Date: Thu, 10 Apr 2008 23:33:52 +0200
From: Julian Obedient <julian.obedient@gmail.com>
Subject: Three Transformations

julian.obedient@gmail.com

Three Transformations

1

I was shy about my body. I was ashamed of the pride I felt in it,
ashamed of the image I kept hidden of a well-toned, well-contoured ,
lean body, rippling with muscles, and graceful.

Ease of body -- I wanted it, I envied it, I did not have it.

And I couldn't help looking at guys who did. With infinite,
inexpressible longing, a longing that broke my heart.

Sometimes I showed my obsession with my body by letting it go to pot,
eating badly, not exercising, not paying too much attention to hygiene
or how I dressed.

This kind of neglect shows contempt for the body that is borne out of
a sense of one's own insufficiency.

But moods change; cycles end; new ones begin. The moon fulfills and
extinguishes itself.

Although I had fallen into a troth, a slough of despond, I had
extricated myself. While nothing around had changed much -- I still
lived alone, spent a lot of time inside my head trying to make myself
feel that although imagination was not experience, perhaps experience
might be conjured through its exercise.



I knew from the first moment I saw him that I could have him doing
anything I told him to do in a matter of weeks,

I liked the way he looked. I got off on the idea that I could make him
look better. I could shape him, own him, become his god.

The blasphemous thought made me shudder with a nervous excitement.

He looked at the locker like he'd never seen one, grasped the handle
and slowly opened the door.

He pulled his clothes off and stuffed them inside the locker. Instead
of underwear, he was already wearing a bathing suit. He looked ok in
it. A nice black bikini.

He walked out to the pool.

I followed him.

That's not all you come here for, I said.

He was startled. Good.

Not just to swim, I said. But to work out.

He looked at me but did not say anything, probably because anything he
wanted to say got blocked by something that blocked its being said. He
was lost.

Come on, I said, indicating he ought to follow me. And I started to
walk back to the lockers.



We were inside the gymnasium, just in our speedos, alone. The hour had
gotten late.

Let me see how you do push-ups, he said.

I hesitated, but felt comfortable and then did not hesitate and did ten.

Not bad, he said, not bad form, but ten. What's that? I won't settle
for less than fifty.

With a grace and an elegance that took my breath away, as if he were
dancing rather than doing push-ups, he easily did fifty.

That's what I want from you.

But...

No buts.


He was working as hard as he could to please me, and he was doing a
pretty good job of it, and whenever I let him know it, he just began
to shine with happiness.

I like to see you sweat, I said. I like the way it makes your muscles
glisten, and you become so smooth, I said, sliding my palms over his
bare chest, so...slippery.

He sighed and collapsed in gentle surrender, letting his body lean
into mine and our chests stuck together as we radiated the energy we'd
accumulated in our work-out.

It had not taken great effort to take hold of him, and now, I
possessed him completely. I could make him do whatever I wished. He
drove himself for me.

====================================================================================================
2.

I was not going to let any of it get to me. That was what I told
myself. That was my resolve. I was not going to let barriers be
barriers or obstructions prevent me. I would master the circumstances
and come out successful.

Needless to say, there were numerous obstructions. But that firmed me
in my resolve. I understood, if I let this go wrong, there would be
nothing else after that. And I am not the sort who is good at dealing
with nothing. I am not God, able to make something out of nothing.

Nearly every characteristic of every one of the young people was an
obstruction.

The boys showed an arrogant politeness; the girls, a brazen shyness.

My colleagues, too, were an obstacle, my colleagues with their
southern-fried iciness, the chilling warmth that had as its only real
purpose the ability to freeze you to the bone until you learned to
give it back.

I lived in the blue heat of isolation.

Every night, I sat late at my desk after preparing lessons, wondering
how I had gotten myself into this. That was idle reverie, but in the
cold hot climate I needed something to keep me warm. And that was it.
And it was easier to think about that than to wonder how I was going
to get out.

Even I understood, tremblingly, that my nebulous resolutions to
succeed were very likely ill-founded. They were not becoming actual.

So it was something like whistling in the dark to say I was not going
to let barriers be barriers. I was daunted by obstructions, blocked by
obstacles, stymied by forces that confined me, by currents I felt but
was unable to see.

