Gays, they believe, love art. Of all the arts, ballet is the most important for them. No, not drama, not opera, but ballet. In theaters, before the start of a ballet performance, in the lobby, there was already a crowd of faggots. Some of them were not even going to see the performance. They just wanted to be closer to the performance, so that they can immerse themselves in this atmosphere for a while, and at the same time use this lobby as a meeting place. So at one time it was a kind of cruising area.
But even in the theatre itself there were a large number of "such people." During the intermission, they hung about, formed groups, discussed something, looked at people. They gathered in the theatre buffet, in the toilet, where they smoked.
I remember how once in Moscow, at the Bolshoi Theatre, during a performance, one bald queen of caricature-like appearance so frantically showed delight, applauded so much that he rolled over the barrier of a very high balcony. People managed to grab him, held him by the feet, and dragged him back. Everyone in the audience gasped, then there was noise for a long time.
Somehow I did not like this suspiciously exaggerated love for ballet, the fact that it is experienced mainly by effeminate creatures. I began to guess that all this was not some kind of love for art, but something else, that it was rather a desire to identify themselves with ballet performers, with women-performers. In a word, "I want to become this ballerina." (Then my assumption was finally confirmed: first in New York, and then, it seems, in Moscow, ballet troupes were created, where all the roles were played by gays. A dream come true ...)
Even more unbearable for me were gatherings of faggots, where they chattered about ballet. Almost each of them had their own revered and cared for ballerina, their own "female idol", and often it was a real acquaintance, even friendship with one or another ballerina. From their disputes, whose ballerina is better, I wanted to run far away. And they also would step into the middle of the room and show different ballet movements and steps to indicate what was done correctly or not. “And your ballerina can only dance in the stable!” “And yours is a cow…”, etc. I remember how once I escaped from such a gathering of ballet lovers into the street and saw a lot of simple handsome guys there. And I kept asking myself: why is it so annoying that here, on the street, there are lots of normal guys and men, and there ... some kind of effeminate freaks.
