Page 109 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 79

huge muscle bodies. The bodybuilders slide into their nylon posing briefs.
Most pull their penises straight up toward their navels and let their balls
hang low in the pouch. They pin the small white paper with their contest
number over the front left hip of their briefs.
This is ritual.
Some play tug-of-war with their partners, pulling white towels back
and forth to bring up the day’s glossy pump on their years of hard muscle
building. Others move to the ton of iron delivered to the theater for the
day to polish their muscle, most often their arms, one last time before
marching out on stage for the real competition of group comparison, flex-
ing in unison mandatory poses, then individually, each one mounting the
dais alone to pose for sixty seconds to music of his own selection.
Ryan, driving the Corvette to San Diego, could only guess what lay in
store. That first morning of their first contest, when he and Kick entered
the greenroom, Ryan thought he had died and gone to heaven. He was
surrounded by more than twenty naked bodybuilders. He tried to keep
custody of his eyes. He folded Kick’s clothes and knelt at his feet, oiling up
his legs to his shoulders. Ryan, during a scene of musclesex, had convinced
Kick to replace baby oil with olive oil, because its sheen was more lustrous
and its essence more classic.
“Whatever you say, coach.”
Kick was up. He thought it was a good omen that his assigned contest
number was One.
The morning Pre-Juding ran nearly three hours. Ryan was beaming.
Kick glowed. They met during a break backstage.
“You look great out there,” Ryan said.
“I feel great out there,” Kick said. He motioned for Ryan to move in

closer. “Spread some more oil on my chest.” He pointed toward the watch
pocket in Ryan’s Levi’s. “Give me a hit,” he said. He reached into Ryan’s
pocket for a small snifter of coke. He blew two lines. “Now you,” he said.
“I’m already wired,” Ryan said.
“Come on.” Kick put his arm on Ryan’s shoulder. The heady smell
of contest sweat and olive oil made Ryan’s tits ache. “We’re here to have
a good time.”
Ryan swacked off the snifter.
“Again,” Kick said.
Ryan snorted another line.
“It’s good for the vascularity,” Kick said. He thrust his arms, fists
down, alongside his thighs, flexed, and popped his veins. “Nice, huh?”
“Sexy.”

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