Date: Sat, 24 Mar 2001 21:37:20 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 29

Chapter 29:  Epiphany
	"Oh, Jesus," Doug said, embarrassed for me.  He had walked in with me naked
and tied to the bed while Dan stood over me, his big toe all but fucking me
while he slowly jerked himself off.  I blushed deeply and closed my eyes as
if it would make me invisible.  "We can go somewhere else, man.  Sorry.
Didn't mean to interrupt."
	"No problem," Dan said calmly.  "You can stay."  I waited for the
we-can-move-to-Mark's-room part, but it never came.  I opened my eyes in
annoyance.  Dan was still casually stroking his dick.  Doug had his back to
us out of politeness.  Seating himself on his own bed, Adam watched the
exchange with detached amusement.  Doug reluctantly followed Adam's lead and
accepted Dan's invitation by plunking himself down on the bed next to Adam.
Deeply embarrassed, I frowned and stonily looked up at Dan as he towered
above me.
	"Anyway," said Adam, continuing, evidently, the conversation he and Doug
were having before they walked in, "you gotta work on your floor.  We need
more depth there.  We only have four strong tumblers.  We need two more to
be safe."
	Dan removed his foot from my asscrack and brought it back to hook it under
my left knee.  Bending his own knee, he lifted my knee with his flexed foot,
and directed it up to my torso, making the approach to my pucker easier.
	"You, ahhh...you know I'm weak at tumbling," Doug said to Adam, clearly
uncomfortable with watching what was happening in our half of the room.
"Steve would be better at it.  I should stick to the strength events."
	"Stevie's hitting a wall," Adam returned.  "He's been working his ass off
on the floor, and he's just not getting better."
	"Dan could.  That'd make him a contender for the all-around."
	"I suck at floor," Dan said, bringing his foot back to my crack and running
the length of it with his toe.  "Not interested in the all-around.  That's
Adam this year.  Matt, maybe in two.  Not me.  I'm a specialist."  His eyes
never wavered from me as he spoke, nor did he interrupt the slow, full
stroking of his own dick.  I desperately wished a hole in the universe to
form just under the bed so that I could fall into it and hide.
	"It's just that...tumbling is...look, dude," Doug said to Adam, "we gotta
go somewhere else.  This is just too weird."  Doug's embarrassment only
served to make mine worse.  I could feel the flush of my cheeks, but didn't
know if it was from self-consciousness or anger.
	Adam shrugged.  "Whatever," he said.  The two of them rose and headed out
the door.
	I turned to look at Dan, and fumed.
	"What?" he said.
	"What's the point of *that*?" I asked, angrily.
	"The point of what?"
	"You into public humiliation?  Is that it? 'Cause I'm not, you know."
	Dan put his heel down on the bed just shy of my crotch and laid his foot
flat against my perineum.  He applied pressure to the point of vague
discomfort - enough to remind me that pain was well within his means.
	"Let's get a couple of things straight, here," he said.  "I don't give a
shit if you're into public anything or not.  You got that perfectly clear?"
	I nodded, tight-lipped.  This was not fun.  I was not assuaged.
	"Secondly, you gotta think through what y'all want to be embarrassed about
and what y'all don't."
	"Huh?"  I hadn't expected this line of argument.  I was sure he was going
to continue with the classic, "I'm the master, what I say goes" line.
	"You're Mr. Gay and Proud," he said.  "You haven't figured this out yet?"
	"What are you talking about?"  My confusion began to overcome my anger.  I
could feel my features softening.  Dan saw it too and removed his foot from
its threatening position to return to stroking my crack with his toe as he
talked.
	"All y'all are so big on Gay and Proud, but it's crap," he began.  "You
spend all this time saying gay is just as good as straight and that
straights are wrong about you.  "Oh, we love that we're gay.  We're proud of
being gay."  But then what do all y'all do?  You fucking make fun of each
other for being bottoms. Fucking hypocrites."
	"I..." I stammered, "No, it's not like that.  That's not what we...That
isn't what it's..." I found I had no ending to the sentence I had felt
required to begin.
	"Oh, it's fucking exactly like that and you know it," he said.  "You don't
see girls embarrassed about liking getting fucked.  It's what they do.  So
you tell me. What's so humiliating about doing what you know turns you on?
I thought there was supposed to be pride in that?"
