Page 218 - Some Dance to Remember

188 Jack Fritscher

Mapplethorpe, and writers like Pat Califia, who, ever the macho slut,
waltzed through Opel’s openings. Califia, raised a Mormon, had, to save
her family from the shaming of her possible public excommunication,
aka-ed herself for the independent Bear Goddess who gave California
its name. Ryan, himself identified with Orion, the Bear constellation,
respected women, truly talented women like Califia and O’Grady as much
as Kweenasheba. They held an almost enshrined place in his old Catholic
heart. They seemed all the more fully women for having transcended radi-
cal feminism with the feminist humanism of their art. They were women
who had performed the impossible the way Mary became a Madonna
through virgin birth. Now that was the first truly, and maybe world’s
only, feminist act. About January Guggenheim, Ryan was still reserving
his judgment.
“Love,” Ryan said, “has an element of worship.”
“Worship?” January repeated.
“The only problem with worship,” Ryan said, “is that so few people
are willing to let you do it.” A smile flashed across his face.
In an instant, he remembered the first night he had parted Kick’s
hairy cheeks and dug his tongue down to lick his sweet blond butthole in
the ultimate act of worship. Other men could cheer and worship Kick’s
public display of muscle in physique contests, but only Ryan could lay
him out flat and kiss and tongue the privacy of Kick’s inviolate pucker.
Their private rituals were secret. They flaunted each other on Castro. Ryan
handled their public relations. Kick remained aloof, mysterious, above it
all. They were apiary, all right, hanging out in the afternoon sun.
Ryan was studstruck.
Writing cabaret material for Kweenie, Ryan jotted paraphrase lyrics
to “The Girl from Ipanema.”
“Muscled and bulked and tanned and handsome, the man from Ala-
bama goes walking, and when he passes, each one he passes, he just doesn’t
see. Massive arms and blond and smiling, the man from Alabama goes
walking, and when he passes each one he passes, goes, ‘Ah.’”
Kick was an object of worship.
He was the lord of the Castro.
He was men’s most secret dreams.
He was Desire.
“Worship,” January said, “sounds so, well, Catholic.” She jotted a
note. “Of course, that’s the priest in you coming through.”
“Kick is a case in point,” Ryan said.
“Ah,” January said.

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