Page 64 - Some Dance to Remember

34 Jack Fritscher

My eyes looked hungrily into his, feeding back what he was giv-
ing out, circulating his energy back to increase his muscularity,
to heighten our intensity, look to look, face to face, soul to soul.
If there is a Jesus who meets me at Death, and if His face is to
reassure me, then let Him look at least this good, and let that
good feeling of that frozen moment be the beautific vision that
lasts forever. Inside the moment of our intense look that held no
secret from each other, I knew this was no false idol I had before
me. At this moment, more than any spent kneeling before the
Blessed Sacrament, I experienced true adoration.
“I worship you,” my voice said, and my voice was not my
voice. Something that belonged to both of us was speaking. “I
worship your muscles, your bodybuilder face, your muscleman
soul, I worship all men in you. I honor all men in you.” I fell into
a litany of worship, stroking myself, rising slowly up toward his
glorious face, shooting my seed over his veined thighs, and with-
out pause continued on pleasing his insatiable satyr hunger. My
pleasure in him pleasured him even more. My energy toward him
caused him to pump out more male intensity. I hardened again.
He displayed his double-arm shot bringing his Big Guns to full
flex. My hand ran up his body and held firmly onto his biceps. I
began to pull myself up to his chin. His eyes stared straight ahead
into the mirror behind me, and, without touching himself, he
shot hot rivers of seed and sweat down my face and chest.
Later, he said, “I felt I was taking all your energy. I usually
pose alone. No one’s ever followed along so well. I don’t want to
take anything from you.”
I held my palms toward him. “Does a man holding his hand
out to a fire ever feel he’s giving rather than receiving heat and
light?”
I wanted Kick. I wanted him soul and body. Through incar-
nated muscle, he opened his soul to me, for longer than an instant,
and I, through my worshiping words, opened mine to him. We
knew nothing about each other; we knew all there was to know.
I wanted his spirit. My journey at long last ended. We had both
shot in salute to what passed between us. It was not private parts,
not crotches, not mere ejaculation, not sexual spasm. It was total
whole-body orgasm. I wanted his Being. My homosexual search-
ing had been no more than a physical trek across the geography of
men’s bodies to find this man’s homomasculine essence through

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