I rolled my eyes at my thoughts as I bent down to pick up my pointe shoes from the corner of the room, only to immediately drop them. They were soaking wet. And slimy. And covered in a white, viscous liquid that—I picked one up between my forefinger and thumb and carefully, warily, took a sniff—yup, smelled like sour sex. My lungs went tight. It was semen. Mason—or one of his friends, but something about it made me sure it was Mason—had jacked off on my pointe shoes.
