James Whiteside Unwinds with Gay Pulp and In-Shower Whiskey

“I thought that by becoming a ballet dancer, I was doing something super gay, but it turns out my life’s work is just another heteronormative endeavor,” James Whiteside writes in Center, Center, out this week. (The book’s name borrows from theater slang for the midpoint onstage—by depth and width—usually denoted by a scuffed X in tape.) After all, principal roles for men are the fairytale suitors, tasked with parading around their tutu-clad love interests. But leave it to Whiteside to point out that a name like Prince Désiré (of Sleeping Beauty) sounds ripped from a “plot synopsis of a 1995 Falcon Studios VHS porno tape,” which he merrily proceeds to supply:

Jeff the big-dicked trucker fell asleep for one hundred years at the Sunoco off I-95. His boner grew and grew until Prince Désiré discovered and awakened him by kissing his sleeping cock. 

Whiteside, a principal dancer with American Ballet Theatre, is known for exuberantly coloring outside the lines of classicism. In a similar way, *Center, Center—*billed as an “almost-memoir,” with enough teen hormones and parental strife to fill a modern ballet—benefits from a no-rules approach to form. There is third-person biographical exposition alongside a mini-play set in airport limbo. I found myself suddenly teary-eyed while reading about his mother’s labored last breaths, only to flip to the next chapter: “How I Met Jesus on Grindr.”

Center, Center: A Funny, Sexy, Sad Almost-Memoir of a Boy in Ballet

By James Whiteside

“Adding ‘writer’ to my list of alter-egos feels like a natural progression,” Whiteside says in a call from his Brooklyn apartment, alluding to his turns as choreographer, drag persona, and Instagram Live ballet master alongside BFF Isabella Boylston. “I just like to make things.” He doesn’t subscribe to the idea of writing as a torturous exercise—maybe because hIs chiseled physique gets plenty of the real thing. (He credits his trainer Joel Prouty, a former dancer and onetime roommate whose creative strength training is lately shaping the city’s ballet stars.)

That state of peak fitness is what allowed Whiteside to slip effortlessly back onstage in Vail, Colorado, earlier this month—never mind that it was George Balanchine’s high-energy “Stars and Stripes at 8,000 feet.” But his approach to well-being takes many forms, as the dancer chronicles in this three-day wellness diary. That means custom tulle, easy listening, and the right kind of wakeup call.

Tuesday, August 10

7:30 a.m.: I am awakened by my boyfriend’s “horny-morning-hands,” which is my favorite alarm cock. Oops…I mean clock. The only thing that makes getting up before 9 a.m. survivable is getting off. I make some post-coital covfefe, and we sit out on the rear balcony of my Vail hotel room, gazing upon the hazy morning sun lazily spilling over the Rockies. And if that ain’t a good way to start a Tuesday, then I’m a goddamn Ninja Turtle!

10:30 a.m.: I have just finished performing in the marvelous, two-week Vail Dance Festival, and it is time to return to New York City. Vail is two hours away from Denver, so I hop in my hilariously incapable rental car and wheeze and burp up and down the mountains, toward the airport. I oscillate between music and podcasts while driving. I started a new podcast recently called Gay Pulp, and it’s some mincing old kween reading ’70s and ’80s erotic gay fiction. The story I listen to is called “Glory Hole.” It’s incredible because it is simultaneously arousing and comical. The narrator pronounces homosexual like “hyomosexual,” cock like “gock,” and nude like “nyood.”

2 p.m.: During the flight back to NYC, I watch Elite, a Spanish show that is simultaneously calming and completely manic. Every character is capable of murder and polygamy. It’s so inspiring. Everyone is kinda gay too. Television makes sexuality so easy. These Spanish teenagers are banging and murdering everyone like no es gran cosa. 

9 p.m.: My boyfriend, Augie, and I get back to my apartment from LaGuardia Airport and decide we need pho and Sex and the City. It is supposed to be relaxing but Carrie is cheating on Aiden with Big, which just makes me feel awful. I have never watched this show before and have recently started it. I’m on season three and things are not going well for Carrie, but she has great hair and killer abs, which is a good consolation prize. In the late ’90s, I thought liking certain cultural hits would betray my gayness (I wasn’t yet out). Sex and the City, Cher’s Believe, and literally any musical. Now *in a singsongy voice* these are a few of my favorite things.

