Dancing with Celebrities


I suppose I’m only-marginally a celebrity. My suave superspy movie roles never came close to the popularity of James Bond, but the TV producers remembered me from days-gone-by and decided that I still had enough of a following to cast me on “Dancing with Celebrities”. Of course I was concerned that I had no real dance experience, but I felt fit and able to handle the physical demands and they assured me that, despite being “mature”, that the expert they would pair me with – would be able to teach me to dance at least well enough for the show’s purposes.

Physically fit or not, I started a strength training program – wanting to be able to offer my partner some extra pizazz via lifts and throws. I didn’t have a lot of time to train, but I got strong enough to feel that I could reliably lift a dance partner.

I showed up for my call time on my first day and it felt great to be back “on set”. Lights, cameras, and lots of action – as all of the Production Assistants scurried about making things actually happen.

A young man hustled up and addressed me with a twinkle in his eye, “Here’s your coffee, Mr Yarnnes. One sugar, stirred, not shaken, right?” It is always intoxicating to feel the energy on a shoot – and I was hopefully going to be here for weeks – unless I washed out early on. I looked around and saw plenty of competition. Some of them had actually been dancers before, so I worried.

I thought back to what I did know about dancing. I’d never been a fan of “Dancing with Celebrities”. It just seemed kind of pathetic to watch dance wannabe’s stumble around the stage. I smiled to myself remembering all of the time I’d spent enjoying “So You Think You Can Dance”, what I called “a REAL dancing show” where both partners were strong, upcoming dancers. Where the possible choreography was much more exciting and powerful – as opposed to my show, where only one partner was really a dancer. I realized that the male celebrities like me had it a little easier than the females because “couples dancing” consisted of the man making the woman look as good as he could: nobody ever really watched the guy in a couple’s dance. As long as I got a strong partner, all I really had to do was to stay out of her way and give her a framework to shine from.

Celebrities and crew collected into a general meeting and were told, “You’ll be paired with the same partner through the competition and one couple will be eliminated each week until we get to our winners.” They also droned through all of the boring details of how the show would work and legal disclaimers.

Finally, they got to the really-exciting part: revealing each Celebrity’s partner: the professional dancer who would be trying to make us look good enough to win. The anticipation got me to reminiscing about “So You Think You Can Dance” and about the amazing women I’d watched there – and how I’d secretly fallen in love with a few of them. How could I not? Just so inarguably works of art forming moving sculptures there on stage. Whirling and kicking. Flying through the air as if weightless. Bending and being SO graceful in every finger, arm, ankle, toe, and all body parts between. I like to think of myself as a “man’s man”, but it just took my breath away – and sometimes made me cry – to watch the Escort bayan beauty when choreographer’s inspiration matched musical performance and dance perfection: a pair of people – strangers, yet merging together to produce a singular visual exhilaration.

OK. Maybe I am a bit girly, but it is just incredible what happens when the magic comes together in a couple’s dance. Tango, Waltz, Bollywood, Hip-Hop, or (God help me) Latin Ballroom: STEAMING hot!

So I sat. Palms sweating. Hearing the names of my competitors called out and watching them be paired. Sometimes it was someone I had heard of. Sometimes it was a dancer who was excellent, but unknown.

And I waited.

and waited.

and FINALLY, my name was called and with a flourish of the band, my partner was announced as she came sweeping out from backstage. Stepping along in a Rumba.

It was one of my absolute heartthrobs from “So You Think You Can Dance”.

She was young enough to be my daughter, but I had watched her in “looks like they’ve been shredded” Latin-dance costumes and admired her talent. I had loved – and lusted – for her – and now she swept right into my arms and hugged me tightly – excitedly giggling and looking into my eyes. It was Courtney Glaniano! Oh my god, I’m supposed to be the Celebrity but I just lost all cognitive capabilities – other than thinking over and over: “It’s Courtney! COURTNEY! Courtney Glaniano! She’s right here and she’s going to be DANCING. With ME. For weeks!”.

As long as I don’t get thrown off the show.

Oh. Yeah. That little complication. I had to be good enough to at least not be the worst each week. So I resolved to throw myself into the show – both literally and figuratively – and be sure to last as long as I could – by being the best dancer I could manage to be.


Our first week went well-enough. I was in a bit of a love-haze, but I learned the dance moves quickly enough and Courtney and I managed to stay alive in the competition – but were dangerously low in the rankings and I knew that we needed to put more “wow” into our performance.

So I met with our choreographer and my partner and told them that I thought I could handle more-demanding dance moves. Lifts. Throws.

Stuff that I’d been physically training for. Really put in a “show stopper” or two to get the audience on their feet – and the judges’ votes into our column. Something to make everybody’s eyes open wide and say “I didn’t know he could do THAT!” Yeah! THAT was what we needed.

The choreographer retired to her “Fortress of Solitude” and when, two days later, she emerged for the beginning of our weekly rehearsals, she was ready.

She paired up with her assistant and showed her new routine to Courtney and me. A steamy Latin Ballroom number. With lots of lifts and physically-demanding showcasing of the female half. The phrase “Be careful what you wish for…” ran through my head and I wondered just what I’d gotten myself into. The real talent of the routine still was required of the lady, but I had gotten what I had suggested: some show-stoppers where I would lift and carry my partner, then swing her down nearly to the stage – before lightly depositing her back on her own legs. More than once. Gulp!

It Bayan escort was our turn.

