Page 250 - Some Dance to Remember

220 Jack Fritscher

have a head.”
“I love you,” Ryan said.
The Kryptonite ecstasy was coming on. Ryan raised Kick’s huge arm
and dug his tongue into the sweat steaming in his armpit. His mind
swirled with images of ideal men, men without whom the world would
be an intolerable place.
Kick mounted the barrel. His calves, sculpted to the perfection of
inverted hearts, bulged as he rose up to position himself. He turned, as he
always turned on the posing platform, arms held loosely akimbo from his
massive shoulders, his hands hanging down, thumbs in, eight inches out
from his thighs, and looked down at Ryan. He flexed his pecs: the muscles
striated and defined and rolled, up, then down his chest. His dick tented
the soft linen loincloth. His smile at Ryan was triumphant. There was no
shame in this crucifixion.
Ryan administered them both a hit of popper. Kick’s face, in the low
tracklight, began to morph into the face of the idealized young Christ,
stripped and crucified, whom Ryan had worshiped since boyhood. He had
been trained at Misericordia to be an alter Christus, another Christ, but he
knew he’d never be another Christ.
He realized a special revelation.
It was not himself; it had never been himself; it was Kick who was
the alter Christus.
“I’m stoned. I’m stoned. I’m stoned,” Ryan repeated to himself. “This
is so crazy....” But the vision would not vanish.
“Tight,” Kick said. “Tie me tight. I want to feel this.” He nodded
toward the three body-length mirrors. “I want to see this. I want to show
you a show I’ve never shown anyone before.”
Ryan tied Kick’s ankles together and then wrapped the rope around
the rough-hewn post.
“I want to take it as long as I can,” Kick said. “I want to feel the full
glory of muscular restraint.”
Ryan tied Kick’s huge arms wide open on the cross. Kick raised his
headland breathed. His chest expanded. Sweat rolled down his face and
dripped on his pecs. His cock writhed in the small linen loincloth.
Ryan offered him, the way Christ on the cross had been offered vin-
egar mixed with opium on a sponge, a double hit of coke. Kick snorted,
then relaxed. He twisted one hand to a more comfortable angle on the
cross.
“I’m ready,” Kick said. “I want you to see a musclebeast more glorious
than you’ve ever imagined.”

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