It was obvious, I was incompetent at my job. I was weak when it came
to keeping order. Pandemonium was the rule in my classes. Nothing I
did worked. Not scolding, lecturing, quietly waiting, cajoling, being
a good fellow, being harsh. Nothing.

I knew everyone knew it. Just from the looks everyone gave or did not
bother to give, I knew I was of no account. It was only a matter of
months before the year was over and I would be out, out. No chance of
renewal.

If there was anything that made the days tolerable, well, it would be
better to say, if there was anyone who made the days tolerable, it was
Farrell Whitney. He taught mathematics, Greek, and was the boys'
swimming coach.

I felt, although we had hardly spoken and he was not in any way an
outsider, as I was, I felt nevertheless, that there was a hidden bond
between us, that he saw through me, understood me, appreciated me,
could see that I was not the person I appeared to be, so singularly
insignificant, but that there was something to be regarded, although
it was not apparent to a common gaze.

I don't know why I should have this sense. Perhaps because of
something in his gaze, something that invited confidence although I
had never known how to begin a conversation.


It took the day I was let go, something not altogether unexpected
given the impossibility of my performance at the school, for the bond
that I had sensed between Farrell and me to show itself as something
more than a disturbance of my imagination.

I was walking back to the staff lodgings wondering where I would sleep
that night. I had been given until week's end to clear out, but
remaining on campus could only constitute deeper humiliation than
going. So, I imagined I would put up at a cheap motel and figure it
out, or at least try to, from there.

Farrell approached me, walking towards me across the campus green, a
mottled sky behind him.

Granger, he said, using my name and addressing me for the first time
in all our acquaintance or, really, our non-acquaintance.

And I knew he knew.

I looked at him without speaking.

It won't be the end of the world.

No, I suppose not, I said.

This isn't the time or place for it, he said. Look, come to dinner
tonight. My last class ends at four and I'll pick you up and any of
your things. You can stay over the night at least.

He had a house off-campus. I knew that.

That's very kind of you, especially since you hardly know...

He did not let me finish.

None of that, he said. Be ready at four.

I was standing at the school gate.

Get in, he said. Stow your suitcase in the wayback.

It was all I had, that suitcase. I opened the hatch, slammed it down
and got in the front beside him.

He drove through the woods that lead away from the school, away from
the gate towards the road and pulled at his tie with one hand and
undid his shirt button.

Any plans? he said

No, I answered.

You probably don't have much money either.

Enough to get by if I'm careful for a year.

No place to stay.

Right.

Motels?

That's depressing.

I'll put you up.

I looked at him, but he kept his eye on the road.

It'll save you money.

I can't do that.

Why not?

It would be...

a relief not to worry about how you were going to get along.

I guess so, I said, but, I can't do that. It's too...

You tend to argue a lot don't you? he said. That's why you're at this pass now.

He turned into a driveway and pulled up beside a two story Tudor style place.

It's big enough, he said. Come on in.

I got out and followed him but he turned. Don't forget your bag, he said.

I went back to the car and took my suitcase out and wheeled it along
the brick path.

We went in by the side door.

It was a big place with quite a bit of land around it.

It was part of a larger plantation, Whitney said.  But they've all
been divided up. Too much for anybody to keep up without slaves.

You almost sound wistful, I said.

No, he said. I'm not.

I looked at him.

You don't believe me, he said.

No, I said. It just sounded...

I'm not wistful, he said. I get what I want.

I did not know what that meant, and I did not know what to say. So I
remained silent and followed him into the house, into a large kitchen.

Follow me, he said.

We climbed an enclosed stairway up to the second floor, and I followed
him down a rather narrow corridor. He threw open a door and revealed a
large room with a four poster bed, an oak dresser, a straight-backed
chair, and an oak desk.

Why are you doing this? I asked.

Call it Southern hospitality, he said and winked.

The bath tub's over there. Take off your clothes and follow me, he
said walking away from me down the long, narrow hall. He turned into
the bathroom and began to run the water into the tub.

Get in, he said when I stood before him naked.

I obeyed without speaking. I stepped into the tub and lowered myself
into the embrace of hot water that is still tolerable.

Stand, he said.

I stood. Slowly he began to lather me with soap in long soapy strokes
from my heels to the fork of my body. Then with strength he did not
withhold, he caressed my chest and then with soapy hands he took my
scrotum in his palm and laved it, and then he brushed soap strokes on
my cock, which had already risen and was standing hard and straight.
He took it within his fist, looked at me with clear delighted eyes and
said, mine.