	"I'm *not* embarrassed about liking getting fucked!" I protested, at last
able to latch onto something he said.  "I'm embarrassed about having a
friend see me tied down to a bed."
	"Why?  That's what you like.  That's who you are.  That's what you do.
What's there to be embarrassed about?  Y'all are supposed to be so
enlightened.  Who the fuck cares if you like being tied down to a bed?"
	"I just don't like public displays of sex..." I said, but he interrupted
me, his baritone commanding me to silence.
	"That dog won't hunt, and you know it. You wouldn't be embarrassed if I was
giving *you* a blowjob and someone you'd already messed around with came in.
  And if *he* were embarrassed by it, you'd be, like, "it's the most natural
thing in the world.  Get over it."  You'd think he was homophobic."
	I stared up at him slack-jawed.  He continued.
	"But because you're on the bottom, and, fucking worse, you so obviously
*want* to be on the bottom, now it's humiliating, right?  All y'all are so
into pride.  "Queer" isn't an insult, and all that shit.  But then some top
calls you a "pussyboy" or a "cocksucker" and it's supposed to be
humiliating?  What the fuck?  Why is it okay for you to be proud about being
queer, but not about being a total pussy?"
	I swear when you're lying naked on your back, hands trussed above your head
while a possibly straight SM top slowly jerks off over you, the last thing
you expect to hear is a polemic on sexism within the gay male community and
the reclamation of the language of oppression.  The most extraordinary thing
about it was, of course, that he was exactly right.  We *do* make fun of
each other for being bottoms.  It *is* sexist. We insist that doing guys
does not signify a diminution of our masculinity, but secretly cling to the
notion that getting done by them does.  And this man - this man who from
encounter to encounter did everything except what I expected him to do - he
had thought this through and come to a truly enlightened conclusion.
	"I would give anything right now," I said, "to get you off."
	He laughed.  He laughed easily and freely.  "You're a fucking case, you
know that?"  He knelt down so that his knees straddled my rib cage almost to
my armpits.  The hair on his shins tickled my sides.  His dick stretched
over my face, his balls inches over my mouth.
	He renewed his stroking, and I became transfixed by the sight of his
foreskin as it stretched on the down strokes, then folded over his head as
he brought his hand up the length of his shaft.  Circumcised, myself, I have
always been fascinated by the mechanics of the foreskin.  Dan's was
beautiful.  Ample enough to cover his cockhead when he drew his hand fully
over it but not loose enough to completely hide it when he was soft, it
spread the precum oozing from his slit over the mushroom of his crown to
make it glisten and shine.  His stroking caused his balls to wave gently
forward and back wafting periodic shots of his smell into my nostrils.
Spunky.  Sweaty.  Sharp.  How wet my mouth had become for want of a taste of
him!  And how close to exploding the over-inflated, concrete flesh of my
dick was!
	"So y'all my little Yankee, cocksucking pussyboy or what?" he said,
smiling.
	"Happily," I returned.  "I'm just my big, strong, smart Rebel's proud,
cocksucking pussyboy."
	"So if I went and got Eric and brought him back here, you'd be okay with
it?"
	"Couldn't it be Brad?"
	Dan laughed.  "Work on it," he said. His pumping was getting more
deliberate, and his right pec, bicep and tricep began to swell
asymmetrically from use.  From beneath his dick, I could see the tips of his
thumb and forefinger just able to meet as they encased his flesh.  The blue
vein stuck out in a more pronounced way than usual.  He abandoned his long
strokes and began centering his attention on the place where movement caused
the skin to fold over the flare of his head.  Back and forth in little
jerks, his foreskin flexed and stretched, flexed and stretched.
	I stuck my tongue out as far as it would go, trying to get a taste of his
ballsack.  I came within millimeters, able only to tease myself with some of
the long straight hairs that hung from it.  I was reaching for him, body
arched, head off the bed, soul extended.  He looked down at my thirst for
him with full satisfaction.  Need gets him off, he had said.  How
effectively he had turned me into an instrument for his own satisfaction!  I
was, at that moment, no more than, no less than the incarnation of need.
	His head tilted back, his eyes glazed and his balls began their telltale
rise.  He returned to long stroking again, but at a vastly increased tempo.
