Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2001 17:10:24 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 22

Chapter 22:  Revelations

	I couldn't sleep at all.  It felt like the atmosphere was pressing down on
me.  I lay on my bed naked, unable to relax for want of a breath of breeze.
When I finally did drift off, it was to a troubled, uncomfortable place.
	Matt was there, wagging his tail, and I was hitting him on the nose with a
rolled up newspaper.  He didn't understand why, and both of us found it
intensely painful.  The scene played out over and over in the dream,
trapping me emotionally and temporally in the ugly moment.  A fault opened
up under my feet, and I was falling through clouds.  It was frightening, but
also an exhilarating feeling.  I kept looking down for the ground but it was
hidden in the haze.  I fell for a long time wondering if I would survive the
landing, hoping, despite the enormous heights from which I plummeted, it
would be gentle. But there was no landing.  I awoke.
	Stuck to the sheet, I peeled myself out of bed and splashed water on my
face.  I would not be returning to sleep soon, I knew.  Instead, I lay in
bed and considered the day.
	Matt was not just infatuated.  Matt was in full-blown obsessive crush mode.
  Strange that I didn't see it coming.  Was I so tickled at the idea of
finding a real honest-to-god homo among them that I stopped paying
attention?  Was it what Adam had said?  Hearing him tell me to stay away
from the boy was a gilded invitation for me to get involved with him.  At
least it was given my then current understanding of and relation with Adam.
	Adam.  He could, of course, have foreseen that Matt would develop a crush
that would turn serious.  He had known Matt for years.  If I had been paying
attention and had not been distracted by the effluvia of the Alpha Male, I
would have seen it too.  But how could he have known that it would end
badly?  For all he knew, I could have fallen back as deeply in love with
Matt as he had fallen with me.  Of course, I hadn't.  Matt was adorable,
Matt was fun, Matt was caring, and giving, and energetic and gorgeous, and
Hell would freeze over before I would fall in love with him.  But how could
Adam have known that?
	Why? I found myself wondering for the umpteenth time.  Matt was perfect.
How could anyone *not* fall in love with him?  And yet my history pointed
squarely to the knowledge that I wouldn't.  There would be something
missing.  There was always something missing.  It used to be that it took me
months in a relationship to realize that whatever it was - that mysterious
and newly discovered dark-energy of the universe - was missing from our
interactions.  I would break it off with lame excuses, not understanding
myself why I was doing it.  But with hard work and self-examination, I was
able to decrease significantly the turn-around time to disaster.  After a
while I could break it off after a few dates with far less serious
consequences.  This was lovely, this was fun, but this was not what I was
looking for.  Sorry.  And on those rare occasions when he asked what I *was*
looking for?  "Something else," was the coy answer - as obscure and
noncommunicative to me as it was to him.
	No, I would not be falling in love with Matt, and this presented an
insurmountable problem, as he was clearly in love with me, and we would be
spending the next six weeks together.  How to treat the situation would
require a lot of thought.  These things must be done delicately!
Delicately! as dear Elvira Gulch put it.  Fuck.  I was cast, once again, in
the role of the Wicked Witch of the West.
	Shelve that, I thought.  I'll deal with it later.  Next came Dan.
	That I did not hate him that night was of utmost significance, though what
it meant, I could not say.  The pristine mountain environment, meant to
clean and clear our minds was serving only to fog mine as I became
increasingly, inexplicably emotionally muddy with each passing day.  Anyway,
I did not feel attacked by Dan.  Challenged, yes.  Attacked no.  What was it
he had said to me?
	Snob?  Yeah, well, sure, I was a snob.  Most people were boring, and I had
little time or emotional energy for them.  This didn't bother me at all.
This was also one of the major reasons I had chosen research rather than
clinical psych as a field. It wouldn't quite do, in the middle of a therapy
session, to yawn and say, "okay, now let's talk about something interesting
for a change.  Me, for example."  I was used to my snobbery and wore it
almost as a badge of honor.  Not pretty, but, as Dan had said, we must be
clear both about our strengths and weaknesses.
	He had said I had been uncomfortable with the boys, but was getting less
so.   Well, that was certainly true.  My expectations had changed when I
arrived.  I had thought I would be able to observe Adam at a distance, do my
chores and interact at best cursorily with the rest.  Who knew they'd be so
interesting?  Who knew they'd be so receptive to a gay among them?  Who knew
they'd be so horny?!  Well, Johnston knew all those things, and had I had
the presence of mind to ask him at the interview, I would have too.  He
played me pretty well, I realized.  Got me hooked from the moment he
mentioned the Alpha.  Read the fine print, Mark.  Always read the fine
print.  Was I losing my edge?
	Anyway, I was, indeed, nervous when I arrived and have known all my life
that while for some, nervousness comes out in laughter, for me it comes out
in vocabulary.  I am positively sesquipedalian when uncomfortable.  So far,
he was right on the money, which I knew to the foundation of my being from
the moment he said the words.  Perhaps that's why I wasn't angry.  One can't
be angry at the truth, dispassionately presented.  Hurt perhaps, but not
angry.
	He called me unhumble.  That was interesting.  Who was it who had said,
"humility is for people of humble talents?"  It must have been Wilde.  But
that's not what he said he meant.  He used the word right-sized.  I'd have
to think about that more later.
	And there was something else he said.  What was it?  I racked my brain, but
couldn't access it.  Only when I was nearly asleep did the words reveal
themselves to me.  I was uncomfortable begin gay, he said.  My entire body
tensed pulling me from the verge of sleep to the center of wakefulness.  Me?
  Uncomfortable being gay?  I am QueerPowerMan himself!  I had known I was
gay since the first time I jacked off at 12 and fantasized about my best
friend's brother, who had just returned from a stint in the Marines.  From
that time on, there was no question in my mind as to my own orientation, and
within a few years of that, I was completely comfortable with it.  I had
come out in high school, for Christ's sake!  People who were uncomfortable
with their orientation don't come out in high school.  Where did he get that
from?  I had written the book on being gay - well, a paper, anyway - but it
*was* published.  And besides - this from the "whatever floats my boat" boy?
  If anyone was ambiguous about his orientation, it was Dan.  No.  On this
one, he was dead wrong.
	That settled, sleep finally came half an hour later - a most welcome,
though shy visitor.
	When I awoke, the room was the same temperature it was when I had gone to
sleep.  The night had done nothing to cool the air.  The new day was bound
to be worse than the one before.
	I took a freezing cold shower, hoping it would hold me for at least an
hour.  Within ten minutes I was sweating again.  I dragged myself over to
breakfast, where the boys were in equally plaintive moods.  A cup of coffee
and a donut later and having finished my chores in the locker room, I took
my seat in the stands to watch the boys practice and feel myself swelter.
My green notebook sat unopened to my right.  A few minutes later, Dan joined
me, his uni peeled down to his waist showing off his wet, magnificent torso.
	"How's the research coming?" he asked.
	"Not so good.  Kind of on hold.  I'm kind of involved at this point.  That
changes things.  I can't do what I had originally intended to do."
	"What was that?"
	"Impartial, dispassionate observer."
	Dan laughed.  "Around Adam?  I don't think so."
	"Yeah, well live and learn.  So I have to set up trials"
	"Trials?  You going to turn us into guinea pigs?"
	"No," I smiled, "not you guys.  When we get back.  Test the mechanism by
isolating variables.  How does he do what he does?  Is it visual?
Olfactory?  Auditory?  Some combination?  Set up controlled experiments that
reduce the vectors of communication to see which ones are most effective.
That kind of thing."
	"Makes sense," he said.  "And what's with the sweat?"
	"How do you know about the sweat?"
	"How do you think?"
	"Yeah.  Okay.  Sorry.  Stupid question.  I just didn't know Adam talked
about it."
	"We talk about everything."
	"Really?"
	"Of course."
	"Do you talk about me?"
	"You're the fucking center of the universe, aren't you?!" he laughed.
	"Fuck you!" I replied, more peeved with the heat than actually hurt by his
comment.  "Okay, let's talk about you.  How's the hand?"
	"Gettin' better.  Another day, I think."  He showed me the tear.  It was
covered, again, with vitamin E.  It was still an angry color.  I couldn't
imagine using it for a month.
	We sat in silence for a while, watching the boys work out. Eric was having
difficulty practicing a release move on the high bar.  When he fell for the
second time accompanied by an intensely shouted expletive, Johnston walked
over to him to take over spotting from Evan.  Brad and Doug were resting in
front of the fan, taking turns pushing each other out of the wind. Matt was
in a planche on the floor, his entire body eighteen inches off the ground
laid out horizontally in the air and balancing only on his two hands.  What
these boys could do! Adam was working the pommel horse.  Every muscle in his
fully exposed torso strained as he kept himself swinging in perfectly
described arcs about the apparatus.  While the concentration on his face was
intense, his tongue was sticking out a bit, resting on his lower lip, giving
him a boyish air.
	"Dan, can I ask you a question?"
	"You can ask me three," he said still paying attention to Eric and his
renewed, but again failed attempt to complete his release move.
	"Do you feel different when you're around Adam?"
	"Different?  Like how?"
	"I don't know.  Agitated?  Horned?  Aggressive?  Anything out of the
ordinary?"
	"You mean the fog."
	"The fog?"
	"Yeah.  That's what Adam calls it.  He says some people go into a 'fog'
around him.  Not everyone, though.  I don't."
	"I do."
	"I know."
	"So what's the difference?  Why me and not you?"
	He shrugged his shoulders.  "Aren't y'all supposed to figure that out?"
	"I suppose so," I said, frustrated.  "So you don't feel any different?
You're around him all the time."
	"Kind of.  Actually, we get really competitive when we're together, just
the two of us.  Good competitive, though.  Not bad competitive.  That the
kind of thing you mean?"
	"Could be.  Don't know if it's related or not."
	We went back to watching the boys.  Eric was yelling at Johnston.  Johnston
just stood there, frowning.  Doug was preparing for a routine on the
parallel bars.  He had coated his upper arms with so much rosin he looked a
little like the Popin' Fresh Dough Boy.
	"It must suck to work out in this kind of heat."
	"More than anything," he answered.  "The thing we need most is to be dry.
Impossible when the weather is like this."
	I nodded.  "So who else here gets the fog?"
	"Brad, Matt, Eric, Corey…" he interrupted himself and looked at me.  "Why
aren't you asking Adam this?  It's his business, not mine."
	"Fair enough.  I will.  But not you, huh?"
	"Nope."
	"Can he make you do things?"
	"How do you mean?"  He was paying more attention to the floor where Eric
was continuing his tirade than to me.
	"I don't know.  Has he ever made you do something you wouldn't normally
do?"
	"Adam's never *made* me do anything," he replied, somewhat testily.  "Even
if he could, which I doubt, we're friends."  He turned to look at me.
"Anyway," he said, "You're looking at it wrong.  Even with the guys in the
fog.  Adam doesn't *make* them do things.  He *allows* them to do things."
	We looked at each other for a beat.  "Next question," he finally said.
"Quit asking me about Adam.  If you want to know about Adam, ask Adam."
	"Are you pissed at me for something?"
	He frowned, pursing his lips.  "No," he said, "just pissed off I can't be
working out.  It's not at you.  Sorry.  It's not fair of me to take it out
on you."
	"That's okay.  So long as I understand what's going on."
	"Next question," he said, turning back to the floor.
	"Easy," I said.  "Handcuffs and a lap dog?"
	He chuckled.  "Was wondering when you'd bring that up."
	"What's with that?"
	He shrugged.  "The guys' take on my sexual inclinations."
	"You into bondage and shit?"
	"In a way."
	"What's that supposed to mean?  You either like SM or you don't."
	"I like my own brand of it."
	"What brand is that?  Rubbermaid?"
	He laughed.  "You're too fucking smart for your own good."
	"No, seriously.  What gets you off, Dan?  You've always been totally closed
about yourself.  You read my beads pretty effectively yesterday.  How 'bout
yours?"
	His eyes went vacant for a moment while he withdrew within himself,
considering what he would say.
	"Fair enough," he began, when he returned.  "Need."
	"Pardon?"
	"Need gets me off."
	"What could you possibly mean by that?"
	"I'm not trying to be obtuse.  It's hard to describe."  He thought for a
few more moments, then began again. "What gets me off is surrender.  Total
surrender.  The knowledge that my partners have given themselves over to me
completely - mind, body, and soul.  The knowledge that I can do anything I
want with them - that they want me to - that they need me to.  There's a
look in the eye.  It's…permission.  That's what gets me off, Mark."
	As wet as I was, my mouth went entirely dry.  Questions flooded my brain
and I became somewhat overwhelmed trying to order them into some priority.
	"So, what?" I asked, finally, "you go to a bar, pick some sweet thing up,
bring him or her home, tie them down to the bed, then flog the shit out of
them?"
	"Well, to begin with, the point of it isn't pain, though that's come into
it at times.  Second, I hardly ever do one-nighters.  They don't do it for
me.  And finally, fuck you.  This is why I don't talk about it."
	"I'm sorry.  It's just not what I expected.  I don't mean to come off as
judgmental."
	"Wise up, Mark," he said, irked.  "You *always* mean to come off as
judgmental."
	We frowned at each other.  That wasn't how I wanted this conversation to
go, but I didn't know where it went wrong.
	"Ask your third question," he said.
	"Okay.  A third question…what makes you say I'm uncomfortable being gay?  I
thought a lot about what you said. I really did.  You were right on the
money with the rest of it.  But that part just doesn't fit."
	"I didn't say you were uncomfortable being gay."
	"Yeah, you did. Yesterday, when I asked you to describe me."
	"No, I said you were uncomfortable with your sexuality.  I didn't say
anything about your sexual orientation."
	"My sexuality?"
	"Yes."
	I was clearly confused, which he read on my face as we looked at each
other.
	"Look," he said, "when you screw, who's in control?"
	"I'm pretty versatile," I replied.
	"You're not paying attention," he said, irritably. "I didn't ask who fucks
who. I asked who was in control?"
	I thought back to the last few times I had had sex.  Clearly, with Matt, I
was in control whether I was on top or bottom.  In fact, I realized, even in
the simplest terms of whom was physically on top, it was always I.  When I
fucked him, I did it from above.  When he fucked me, he did it from below.
Brad, Doug and Eric?  Well, of course I was in control with them, but that
was different.  Before the camp?  Yes.  Come to think of it, I was always
pretty much in control once the sex started, regardless of the position I
played.
	"Me," I said, after a while.
	"Okay.  You.  And you've always felt like something was missing when you
had sex, right?"
	"How did you know that?" I whispered.
	"You're not the only one who can do research," he said, then added, "so how
come you never connected the two?"
	Connected the two?  Connected the two.  Connected the fact that I was
always in control and the fact that there was always something intangible,
unnameable, missing from my encounters?  My mind went entirely blank.
	After an interminable length of time in which we just stared at each other,
he said, "hello?  You in there?"
	"Sorry," I said.  "I've forgotten what we were talking about."
	He burst out with the deepest belly laugh it has ever been my discomfort to
hear. "You're fucking classic!" he said.
	The conversation rushed back into my brain like the tide at Fundy.  Yes!
Yes, of course!  In all my years of fucking, I had never - never once - just
lost myself in the act.  Was that what was missing?  Was I looking for but
not finding oblivion in sex?
	Dan saw the renewed comprehension in my eyes, and nodded.  "Your three
questions are up," he said, "thanks for playing."  He got up and walked down
to the workout floor.
	The noise in the gym had risen.  Everyone seemed to be yelling at everyone
else.  Eric had still to complete his move successfully, and was taking his
frustration out on anyone who came near him.  Brad was still by the fan,
despite Johnston's angry exhortations to get to work.  Corey just sat on the
floor leaning back on his hands, legs splayed out in front of him, the
glazed look of exhaustion in his expression.  Even Adam was having a
difficult time on the horse, having fallen twice.  There was no joy in
Whoville.
	Need?  Imagine being turned on by need.  Not that it would be difficult to
need Dan, I thought.  In fact, watching him strap himself into the harness
of the trampoline - one of the few things he could do that didn't require
his hands - I imagined how easy it would be to adore him.  He was masculine,
he was intelligent, he was charismatic and he was, lord knows, stunningly
beautiful.  He must be a killer top, I thought.  How sweet it would be just
to let go, for once.  To trust that there would be someone there - someone
strong, someone competent, someone powerful - to catch you and bring you to
a safe landing.
	Letting go of the self.  Was that it?  Was he right?  Was that what I was
looking for?  Had I ever tried that before?  And even if he were right,
could I do it?
	Johnston broke the practice half an hour early for lunch.  The boys trudged
over to the cafeteria like prisoners of war on the Bataan Death March.  At
the table, few of them spoke.
	Half way through the meal, Matt looked up from his food and said, to no one
in particular, "this is fucking ridiculous."  He took his glass, filled it
with ice water from the pitcher, got up and walked around the table to
behind Doug, upon whose unsuspecting head he dumped the water.  Be it from
the shock of the spectacle, or the audacity of the move, the boys, to a one,
snapped out of their funk and into frenzied action.  Water went flying
everywhere.  Then a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.  Soon baby carrot
missiles met defensive corn chaff while tomato grenades were hurled into
enemy territory.  By the time peace broke out, they, a 20-foot circle, and I
were covered in the sticky detritus of culinary war.
	"Who's going to clean this shit up?" asked Steven.
	"Heywood will," Brad answered cheerily.
	"Oh, fuck you!"  But the truth was, I was happy it had happened and happy
to do it.  I was glad the boys could beat the oppressiveness of the heat, if
only for a few minutes, and it gave me an excuse not to have to sit in the
stands all afternoon and watch them bitch at each other.  Laughing together,
they headed toward the showers, leaving me to mop.
	I certainly took my time cleaning the mess.  By the time I returned to the
gym, they were snapping at each other again.  The bucket of ice I had
brought with me did little to cheer them.  I took my place in the stands,
tried to balance not thinking about what I was going to do about Matt and
not thinking about how attracted I had become to Dan since his disclosure
and endured the heat and boredom until quitting time.
	The swelter in the locker room had me moving so slowly that it was late
when I finally finished my nightly clean up.  The place was deserted and I
was about to turn off the lights when I heard a conversation coming from the
office opposite the laundry.  Adam and Johnston were having some kind of
heated debate.  The door was ajar, and I crept up to it to overhear.  They
were talking about me.
	"You gotta stop it," Johnston was saying, calmly but firmly.
	"He's a fucking hypocrite."  Adam scowled in return.  He was angry.  He was
angry and he was shouting.
	"Says who?"
	"Says who? Says me. That's says who."
	"So he's a hypocrite. So what?"
	"So it pisses me off."
	"It's affecting his performance."
	"He sucks to begin with."
	"He's solid.  He's solid and I need him."
	"You need him?  You got him.  But just because you need him doesn't mean I
need him.  I don't need him, and he pisses me off."
	"You can't lash out that way," Johnston said.  As loud as Adam got,
Johnston remained measured.
	"Why the hell not?  Other people get angry?  They fight."
	"You're not other people."
	"Well, fuck that. Fuck that, and fuck you."
	"When other people get angry, Adam, they're assholes.  When you get angry,
you do damage.  That's why."
