Page 266 - Some Dance to Remember

236 Jack Fritscher

“I like surprising him,” Kick said to Logan. “I like that Cheshire look
he gets on his face.”
“Maybe I’ll wipe it off.” Logan winked and slow-pounded his crotch
with alternating fists. “One potato. Two potato.”
How old is this guy?
Kick assured Ryan. “One thing you have to understand about Logan
is he’s a kid. He’s a kidder.”
“We’re all kids,” Ryan said. His very soul grinned. The proof stood in
front of him. He was, finally, one of the boys.
All three men stripped off their shirts, jeans, and boots. Both body-
builders stood naked in front of Ryan. Kick was already hard. Logan was
on the rise. Ryan was ready to cum. Kick hit an easy pose. Logan moved
in and ran his big hands over Kick’s arms.
Kick grinned at Ryan. “I told you,” he said, “we can have anything we
want.” He motioned for Ryan to lie down on the floor.
Both bodybuilders stood over him, flexing for each other, hands
stroking muscles, pumping their dicks. The view up from between the
pairs of their calves was the best camera angle in the cosmos. Ryan took
hold of himself and followed the oldest posing routine in the world. Move
for move. Kneeling between the two bodybuilders, one dark, one light,
he realized his definitive place in the universe. In the tricky tumble that
three-ways always are, someone inevitably feeling odd-man-out, Kick
directed the reluctant Logan back, and again back, to Ryan. Kick wanted
Ryan and Logan both to discover and get off on what he saw in them.
Fat chance.
Logan regarded Ryan as a pencil-neck geek, more obstacle than
competition. Ryan tolerated Logan only because Kick, ever the gentle-
man-lover, was trying to share with him this man he had harvested as
an attractive add-on to their dual private pleasures. Ryan knew instantly
that Logan was a sexual opportunist, and probably a hustler. He looked
familiar, but Ryan dismissed him as no more than a type, the recognizable
type that hangs around gyms and bodybuilding contests, and cruises out
at night with the express purpose of breaking up somebody’s happy home.
He knew Logan’s competitive superfix-lust for Kick was no way like his
own real love.
Ryan hardly needed to be hit with a pig bladder to remember three’s
a crowd. In Cabaret, “Twosies” may have beat “Onesies” and nothing may
have beat “Threes,” but Ryan, pressed like the ham in a sandwich between
the two musclemen, had the distinct feeling he didn’t like the movie they
were caught in.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK