Page 158 - Some Dance to Remember
P. 158

128                                                Jack Fritscher

               experienced, and God knows, armies have marched over me. Ours
               is not physical calisthenics only. He is so giving as a person, as a
               man, that I can but try to give back to him something of what he
               gives so specially to me. He introduces me as “my lover Ry.” More
               than lovers, we are best manfriends. We are adults. Our attitude
               takes my breath away sometimes. I feel myself shaking, quiver-
               ing with joy. I expect nothing. I get everything. I find myself, for
               once, for once in my life, planning nothing. I find myself...what?
               Accommodating? No. Generous. Generous with him. Giving to
               him. My God, no one has ever loved me by teaching me so much,
               showing me so much, guiding me so non-directively at this point
               in my life....Ah. At this point in my life to have a man who knows
               more than I, in a world that all too long has known less, is true
               unbridled happiness. He loves me. I love him. We love each other.

               Ryan radiated moonglow. He was truly in-love. Kick had given his life
            ultimate masculine dimension. He wanted to enjoy it world without end.
            Amen. The genuine passion between them was from the first a sweating,
            grinding sexual tumble as much as it was the nuclear fusion of two souls.
            They fucked on psilocybin and floated up together, two melting down
            into one, on a mushroom cloud. Brightness. Flash. Explosion. Firestorm.
            Windstorm.
               “There is as much beauty,” Ryan wrote, “in a nuclear blast as there is
            in the birth of a whale.”
               They conjured an Energy together that lifted them outside them-
            selves. There was about them an aura of completeness. Ryan, coached by
            Kick, was writing better than ever. Kick, coached by Ryan, entered a series
            of physique contests and won them all.
               “Pretty women smile at me,” Ryan confided to Kick.
               Kick himself smiled. “So do good-looking men.”
               I, Magnus Bishop, want to know what Energy it was they conjured.
            What Energy it was they tapped into. What Energy it was that I once saw
            in their faces and see now in all the snapshots and video cassettes I have
            spread out around me. I look for clues. I flip through the photographs
            looking for something Kirlian in the ghost images of the ecstatic Energy
            they said they conjured between them.
               “I’m going to say it,” Kick said.
               He put his big arms reassuringly around Ryan. Outwardly, his full
            hug was the kind of hug Teddy had used to turn Ryan into a screaming
            claustrophobic.

                      ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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