Page 82 - Some Dance to Remember

52 Jack Fritscher

of his muscle against ropes and chains and leather. He could have been a
muscle-bondage centerfold for Maneuvers, but Ryan advised him against
sex modeling if he wanted to compete without compromise in physique
contests.
They played nights of heroic bondage sculpture, starring Kick as
Prometheus Bound and Hercules Chained. “I’m bound in muscle,” he
confessed to Ryan. “You of all people can understand what bodybuilders
really say when they talk muscle. The ropes of muscle coiling around my
body. The veins corded around the muscle. Nothing turns me on more. I like
exhibition of muscle sweating and straining against chains and rope and
leather straps.” Kick peeled back another layer of himself. “But when you
look the way I do, there’s a curse on the gift. Everybody always wants me
to tie them up and treat them like shit. I’m not into degradation sex. I’m
into heroic celebration sex.”
Ryan understood. Kick needed a man to tie him up. Bondage was
one of Ryan’s favorite sexsports. A fetish Kick knew from the pages of
Maneuvers. For their first Christmas, Ryan ordered an industrial-weight
latex rubber bodysuit with hood tailor-made for Kick. Complete with
hands and feet, the one-piece black suit covered Kick’s body and helmeted
his head inside the full hood with mouth and nose and eye holes. A heavy
zipper ran up Kick’s back from the base of his spine to the top of his
blond head. Skin-tight layers of black latex encased his sculpted body. His
long, thick blond dick pointed erect and hard through the black-rubber
cockring in the crotch. His balls hung big and low. Completely encased in
rubber, Kick posed intensely: thick black latex pecs, abdominals treaded
like tires, biceps big as baseballs, thighs and calves hard as pilings. His
bulk was so defined each muscle flexed distinctly. Abstracted by the beau-
tiful sheen of black latex, he was a massive, beautiful chunk of rippling
black-rubber sculpture, a blond man transmorphed to a dark angel, posing
and flexing his wide-winged lats, sculpted to life by the rubbing, stroking,
warming of Ryan’s adoring hands.
Watching Ryan’s Latex Videotapes, I sense a kind of necrophilia, as if
Ryan were courting a muscular, black, inexorable Death. He was almost
Bergmanesque finding love and Death and the whole damn thing in the
sweating black-sheathed body of a blond Scandinavian.
Solly Blue, who was always a sage, was closer to Ryan. “Of course,”
he said. “Ryan’s always been half in love with easeful Death. It’s a writer’s
romanticism. Writers need to be depressed to write. At least good writers.
That’s why they all kill themselves one way or another. At least American
writers.”

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