Page 62 - Some Dance to Remember

32 Jack Fritscher

legs apart. The tailored lines of his motorcop breeches clung to
his thighs, swelled over his butt, and bulged at his zippered fly.
God! Was I getting material for Maneuvers! He was the incar-
nation of every mighty sexual hero I had ever conjured up in
my erotic fiction. He was a vision stroked out of my one-handed
study of hundreds of videotapes of bodybuilders. He was theol-
ogy, literature, myth. He was Adam before the Fall, Billy Budd in
full bloom, a male god rising tanned from a blue sea with the vine
leaves of a satyr wet in his hair. He was what I had always wanted.
“You are,” I repeated, showing the proper ritual respect owed to
an artist generous in sharing his creation, “perfect.”
“You told me,” he said to Dan, “that your friend liked mus-
cles.” Then he shined right on me. “Your friend,” he said, “loves
muscles.”
“Your muscles. I love your muscles,” I said. I had been lost
and now I was found. “I love your proportion, your bulk, your
definition. I love your symmetry. I love your Look.” I could not
bring myself to say to these men, that suddenly in my always
terrified heart I was a little less afraid of dying which I had been
born afraid of. Looking at Kick, I knew that if a Being were to
meet me on the other side of the squeeze of Death, that if there
were a sweet Jesus, then what must eternal heaven be like, if Jesus
only looks this good, and this good feeling infusing my body
lasts forever?
The night heated up. Kick stripped in the spotlight. His chest
and abs glowed with thick blond hair. Long golden fur fleeced his
thighs and calves and feet. He sported the body of a bear. His dick
was more than most nylon posing trunks could pouch. We played
musclesex until the hour before dawn. Kick posed and flexed
under my oiled hands. Something more than sex, something like
an understanding, was bonded between us. Dan knelt off in the
corner stroke-watching the match he had made. He said later that
Kick and I both were like beggars at an ecstatic feast, that we were
perfect yin-yang, that gods need worshipers as much as worship-
ers need gods. I only know that I knelt before Kick for hours,
rising up, stroking and sniffing and licking his body, eyeing his
face close up, breathing his sweet breath, and for hours he posed,
tireless, flexing arms and chest and belly and legs. He encouraged
my sexual muscle-rap, following my words with his moves, as if
I was scripting a scenario he had waited all his life to hear. We

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