Veins appeared on his forearm as he worked himself, his grip as tight as it
would be on the high bar, his dick as wooden.  There was nothing I could do
to assist him, much as I desperately wanted to feel him, to help him, to
work him. He would not let me, and for me to try further would only distract
him, close as he was to coming.  Instead, I laid my head back down on the
bed and opened my mouth wide, my tongue resting slightly extended over my
lower lip.  I could offer him nothing, I had realized, except a target.  It
was the correct gesture.  Seeing it brought him over the edge.  With air
hissing between his teeth, his face contorted into the agony of ecstasy.
His abdominals contracted, his entire body quivered in spasm.  His hand shot
to the base of his dick forcing the longest rope of cum to emerge that I
have ever seen.  It was endless, viscous, dazzling.  It landed diagonally
across my face, burning a scar from my hair to my left cheek.  The second
string was aimed at my mouth. The bulk of the shot hit my soft palate, but
enough landed across my tongue that I could begin to savor the complex taste
of it.  But Dan wasn't done.  He shot again and again, drenching my face and
hair and mouth and making me wonder if he had been celibate as long as I
had.  By the time he was done, I was a canvas that would have put Jackson
Pollock to shame.
	He collapsed onto my chest, sitting full weight on me, holding his dick as
the last few precious bobbles of fluid oozed from it.  Panting, cheeks
flushed red, covered in a light sheen of sweat, he looked to me, for the
first time, less the God and more the young man.  Given the time he needed
to recover, I was able to begin to savor the taste of his ejaculate.
	Is it the taste of cum itself that is so overwhelming?  There are no words
that can describe it, of course.  Smoky, earthy, salty, musky, all come
short of its gustatory complexity.  Is it its texture?  The viscous
sliminess that can not be cleared from your mouth regardless of how many
times you swallow?  Or is it the symbolism of it?  Incorporating into your
very being the means by which your man self-propagates.  When we swallow
cum, we absorb his essence and, somehow in a way that harkens back to
prehistory, his power.  He becomes part of us in a ritual as potent as the
taking of the host onto our tongues: his flesh becomes our flesh.  Or is it
that it was Dan's cum that was sliding slowly down my throat, Dan's
substance that was coating me, Dan's little soldiers that were conquering me
from the inside?  Dan had injected me, infected me, and I wanted no cure.
Consuming him, he consumed me.
	Dan reached down and gently began to trace the strings of cum around my
face, periodically bringing his finger to my mouth to allow me to lick his
residue off it.  I sucked his fingers greedily, and he let me, calmly
running them over and under my tongue, exploring the insides of my cheeks,
my teeth.  I concentrated every fiber of my being on not cumming
spontaneously.  When he finished, he leaned down and took my mouth in his,
tasting himself on my lips.  He ate my breath, my tongue, my being.  When he
released me, I was in a daze.
	"You are the hottest man in the universe," I said, breathlessly.
	"Really?" he asked, pleased with himself.  "Hotter than Adam?"
	He sat back and looked down on me, smirking self-contentedly.
	It continued to drizzle Wednesday, the kind of weather brought us by an
indecisive God.  It was not wet enough to be a storm, it was not dry enough
to be fair.  Being outside, at least, woke me up.  If I had slept more than
an hour the night before, I could not recall it. I was a big walking dick.
I had been called it before, but never felt it so completely.
	"Hey," I said to Matt when I caught up with him on the way to lunch.  "Long
time no talk."
	"Hey."
	"You okay?"
	He looked at me impassively.
	"Yeah," he said after a beat.  "Fine."
	"Shmu phoned.  He wants to come out here this weekend."  The boy brightened
noticeably.
	"No way!"
	"Yah way...and other Biblical references."
	"Huh?"
	"Nothing, pu...nothing, Matt." I smiled, catching myself.  "A stupid
private joke."
	"Doesn't he work or something?"
	"Shmu?  Be serious.  He' already spent the millions he thinks he's going to
get.  Shmu wouldn't hold a nine-to-five if you put a gun to his head.  And
his camp doesn't start until August."
	"That's way cool."
	"Way way." I said.  I watched him for signs, but couldn't read the writing.
  Matt was too close to the closet.  He was still good at hiding.
	Eric sat across from me at lunch.
	"So you been spending a lot of time with Dan, huh?" he asked as he finished
his meal.
	"Yeah," I said.  "I like Dan a lot."
	"So you into getting raped now?  Is that it?"
	Silence fell at the table.  It was only Matt, Brad, Evan, and Steven left,
but they clearly heard something that disturbed them.
