Page 445 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 415

that’s the eye of the needle that love must pass through. Loss of yourself,
the Death of identity, until the needle is threaded, and you are given back
by your lover anew, improved, reborn sense of your self, rewarded, because
you trusted him enough to let go of yourself completely.
“I am not a philosopher, nor was I meant to be. I’m so J. Alfred Pru-
frock. All I know is I wanted something from him. I wanted something I
can’t have. I wanted something I lost at the baths. Cheap goods, the Wife
of Bath said, have little value. I was cheap goods. I wanted him to give me
my innocence back. I wanted purity back, his and mine....Dumb old me.
Maybe he had never lost his purity. Maybe he was super-pure and I was
too sex-crazed, too drug-impaired to recognize it. That’s me all over. Call
someplace paradise; kiss today good-bye.”
Ryan took the remote gun of his video in his hand.
With the video camera still running, he knelt up in the bed, watching
himself kneel up on the nineteen-inch live video screen. He was real. He
was on video. He was his own Yorick between two mirrors. One thing
was instantly, electronically, two things curving off to infinity. He could
see his otherness. What was life if not Chinese puzzle boxes filled with
cathode ray tubes?
He took the remote-control gun of his video in his hand. He turned
from the live screen and knelt before the blank monitor. He pushed the
remote PLAY button.
Kick’s supernal blondness lit up the empty forty-four-inch screen.
Ryan controlled Kick’s onscreen timing. He pulled the trigger of the
video gun. Kick posed on stage, in open fields, in the playroom. Ryan’s
hand controlled the SLOW MOTION, the FAST-FORWARD, the
SPEED-SEARCH for the appropriate footage, the FREEZE-FRAME
that could hold Kick on screen forever, the SINGLE-FRAME ADVANCE
that made Kick move totally under his coaching, clicking off his move-
ments like the inexorable seconds on a clock.
Kick rose majestic as a sun god above the draw atop Corona Heights.
He posed on the dais of a spotlighted stage. He strained in classic bondage
sculpture against steel chains and black leather. He sat still in close-up as
the camera circled again and again around his face. He stood powerful,
oiled, pumped, jerking his enormous dirty-blond cock from the screen.
Ryan responded in kind for his live camera.
“This is an intimacy, Magnus, that I want to share with you.”
In the background, his stereo played the Doors. Jim Morrison was
singing, “This is the end, my only friend.”
Ryan smiled into the camera. “At least I have enough self left to be

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