Page 56 - Some Dance to Remember

26 Jack Fritscher

was sunburned and oiled with a down of fresh sweat from the humid Los
Angeles night. In a couple of years, he was going to win the Gay Games
physique contest.
“You look great,” Ryan said.
“We’ve had a change of plans.” Dan reached for Ryan’s camera case.
Ryan’s heart sank. The fight with Teddy and the big tip for the taxi driver
had been for nothing. Dan read his face. “Kick’s not coming over tomor-
row night.” Ryan suddenly felt his car keys in his jacket pocket. “He called
an hour ago, and asked if it was okay if he posed tonight instead of tomor-
row night.” All Ryan cared about at this moment was the news that would
satisfy his lust for flesh-and-blood musclemen. “So I told him to come on
ahead.” Ryan was relieved. He’d have to apologize to Teddy. “I couldn’t
wait for you to see him. Everything I’ve told you is true.”
“Including,” Ryan said, “that you’re a master of under state ment?”
“You’ll see for yourself.” Dan smiled like a man with a big surprise.
He drove Ryan back to his house off Santa Monica in West Hollywood.
The hot August night smelled of jasmine. Dan’s apartment was austere,
perfect, poised, calculated to the display of extraordinary muscle. A spot-
light can on a black track hung in the center of the bedroom ceiling,
angled for perfect
posing display opposite a floor-to-ceiling mirror.
Ryan wrote in his Journal:

We smoked a joint and waited. The radio sounded the way
radios sound in a new town: different commercials, different
weather forecasts. I was nervous. All my life I had idealized men
in a classic sense. I’d fantasized about the thickness, the bigness
of bodybuilders. Bodybuilders. The word itself. Bodybuilder. A
builder of bodies, taking meat and sculpting flesh by deliber-
ate sweating design. The building of a body. A man’s body. The
architectonics of muscle. The taking of flesh to make a man into
a muscleman. Another incarnational word: muscle. Muscleman.
A complete investigation, no, celebration of the complete male.
Could he be as good as I hoped, as good as Dan said? He was,
I had been told, extremely handsome. Had he truly the perfect
body and the perfect face for dramatizing whatever athletic
clothes or uniforms he carefully chose to wear? Was he really
coming to make me cum? Could he really let me worship his
muscle the way I have so long wanted?

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