Page 478 - Some Dance to Remember

448 Jack Fritscher

more he hurt it the harder it became. He hated the fact that a masochist
can never really punish himself. The pain was his pleasure.
He existed for pain. He mistrusted anything else.
He had always known that his very attraction to Kick was that only
someone as perfect as Kick would cause him, sooner or later, the extrava-
gant pain he deserved.
“You pay for heaven either in this life or the next,” Monsignor Linotti
had said, “and it’s far better to suffer here than hereafter.”
Heaven’s gate had a steep price.
His only insurance against the Death he dreaded was suffering enough
pain here and now to enter heaven when he died of whatever killed him.
But his body betrayed him. His cock turned his pain to pleasure. He
feared there was no way he could suffer enough in this life to be worthy
of life beyond Death. There was no way out, no way he could work his
way to heaven the way he had tried to work his way into the blessed circle
of bodybuilder jocks.
Rejected here, he would be rejected hereafter. He broke into a cold
sweat. He put his hands to his face. Naked and alone in the nightfield,
he accepted his place in the universe. He was desperate to make any deal
he could. He cried out to the darkness. The dark had its own dimension.
The dark was not, as Kick had insisted, a void. The dark had stars, and
the darkened moon hung, glorious in eclipse, with an imperial Command
Presence of its own.
Finally, in his own life-movie, unreeling on the bone screen behind
his high forehead, he was fully stuck in the total darkness between the
flashing frames of light. He blasphemed and nothing struck him dead.
No lightning. No thunder. No God. There was nothing in the dark night
of the soul, and if there was nothing, then he ached for what consolation
there was.
His asshole flinched for Kick’s fist.
He reached out to the dark moon with his left hand and followed its
smooth contours with the cup of his palm. It was the moon he saw, but
it was the curve of Kick’s shoulder and arm and thigh and butt he felt.
He had memorized Kick in the palm of his hand. He cupped his hand
around the strong nape of Kick’s fresh-clipped blond neck. He stroked the
massive pecs, the fur on the washboard belly, the hang of the big blond
balls and the erect penis. With the left hand we give Energy. With the
right, we receive it. Kick was indelible in the palm of his left hand forever.
He rubbed his hand into his face, sniffing and licking and biting it. He
fingered his butthole and shoved his dick toward the dark sky.

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