We mirrored the choreographer and assistant and began to mimic them – learning our routine step by step. I did well. Really, I did, picking up the side breaks, step turns, pretzels, and more – at a reasonable pace. But then we got to the first lift, and it got bad. Really bad. I was strong enough to lift her. That was no problem. But I’m a gentleman – my lustful thoughts notwithstanding – and when I tried to get a “hold” on her to lift her up – I couldn’t find a way – or a place – to put my hands – which wasn’t – well – which wasn’t ungentlemanly.

Time and time again, as we tried the lift, I fumbled and lost my grip – and I came perilously close to dropping Courtney onto the hard wood floor – often head-first. It was clearly dangerous to continue. I turned to the choreographer and asked, “Is it possible to re-write the routine and remove the show-stopper moves?”

Courtney, breathing hard and sweating, held up her hand and told the choreographer, “Leave this to me. Don’t leave. Just sit over there and witness this. I can fix it.”

She turned back to me, faced me squarely, fiercely grabbed my hands – and firmly placed them directly over her breasts. She then locked her eyes onto my shocked expression and, with my hands still being held onto her chest, said,

“Look. You need these moves. I need these moves, too, because we’re a team. You fail, I fail. We can’t cut them because they are great moves. You ARE good enough – and strong enough – to do these. The problem is that you’re afraid of me. You are afraid to grab what must be grabbed, so you’re not doing what I NEED for you to do. I want you to understand that this is strictly professional. We’re not becoming an item. What is about to happen is purely to keep me from getting hurt in the rest of this competition. Because if we keep this up, I’m going to be dropped on my head and be permanently put out of commission. I appreciate that you’re a gentleman and gentlemen don’t touch ladies ‘that way’, but from this moment forward, you need to absolutely understand that you MUST grab me wherever you need to grab me. I will understand. Now. I need to desensitize you. I need your subconscious mind to get over having physical contact with me ‘mean’ something. So don’t dare utter a word, but follow my lead. Yes, while we’re being watched by our witnesses so that everybody understands that this is only about the dance. Right. Now.”

She slid my hands from her breasts – up – to her shoulders – and made my hands push her leotard off her shoulders – and down – nodding at me to continue. Sliding it down past her bra. And her now-bare midriff. And over her hips. And down her thighs. Her dancer’s thighs (Oops! I guess I haven’t yet been desensitized!), then down – and off – tossing it across the room.

She stood in the middle of the dance floor – now wearing nothing but her bra and panties, raised her eyebrows critically at me, then reached behind her back, released the catch and shrugged off her bra – freeing her breasts to the warm air of the studio. Then she caught my wrists and guided my hands to her panties and pressed down. Down. And off. Leaving the 2 of us standing in the gaze Escort of the choreographer and her assistant – Courtney totally bare. Both of us panting – both from the former exertion of the dance – and from the steaminess of the situation.

Still not desensitized.

Courtney stepped to me and efficiently and quickly divested me of my dance costume. It was a bit of a blur since my mind was on overload – drinking in the vision of her before me – naked – but I suddenly found that my costume matched the color of hers – though we each had a rather-different shape than the other.

We stood in the middle of the dance floor.


Our costumes scattered around us.

My partner locked eyes with me, then reached between my thighs and firmly grabbed me while using her free hand to force my hand to cup her slippery vee.

She had my undivided attention, both from her eyes – commanding me without breathing a word – and from the explosion of sensations from the manual explorations ongoing. My body was responding fully. My hardness filled her hand, my breathing was shallow, my vision blurry.

Still totally commanding my gaze, she cocked an eyebrow and said, “I can see that you need to stop thinking of this sexually. That isn’t going to happen until some – pressure – is taken off. It’s OK. Just let it happen.”

Her hand settled into a glorious, slow rhythm as my finger slipped between her folds and found a rhythm of its own in a way that made her eyes flutter.

Silence. Movement. Rhythm.

Raspy breathing.

Eyes locked together when open. Slow increase in speed. Panting. Faster and faster.


Crying out and shaking. Pressing naked bodies together. Jerking and sliding skin over skin. Legs barely continuing to support. Eyelids fluttering. Tongue out – then in – then out.

Breathing. Glistening with sweat. Breathing.


Deeeep breath.



Clock ticking.

A smile.

She leaned in close – our naked bodies pressing together – and whispered, barely audibly, “Now that we have that out of the way, I need for you to explore my body and get used to it. Feel me. All over. It’s just a body. Just breasts. Just nipples. Just a vagina. Just my butt. Explore me. Feel me. Get over your embarrassment.

DO it!”

She then leaned back and just relaxed. Totally pliant yet still totally in control as my mind shifted modes and I began to innocently explore.

Childlike. In wonderment. Tracing her curves with my fingertips and my eyes.

Celebrating the physics of the movement of her breasts as I gently energized their swaying.

Marvelling at the indentation of her navel. And on. Appreciating the incredible achievement in the form and function of her magnificent human body. Appreciating the art presented for my examination.

A tear rolled down my cheek from the painful sheer beauty before me.

And I finally got it. I understood.

We panted together for a few moments. The humid warmth of the studio wrapping around us – with not a sound but the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Sweating. Slippery. Steamy. Sultry. … And Silent. Saying everything without saying anything.

The clock ticking. The faint sound of breathing from our audience.

A deep breath.

Then. Both of us still naked.

Courtney kicked our clothes fully out of the way.

Looked me deep in the eyes and commanded, “Now let’s DANCE!”

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir