Iris, the ballerina whore

27Aug08

Our relationship started over the summer. We were both counselors at an arts camp in the Adirondacks. I worked in the woodshop, she taught ballet. We were young, not much older then the campers. Over the course of the season, our relationship developed in plain sight of the whole camp.

The kids, trained by countless hours of reality TV shows, followed the up-and-downs of our romance via our public interactions and body language and gossiped relentlessly:

“I heard Iris was going to break up with him if he didn’t shave his beard. That’s why he did it.”
“I heard she still chats online with her ex-boyfriend every other day.”
“I heard them having sex in the woods last night. It sounded like he was stabbing her.”

When the camp ended, I got a gig as a scientific test-subject up in Boston and she went down to New York City, to make it as a dancer. I’d come to the city every 3 weeks and we’d go on beautiful, broke-people dates – a walk through central park or a meal consisting of one shared appetizer at an upscale eatery. We’d speak on the phone almost every day, though less and less towards the end.

Iris wanted me to know that she’d found somebody else, but could never build up the nerve to tell me. One night, when she was drunk at her lover’s apartment, she settled upon a plan. She would videotape them fucking and send it to me, so I would know, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was over.

It was a devastating blow, but opened my eyes to the cruelty of women. After a week, of tearfully watching the video, I eventually decided to post it on the Internet. Even though it was a viral hit, that didn’t make me feel any better.



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