Page 220 - Some Dance to Remember

190 Jack Fritscher

but inspiration to the erotic writer and, well, yes, somewhat theatrical
lover that he was with his sex playroom filled with mirrors, track lights,
chains, and sling.
When Kick moved in, the tracklight spots were already in place. He
was not the first bodybuilder Ryan had met, but he was the best. Ryan
was ready for him. His life had been lived in a way to prepare him to
meet Kick, the way John the Baptist, who lost his head finally, was born
to prepare the way for his cousin.
Ryan’s house was something an anti-vivisectionist would torch. The
walls were hung with the heads of deer and mountain goats hunted at flea
markets. A lady’s shoulder-fox hung from its lower lip. Edward Parente
sculptures of animal skulls adorned with leather and feathers shared book-
shelves with volumes by Emerson and Mishima and Didion. Pictures of
Kick and Teddy and other less-involving lovers hung everywhere. Orion,
the hunter, liked his trophies. They were his remembrances of things past.
“You’re obviously a totemist,” January said. She gestured at the array
about her. “Your collecting is like your writing. It’s a very male way of
preserving something. Collectors are like hunters. You kill something and
then preserve it, and the whole process is your ritual of self-preservation.”
“Oh, Dr. Freud,” Solly said, “how I wish you were otherwise employed.”
“Don’t take my zoo too seriously,” Ryan said. “It’s a collection.”
January rose up from the couch. “This is a beautiful picture of Kick,”
she said. “Did you shoot him?”
“Yes.”
She put her index finger on the glass directly touching Kick’s crotch.
She could see herself reflected over his body like a double exposure. “Some
tribes,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice, “sacrifice blonds to the sun.” Her
eyes focused on some far-off moment in her own past. “We eat the gods
that first we worship.” She turned back to Ryan. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Frankly, I thought it was more El Lay,” Solly said. “Today’s star is
tomorrow’s Kleenex.”
January turned to Solly, “First thing tomorrow, darling, do go see
your therapist.”
“My therapist—I should say my once-and-former therapist—told
me,” Solly said, “that sometimes we think we’re in the throes of some
deep spiritual yearning, but actually we’re just horny.” He paused a beat.
“I think that’s why he killed himself.”
“Kick is a wizard,” Ryan said. “All us faggots are wizards, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” January rearranged herself on the couch, folding
calf under thigh.

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