	I laughed.  "Honey, you can't rape the willing."
	"No," he said, "but you can rape the unwilling."
	"Huh?"
	"Don't you know why Dan transferred here?" he asked.
	"Shut the fuck up, Eric," Steven said.
	"Am I lying?" he asked.
	"It's none of your fucking business.  Jesus, Eric, sometimes you can be
such a dweeb."
	Eric smiled a humorless grin, got up from the table and took his tray.
"Why don't you ask him about it, Mark?" he suggested smarmily on his way
out.
	"What the hell was *that* all about?" I asked when the screen door shut
behind him.
	"Drop it," Steven said, still frowning.  "It's just Eric being Eric.  Don't
worry about it."  I looked over at Matt, who pursed his lips and held his
hands in the air as if to say "I wouldn't touch this one if you paid me."
	When I got to the gym, Adam was leading the boys in their warm up.  They
lay on the floor doing bicycle crunches as he grunted out a number every
fourth sit-up. Knees came to opposing elbows in perfect unison rhythm.  The
boys had, to a one, forgone shirts.  The gym was holding the accumulated
heat like French onion soup.
	Had the treasure trail always been the sexiest part of the human anatomy?
Blond and wispy, black and full, straw and sculpted, coal and thin, there
were ten arrows, ten invitations twisting before me to Adam's hypnotic
count.  And had men's areolae always been so perfect in their variation?
Small and sharply defined, large and full, bare or circled with a crown of
hair, bumpy or smooth, each drew the eye happily to its protruding focus
where it remained trapped by desire and fixation.  And had I always had
trouble sleeping?  Had I always had this curious inability to concentrate?
Had I always been hard?  Had I always been falling?
	The boys were stretching now.  Two rows - five of them facing me, five
facing away.  Ten Russian splits, with torsos folded flat onto the floor.
Adam called for toes to be pointed.  Ten perfect unbroken lines of muscle.
Five pairs of shoulders pressing to the floor.  Ten dimpled deltoids, round
and firm as melons, winking at me.  Five jock straps digging into ten
delectable cheeks under tightly stretched, glossy onionskin training shorts.
  Did Freud ever write about polymorphous perversity in one's twenties, or
just the polymorphousless kind?  Was polymorphousless a word?
Poly-morph-ous-less.  Many-form-having-without.  And why wasn't Morpheus
visiting me?  Did dreams only come to the limp?
	Fuck, I was tired.  Was this the beginning of disassociation?  What would
my advisor say?  I leave to study an alpha male, I come back two months
later nuts - a sleep-deprived, horny toad.  I took my green notebook and
opened to the week before.  It was a tapestry of seemingly meaningless
shorthand scribbles.  Hip pose three.  Head tilt back.  Lower lip lick.  A
catalogue in which, as indecipherably plain as the language of whales, lay
the key to power.
	The warm-up finished, Adam assigned pairs to apparati, then walked off with
Johnston to discuss the afternoon's session.  Nothing unusual.  This was how
all practices began.  It was only because some part of me had learned to
*always* be aware of Dan that Steven's cross to him caught my eye.  There
were words exchanged quietly.  I couldn't hear what they were, but I could
clearly see the effect they had on Dan and...
	The green notebook fell from my lap as my brain made the stunning cognitive
leap.  Perhaps it was *because* I was so tired.  Perhaps my exhaustion had
allowed me to think outside the box.  But how could I have missed it for so
long?  In one dazzling second, it was perfectly clear.  It had always been
there, but I had been completely blind to it.
	I was looking at Dan react in anger to Steven's words.  The muscles of his
jaw flexed until he consciously relaxed it.   His tongue came out and rested
on his lower lip.  He strode over to Eric.  Interfemoral angle - there.  Bet
it was 12 degrees.  Angle between hip and elbow.  Check.  He stood.  Akimbo
pose two.  The inclination of the head as he talked to Eric.  And Eric's
reaction!  He shrank.  He took an unconscious step back.  He drew his tail
between his legs.  I picked up the notebook and furiously flipped through
pages looking for a similar interaction.  Yes.  The same!  Gestures?  What
few there were were the same.  The interaction I was looking at in person
between Dan and Eric, from the perspective of the language of non-verbal
communication, was exactly the same as the one I had transcribed a week and
a half before - between Adam and Brad.  Dan was an Alpha!