Page 230 - Some Dance to Remember

200 Jack Fritscher

He has the genes I wish I had. I eat his sperm. I drink his
saliva. I swallow his sweat. I feast on his sweet butt. I want to
become him. I want to be him. What sane man doesn’t want to
become his fantasy?
He says I have a great soul. (Would that my soul had biceps
and pecs.) He says I do him better than anyone. Does he know
how much at night I am him? When we swing out on our muscle
and bondage trips, does he know that I stop existing because my
anxiety stops existing and I fly free. I become him.
A note from two nights ago: Kick was in El Lay for his pre-
steroid liver-panel workup. So I watched a TV movie, The Jericho
Mile about a track coach and a runner who was a convict in
Folsom Prison. When the runner-con asked the coach what he
was getting out of his coaching, the coach said: “I could run fast.
I know how to run fast. But I can’t run fast and float free like you.
But I know how to teach it. I’ve waited all my life for someone
like you to come along.”
For godsake, who cries at TV movies? But tears filled my
eyes, because all my life I’ve been in pursuit of the perfect man in
the perfect body, because all my life I’ve wanted to have a body
built to match on the outside the soulbuilder I’ve been raised, for
good or ill, to be inside. I want more than anything in the world
to have muscles, and if I can only be realized through Kick, then
I’ll be satisfied.
Isn’t that what love is?
Even settling for his muscles rather than mine is hardly half
a loaf. He’s complete. All my life, ever since I sat on my daddy’s
lap, I’ve waited to match up with a man who was enough his own
man to be able to be a part of my life. I’ve always been the sun in
all my relationships. For once I want to feel like the moon. I want
my cold aerobic body to be warmed by his muscular heat. I want
to lose myself in his light. He can do no wrong. I trust him. He
can lead me where he wants. He can do with me what he wants.

Coaching Kick kept Ryan clean. The days were serious training. The
nights, serious sex. Ryan stayed three issues ahead on Maneuvers. Then
two. He was overjoyed. Play was more fun than work. He left the saving of
the world to priests, who, unlike him, were not spoiled priests. His voca-
tion was not the world. His vocation was Kick. Other than the Manifesto,
Kick eighty-sixed Ryan’s old social concerns about civil rights and the

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