	"Well, I'm tired of it.  I'm fucking exhausted.  Do you have any idea how
tired I am?  Jesus Christ!  Everyone's so fucking needy.  Why is it always
*my* responsibility?  Why the hell should I always have to be the one?  And
don't give me this 'you're special' shit.  I'm bored of it.  You hear me?
Fucking bored."
	"Adam," Johnston said, his voice quiet and even, "how long have I known
you? Ten years?  Fourteen years?  Remember where you were?  Remember what it
was like?"  He got only silence in response.  "Well, I do.  I know you
didn't ask for it, and I know you don't want it.  But it's the way it is.
So you're back to your original choice: you can feel sorry for yourself, you
can hate yourself, or you can like yourself.  You're the one who has to live
with you when it's all over.  I can tell you what's best for the team, and
what's best for the team is for you to lay off him.  But more importantly,
you know what happens when you give in to it.  Think it through, kid," he
said with genuine affection.  "Think about where it leads."
	There was silence in the room for a while.  Finally, Adam spoke.
	"It sucks.  That's all," he said, his fury broken but not dissipated.
	"Yeah, kid, it sucks."
	"And it's not fair."
	"And it's not fair," Johnston echoed paliatively.
	"I could be rich, you know."  I could hear the anger draining from him with
each sentence.
	Johnston laughed.  "Oh?  That's a new one.  Now you want to be rich?"
	"Sure.  Why not?  Alls I have to do is make nice with some rich old bat.  I
could have all the money I wanted."
	"You probably could.  Would you be any better off?"
	"Wouldn't have to deal with *your* crap anymore," he said.  I could hear
the smile in his voice.
	"Yeah you would.  You'd get bored.  Nights playing bridge, days doing the
maid, I'd give you two months tops before you called and asked me to set up
a gym in the conservatory."
	There was a relaxed silence.  Finally, Johnston said,  "take a shower, kid.
  It's too damn hot.  We're all edgy."
	"Yeah.  That's it," Adam said, adding after a silence, "and Coach?"
	"Yeah?"
	"Thanks."
	I beat a hasty retreat into the locker room so as not to be found in the
act of eavesdropping.  When he walked in, I was sitting on one of the
benches.
	"Hey, champ," he said
	"Hey."
	He went to his locker, and began messing with his kit.
	"Adam?"
	"Yeah?"
	"If you want me to leave, I'll leave.  No problem."
	He stopped what he was doing and turned to me.
	"What the fuck are you talking about now?"
	"If you want me out of here, I'll leave."
	"What would I want you to leave for?" he asked, a cross between confused
and annoyed.
	"I overheard you talking with Johnston just now.  I don't care if he thinks
I'm necessary.  If you don't want me here, I'll go.  I don't want to cause
problems."
	He stared at me for a beat, then broke out into laughter.
	"We weren't talking about you, champ.  I like you here just fine."
	"You weren't?" I fought, unsuccessfully, I think, to keep the surprise and
relief out of my voice.
	"Nope."
	"Who were you talking about then?"
	"Eric."
	"Eric?"
	"Eric."
	I mugged a confused face.  He laughed again.
	"What were you doing listening in, anyway?"
	"I was doing the laundry.  You were yelling," I said by way of apology then
added, again, "Eric?"
	"Yeah.  Fucking Eric."  He sat down opposite me on the bench in front of
his locker, his legs splayed wide.  The T-shirt he was wearing clung damply
to him, accentuating his power.  He began to stroke his abdomen in the
absent-minded way he had of drawing everyone in the room's attention to his
torso except his own.
	"You having a bad day?"
	"I'm okay, champ."
	"I'd like to do something for you."
	"So you said."
	"No, I mean right now.  Go into the trainer's room, strip, and get on the
table."
	"And that's for *me*?" he smiled.
	"Take off your clothes," I said in my best disciplinarian voice, "lie down
on the table, and shut up."
	"Oh, yeah?"  He was enjoying the exchange. I could tell.  "And what if I
don't?"
