Page 61 - Some Dance to Remember

Some Dance to Remember 31

He smiled and pulled off the CHP jacket. Slowly. So slowly.
That was his style to move southern-slow in the El Lay fast lane.
First one muscled arm. Then the other. All his moves like the
slow-motion muscle movies I watched every night in my bed-
room. He wore a tan CHP short-sleeve wool shirt. It bulged like
armor over his chest. His gold seven-point star stood out on his
left pec. His eighteen-inch upper arms filled the precisely tailored
sleeves to bursting.
He was arms. Heroic arms. His thick forearms were downed
with soft golden hair. His wrists were squared off in the classic
way wrists are presented in men’s watchband ads. His hands were
perfect, defined, and powerful from gripping iron weights. His
fingers and the backs of his hands were downed with sunblond
hair. His nails were clipped short. His arms, hands to shoulders,
were arms to worship. This was no false god I had before me. In
sex, I have few inhibitions. With him, I had none.
“You are,” I said, “perfect.”
He smiled, and something in the way he smiled assured me
there was no vanity in him. Only an honest pride. He was a man
who realized the body perfect for himself. He was a body artist,
a muscle artist. Bodybuilding is a subjective sport, but he was as
objective as any sculptor unveiling his work.
He kept his look straight on me. His fingers reached for the
buttons on his police shirt. Again, slowly, deliberately, he opened
the shirt: at his neck, down across his hairy blond chest, down
the length of his washboard belly. He pulled the shirt tails from
under his belt. He dropped his arms down to his sides. He rotated
his shoulders. The tan wool shirt pulled open over his chest and
tight gut. He smiled at me, and slowly raised his left hand to palm
inside the open shirt. I watched his hand run up the ripple of his
belly and then smooth and cup his pectoral muscles. Already
he had shown me more than I ever expected. He might have
stopped and I could have flown back home happy. I’ve always
loved seduction.
He peeled his uniform shirt deliberately off first one shoul-
der and then the other, revealing how wide side-to-side were his
shoulders, how thick front-to-back was his chest, how wide were
his lats under his shoulders and alongside his chest until they nar-
rowed down to the tight V of his waist. He handed Dan the shirt,
and stood before me, stripped to the waist, with his high-booted

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