed my foot, shimmied the shank a little lower, tested the box placement. it only hurts for the first year and a half, kind of. also every time you have to jump en pointe. after that, the worst pain is just the 100 dollars every time you need a new pair (which is often).
around us, the green room was a flurry of tutus and hair spray and people in very-thick slippers. most dancers are very friendly, actually. it takes a very specific kind of person to physically destroy yourself for hours on end; and then to do that in front of a live audience, half-naked. in sequins. with your leg over your head.
most of us have some kind of mental illness. i should tell you that. many of us have adhd. the thing about being a girlchild and being restless is that they have a solution for that: just slam you into endless dance classes. the constant body-awareness is incredibly soothing for me; but it's a lot for other people. we aren't kidding when we tell you we need to be aware of literally every tendon, angle, and muscle of our bodies. i have spent a lifetime focusing on lifting the sole of my foot. my pinky finger is a villain, and i am always trying to tame her back into shape.
her brown hair was perfectly back, her eyes perfectly rimmed, lipstick perfectly applied. she was knitting. the other girls chatting about how boys don't get it and how kristen's boytoy hadn't come to a single show and she was breaking up with him because of it. the conversation turned, we were just ragging on our terrible exes. somebody's ex once totaled her car. someone else's tried to use honest-to-god monopoly money at a starbucks.
and i fucked up, because we were laughing, and i was distracted by getting ready. and i said "yeah, she -" and then i snapped my mouth shut. thank god someone else was already talking. i felt myself blush. my body went cold. i thought to myself - there was crosstalk. everyone was speaking at once. maybe nobody heard. nobody even seemed to look at me twice. everyone was talking about their stupid exes. i smiled and nodded and gave it a few minutes. i was frozen, laughing mechanically. and then i made some excuse and half-ran into the hall, my stupid toeshoes clacking.
i felt like i was dying. fuck. fuck. i slammed my toes into rosin and pretended to warm up in some cramped corner between costumes. i pressed my forehead flush with the cold cinderblocks of the hallway, trying to force my breathing into check. i had to be onstage in a few hours. they're going to hate me now, and put me into some fucking side-room bullshit to get changed. they'll think i was being predatory that whole time. it's all ruined. fuck.
a little cold hand landed on my bare back. she was standing there, tilting her head at me. she has the "ideal dancer body" - tall, thin, long-legged. over that dinner, she'd said balanchine was a pedophile and it's weird they expect us to look like this. and i'd said ballet is a bastion of white supremacy. she'd said: you are the better dancer, by the way. they only like my shape.
she hugged her elbows, little goosebumps on her blued skin. "hey." she wouldn't make eye contact with me.
i felt like crying, which was stupid - despite having shellacked myself into waterproof makeup, i didn't want to risk tearstains.
her mouth twisted. "it's almost time for you to get into costume." her words sat between us awkwardly. we both knew i would be alerted by the costume crew when they were ready for me. she frowned, then, her jaw working like she was trying to say something. instead, she just shook her head a little.
"okay," i said. my voice was weird and scratchy. "thanks."
"did you - i heard you." she put one hand above mine on the wall, one long leg out in a common shape for dancers: a cross of fourth position and attitude; digging her foot down into her shoe, wiggling. she cleared her throat. "i heard you say she."
i dropped my hand. i pretended to stretch. "okay." i said. my brain was blank with fear. fuck. it's ruined. "yeah."
"you've dated... women?" she flexed her feet. pointed. started doing gentle hip swings, her body no more than an arm length from mine.
i looked anywhere else. the other people in the hallway, running around before the show. the racks of clothes. the wires. behind us, the greenroom was muffled and raucous with dancers laughing. i was going to be banned from that space now.
i crossed my arms over my chest. the duct tape creaked. (in a few months, i would genuinely crack a few ribs binding like that. but for then i just took the half-air). "yeah," i said. i puffed it out. "i'm. yeah."
"gay?" she was looking at her feet as she made tiny rond de jambs, working her ankles.
"gay," i creaked.
she paused then, and stepped closer to me. i was suddenly aware she had a solid six inches on me, all of which she carried with perfect grace and accuracy. "you go to contemporary on thursdays, right?"
a ballerina is supposed to enjoy ballet more than anything. i was actually secretly falling completely in love with contemporary dance, because it forgave me for having any mass on my body. "yeah?" i looked up into her dark eyes, trying to figure out where this was going.
she handed me her phone. "text me next time. we'll carpool."
stupid and stunned, i punched my number in, first name raquel last name ballet.
she took the phone back, looked at the screen, and smiled a little. she thumbed a few keys and held it back up: first name raquel, last name ballet: and then a rainbow emoji, girls kissing, and little pink hearts. "gotcha. see you then."
and then she turned and walked away in that particular "walking in pointe shoes" way dancers have, a little rolling lope. she made it look graceful, purposeful. i had no idea how to respond. i just stared at the after her, wordless, boggled.
my phone was in my dance bag, i didn't see the notification until many hours later. chugging water and sweating out of every pore. from an unknown number: the next role is mine, by the way. and then i'll take YOU out for dinner.