===============================================================================================================
3

Locke Pierson stood by the parapet of the penthouse terrace idly
scanning the park with the telescope that was usually pointed at the
heavens.

Find anything? Crane said, handing him a vodka and tonic.

Locke looked up, took the drink, smiled his entrancing smile, tipped
his glass in jaunty greeting, and they both took long swallows of
their drinks and felt the excitement of the alcohol rush through them.

Their flesh became magnetized and drew them together.

I wasn't really looking, Locke said.

But I did find something, he said, after a pregnant interval. Look.

A boy, in his late teens, it appeared, sprawled on the steps at the
Bethesda fountain.

So? Crane said, looking sideways at Locke.

You are particularly adorable when you are obtuse, Locke said, putting
his arm round Crane and pulling them nearer each other.

Oh, said Crane. I thought your days of picking up strays were over.

Don't be bitchy, Locke said, his lips nearly brushing Crane's as he spoke.

Their breaths touched first. Then their lips brushed and stuck.

They dived into the ocean of a kiss but quickly broke water before the
sea tide could take them out very far.

Sorry, Locke said.

Don't mention it, Crane answered with the slightest show of petulance.

It still feels good.

Don't go there, Crane said.

Locke took another swallow of his drink and finished it. He handed the
empty glass to Crane.

One more for the road?

I'm glad you stopped by.

And you're glad I'm going.

Buzz will be home soon, he said sheepishly.

Right, Buzz.

So no drink.

Not this time.

Next time?

Next time.

When's that?

Surprise me.

Don't I always?

Are you going into the park?

Might.

Take care, Locke. It really was good to see you.

Sure. So long.

Not long enough.


The kid was still sprawled on the steps, a knapsack next to him, when
Locke passed him apparently on his way down to the fountain.

Although it had begun to drizzle, the boy looked like he was not
moving from the spot.

You're going to get wet, Locke said, stopping beside him.

So will you, the kid said.

But I intend to get out of the rain. It doesn't look like you do.

It won't rain long.

Don't you have any place to go?

What's it to you?

Nothing, Locke said. Just concerned.

Concerned about what?

Somebody down on his luck.

What makes you think I'm down on my luck?

Because you're sprawled on the steps in the rain and it looks you got
no place to go..

Yeah, the kid said. I guess you've got a point.

You want to go for a coffee?

You trying to pick me up?

You could say that.

You don't have somebody regular.

Nope.

Ok.


Fuck the coffee, man, if you want take me home with you, as you
yourself just observed, I got no place to go.

Come on kid, Pick up your junk, Locke said. But as far as I'm
concerned you can leave it.

Thanks, the kid said, standing up.

He gathered his stuff together and bunched it tight in the blanket
he'd been sitting on.

We gotta find some place where I can ditch this shit.

Just put it down in that corner.

Now where are you gonna take me? the kid asked, hooking his palm over
Locke's arm.

Home.

Where's that?

By now they were by the curb and Locke's arm was out and a cab stopped
for them.

First Street off Second Avenue.

It was two interconnecting floors of an old tenement that had been
redone and were painted white and sparsely furnished.


Get into the bath tub, you little beggar, I cried roughly, tossing him
a fluffy white towel, which he caught.

Get out of those filthy clothes and get into the tub.

What are you going to do? he said as he pulled his t-shirt over his
head after I snapped my fingers because he had not immediately heeded
my words.

He was a very sweet boy and I soaped him very gently and made him
shine in his naked beauty aglow with calmness.

He smiled at me.

I touched his lips with my fingers and without even thinking about it,
he kissed the fingers his lips touched.

We gazed into each others eyes, and we both understood what had
happened. I had taken him and he had surrendered.

He lay naked on my bed in the glow of half a dozen wax candles,
drifting high and deep, awake and sweetly stoned and I slowly dragged
my tongue over his nipples, making them tumescent as I blew cool
breath on them and stroked his abs and then went lower and took him
from under the scrotum and caressed him with the undulating pressure
of my palm.

I rubbed the crown of his cock the tender glans and made him crazy with desire.

I raised myself up and kissed him on the mouth and knew he was mine by
the way he surrendered to the kiss.

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