Wednesday, August 11

7:30 a.m.: I brew some coffee, and Augie and I get to work on the Times crossword. I like to put on “Jazz for Study” on my Sonos system while I flounder and flail. I’m always amazed at how many sports, Simpsons, and Monopoly references the puzzle builders manage to squeeze in, which feels homophobic. Speaking of Monopoly, I always think I like playing it until about 13 hours in, when I want to shove a fistful of hotels up my nose so I can have the excuse of going to the E.R.

12 p.m.: I have a Good Morning America shoot uptown to promote my book and, afterward, a fitting with Laura Kim, the creative director at Oscar de la Renta and Monse Maison, for an event we were doing together. I am famished after all this hustle and bustle, so I pop into a Chipotle and then poop into a toilet. All things in due (doo) order.

3:30 p.m.: CVS has my PrEP, an HIV preventative (ask your doctor), so I swoop over there to pick it up. I get an electric Citibike for the first time and, sweet baby Jesus, am I flying! I live in Park Slope, which should be called Park Mountain, so I am grateful for the help going uphill. I then bike over to Accurate Photo to drop off some film. Taking photos has become a hobby since one of the wardrobe folks at the Kennedy Center in D.C. (where American Ballet Theatre performs each year) gave me an old 35mm camera. I feel like a parody of a Brooklyn hipster, taking analog photos of my hot friends in beautiful places. I annoy even myself, but genuinely love it.

8 p.m.: I just finished a Zoom Q&A for the sweepstakes winners of my book, and mama needs a drink. One of my favorite ways to unwind is by bringing a glass of whiskey on the rocks into the shower. I’ve got a window in my shower that I fling open wide (I’m not modest), and I light an Otherland candle on the sill. I usually play an album on the Sonos speaker that I have in the bathroom. This week’s fare was Tinashe’s new album 333, which I highly recommend if you like indie R&B/pop. I wash my hair with R+Co’s Dallas shampoo/conditioner set, my face with Cetaphil, and my body with a Dove sensitive skin bar. There’s a product I use on my eyes called We Love Eyes, which is a tea tree wash that staves off sties and gross eye stuff. I have a tendency to look like a newborn kitten, with crusty, swollen eyes in the morning. Last, I wash my face and shoulders with PanOxyl, a very strong acne wash. I am a greasy elderly man and very prone to acne. I thought it would go away after puberty, but acne has been my longest lasting relationship. 

8:30 p.m.: It’s been a long day, but there’s one thing I need to really clock out and it’s Chrissy Teigen’s spicy miso pasta. I have made it so many times that it’s good ‘n rote now. The scallions really make it slap. I happily slurp up cheesy, umami noodz while watching another episode of Elite. In this episode, Spanish teenagers overdose on G and revenge bang each other. ¡Dios!

11 p.m.: I read every night before bed. It helps me get my brain out of the manic state it’s generally in. I’m stuck on an epic fantasy novel called Rhythm of War by Brandon Sanderson that’s longer than the Bible. It’s absolutely fantastic, but makes me feel like I can barely read. I’ve been reading it since 1903. After about two pages, I fall asleep.

Thursday, August 12

8:30 a.m.: I am feeling healthy AF, so I make myself some avocado sourdough toast with over-medium eggs and arugula. Watering my plants takes about 1,000 hours, but is one of my favorite housekeeping tasks. I have a lot of plants because I live in Brooklyn, where plants were created. Appropriately, I put on a Lo-Fi playlist and let it emanate from my Sonos system. Sonos doesn’t sponsor me, I promise. *Sonos, pls call me* 

10 a.m.: Today I have a series of interviews for my book: two podcasts and a television interview. It’s so strange to talk about oneself for hours a day. It made me uncomfortable, so I post a selfie to Instagram, which makes me feel better.

5:30 p.m.: I am hosting and dancing at a St-Germain liqueur event in SoHo, so I get in a car and make my way into Manhattan. I am dancing en pointe, which is traditionally done by women, in a custom tulle dress by Laura Kim. I feel beyond chic. There is something about getting all gussied up that makes one feel good. I put on my outfit and pointe shoes and stretch before the performance. A ballet dancer must always properly warm up, so I do a mini-barre in the back room, where the catering staff is busying about. They get a strange backstage show as I kick and do splits between the petit toasts and garnish stations.

8 p.m.: Showtime! Nothing contributes to my wellness like a performance. It might destroy my body, but my soul flies. It doesn’t matter where the show is—Lincoln Center or a small event space in SoHo. If I can connect with an audience, I’m feeling damn good. Tonight I jump and turn, flirt with the audience, and work my tulle skirt like an old pro. While my body surely doth protest after a show night, my heart is full. There’s nothing like a jolly good show. Cheerio!

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