Page 106 - Some Dance to Remember

76 Jack Fritscher

Attitude.”
He stood relaxed next to Ryan in the sun in the tiny garden park
in front of the Hibernia Bank, which the Castronauts dubbed Hibernia
Beach. Kick, in cutoffs among the gay boys, slowly stripped off his gray
ALABAMA tee shirt. His fetish for his own golden body hair was erotic
contradiction to the strip-shaved Look bodybuilders affect for competi-
tion. Upholstered under a thick layer of his perfectly patterned blond
hair, Kick’s pecs and belly and legs dazzled in the afternoon sun. He was
unusual. He was a natural man, a natural bodybuilder. He was a ripe
candidate for the Mr. Golden Bear contest at the California State Fair.
If any physique competition should have been open to unshaven,
hairy bodybuilders, with body hair counting for extra points, it should
have been the Golden Bear. When Kick began competing, Ryan spent
hours shaving his grand body smooth. Kick watched the revelation of his
bare muscle as Ryan razored off the inch-long blond hair from his shoul-
ders, back, chest, belly, arms, hands, butt, legs, and feet.
“There are some sacrifices,” Kick said, “a man has to make.”
His relaxed Look, off the contest stage, because of his symmetry and
polish and finish, was more a casual muscular All-American jock Look
rather than a bulked, beefed, steroid bodybuilder. People could relate to
him. He had the gift of Universal Appeal, something more than mere
muscle can give, and something muscle alone can often destroy. He was
Ryan’s BMOC on Castro. He was the embodiment of every sex hero Ryan
had ever written about in all his erotic stories.
Kick had a body.
He had a face.
He had a soul.
“Sometimes,” Ryan said to Kweenie, “I think he sprang from my
head, through my dick to my fingertips, into the keyboard of my com-
puter, and appeared fully developed on my monitor. I only had to tap the
screen and take his hand and pull him out of the video screen into reality.
Like Michelangelo striking the statue of his Moses and commanding him
to speak. How’s that for conceit?” He pulled at her arm. “What movie are
we?” he asked.
“Butch and Sundance?” Kweenie said halfheartedly.
“Try West Side Story.” Ryan said. “I love him.”
“You’re his!” Kweenie hissed. “And every little thing he is...”
“I am too,” Ryan said.
“Don’t you just wish,” Kweenie said. But she knew what her brother
meant. Kweenie herself in her young life had seen a dream or two walking.

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