	I stood and walked over to him menacingly.  "I'll just have to make you,
then."  The absurdity of the idea made him laugh.
	He cringed in mock terror and pleaded, "you win, you win.  You won't beat
me up though, will you?"
	"Not for asking questions," I said and he laughed again. "Now get into the
room.  I have some things to get.
	When I made it into the trainer's room with the gear I had collected, he
was lying nude face down on the table.  The sight took my breath away, but I
was determined, fog or no, to focus on doing what I had intended to do.
	"Now what's this all about?" he said, without picking his head up to look
at me.
	"A little service with a smile from your friendly neighborhood gofer," I
answered.  I had gotten a bucket, filled it with cool water and had
collected a sponge, washcloth and some soap.  I took the washcloth, doused
it and brought it to his shoulders.  The coolness of it made his shoulder
blades draw together in surprise, but he quickly relaxed again as I drew the
wet cloth down over his back, rinsed it and repeated the motion.  Next, I
wet his shoulders, armpits and arms.  I rubbed the soap into the washcloth,
working up a good lather and began to scrub his back.
	"Mmmm," he said, "now that's nice."
	"You don't *always* have to be the one to take care of other people," I
said, then added, "just most of the time."  He would have laughed, but I had
him relaxed.  Instead, he just smiled, and sank deeper into the padding of
the table.
	With adoring care, I washed the broad, curvilinear expanse of his back.
Walking to one side of the table and standing just below his shoulder, I
took his wrist, drew his arm out to the side by it and put it between my
elbow and torso, holding his arm out from his body in a way that kept both
my hands free.  With the washcloth, I scrubbed his deltoid, his bicep, his
tricep.  Wetting the towel again and working up a good head of foam, I
forayed into the deep crevasse of his armpit, cleansing it, massaging it,
relaxing it.  I laved his forearm scraping the caked rosin off, worked his
wrist, kneaded his palm with the soapy rag, pulled on his fingers.  Rinsing
his arm, I replaced it and walked around to do the other one.
	I was barefoot, which was good, as soon the soapy water was dripping from
the table creating little puddles along its sides. The smell of him mixed
with the soap and general musk of the room.  I was well within the fog, weak
for want of him, but guided by my chosen purpose.
	His back and arms done, I moved lower to his legs and the tight, white
mounds of flesh of his ass.  I wet his thighs and calves and feet, lathering
and then rinsing them with the same care with which I had treated his arms.
His hamstrings seemed never to end, and I found myself wondering what part
of what I was doing was massage and what part of it was caress.  Despite the
energy they were exerting, my fingers were surely on holiday.
	Having finished his legs, I moved to the end of the table and taking his
ankles, lifted his legs off the table and shook them mildly to loosen the
muscle groups en masse.  When I replaced them on the table, I was sure to do
it with them farther apart than where they had started.
	I moved tentatively back to the middle of the table and drew the washcloth
over the high plateau of his cheeks.  With his legs more spread, I was able
to bring it lovingly down the furrow of his crack.  He reacted to this
brazen move no differently than he had to the rest of the treatment.  He
relaxed and breathed deeply, timing his inhalations and exhalations to my
strokes.
	I reapplied the soap to the washcloth, turning the soap within its folds
more times than was necessary.  With one hand, I separated his cheeks, with
the other, I worked the soap into the sensitive skin.  He was a little hairy
there and the curls of black danced under the ministrations of the towel.  I
worked down past his hole, taking great care with it to as much of his
perineum as I could reach.  Satisfied with a job well done, I doused his
midsection in water and taking one of the many towels I had brought, patted
him dry from neck to toe.
	"Good?" I asked.
	"Yeah," he said.  "Just what the doctor ordered."
	"I like being able to take care of you.  I don't know why we got off on
such a bad foot.  You really pissed me off at the start.  But you've
changed."
	"I haven't changed in years, champ," he said lazily.
	"Roll over.  Time for the other side."
	He did.  I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me.
	Adam was hard.  Adam was very hard and very big and very hard.