It hadn't mattered a lot if Jamie was or he wasn't. Nail-polish or not, ballet was really, really gay if you were in middle school and you know, a boy. Jamie's admiration had extended to the musical portion of Cher's career and hadn't taken in a bunch of crushes on sad-awkward-shoplifter sequences or the laws-of-physics defying hair.
"I don't want them to see me as anything other than a demi-god who can plie better than they can," Jamie gesticulated with his fork. Which was a really weird expression/assertion of confidence but that was kind of the knack, at least so much as Jamie had the knack. You asserted, even the blithely ridiculous in the absence of confirmation any other way, because like, if you didn't... who else would tell you that you were a demi-god? Jamie's smile was broad as Broadway and he looked supremely confident.
Which survived all of six seconds before Sid walked him to the brink. "Thirty. I have three years until I'm on the brink and Nureyev danced until he was seriously old. I'm not Nureyev but I have a little longer before I hang up my tights." But Jamie was no Meryl Streep, either.
"My ancient, wrinkled ass thinks it could get a better burger, tee-bee-aitch."