Date: Fri, 28 Aug 2015 16:30:25 -0700
From: Kyle Weaver <krazytop@gmail.com>
Subject: Taste of Power 13

Part XIII


This is it.

The showdown.

Calvin and I stand to the side, looking on.  He drapes his arm over me,
acting like everything is normal—but honestly, I don't know what normal
is for me anymore.

Zane and Chris circle one another.  Zane is in his red jockstrap, while
Chris is clad in his silk white boxers.  Otherwise they are bare, their
muscular glory on full display under the dim, flickering light.

Their facial expressions mirror one another.  A calm confidence, a sense
of—knowing.

One of them must be gravely mistaken.

Voices bounce around in my mind.

At first it is Chris and Zane—memories ricochet back at me, but then the
voices become lyrical and creative.

Am I going mad?

I've wondered for a while now.

The underwater sensation from earlier--when Zane slapped my ears--seems to
blend with the convictions of those before me, in an echoing, barking
doggerel.

     Flip the coin, roll the dice
     Mimic or explore
     You can't tell if the land is new
     Or ground you've tread before

Their arms entangle; it's hard to see where Zane ends and Chris begins,
especially with their hairs prickling up and the blurry motion.  I rarely
get a chance to watch Chris and Zane go at it in practice, but on the few
occasions I do, I'm treated to a spectacle.

This is something else.

And yet—I feel an almost hypnotic sense of fuzziness.

     Sleep into reality
     And wake up all your dreams
     You can't capture what really is
     Trapped inside what seems

Each wrestler is cautious—unwilling to make a gambit, reluctant to break
the symmetry of the game.  Their flexed muscles quiver—the strain is
constant and sticky.  They match up; they intertwine.

It's hard to imagine one of them losing.

At long last, Zane changes tact, using all his strength to pull sideways,
dragging each of them to the floor.  They tumble around, halting on their
sides, looking into one another's eyes, their arms still interlocked.

Chris looks a tad disoriented, but his leg is on the outside of the heap,
and with a visceral growl, he wraps it around Zane's thigh, tightening in a
kind of vice-grip.

     Slowly climb the pyramid
     The pharaoh sleeps under
     You can't sense which way is up
     In afterlives you plunder

Zane crinkles his face, thrashing his arms free, batting Chris's arms up
with one hand and gripping at Chris's body with the other.

Chris gapes, then bites his lip, channeling his strength into a twisting
motion, vying to force Zane underneath him.

A tear drips from Chris's eye and stains the mat.

That's when I realize—when Zane clutched at Chris's body, he grabbed
Chris's balls.  Now Zane is squeezing them, and twisting, a glint forming
in his green eyes.

     Slaves built the greatest legacy
     The Oroboros line
     You can't make heads or tails
     Of devils you divine

Chris stiffens as he forces Zane beneath him.  Zane's abdominals bulge,
winching his upper body—he refuses to let his shoulders hit the mat.  He
tightens his grip on Chris's balls, and Chris roars, worming, slamming
Zane's knuckles between his legs and against the floor.

Zane twists forward and the two wrestlers are interlocked on their sides
again.  Purple bruises blemish Zane's swollen fingers, but it only seems to
egg on his rage.

     What makes an idol false?
     And what makes an idol true?
     You can't always decide
     What choice is up to you?

With a slam Chris is underneath Zane.  Calvin starts to count it off.

     Wrestle with your thoughts
     Then confine them to dust
     You can't know a priori
     The risk that you trust

Calvin only makes it to two before Chris bullies his way out from under
Zane.  They grapple; the action is fuzzy; Chris flexes his arm around
Zane's head.  Zane's face is buried in Chris's armpit.  Zane wriggles free,
gasping, but by then Chris has broken him down, stretching their
intertwining legs in a way that makes Zane inelegantly positioned to fight
back.

Their arms interlock again, but this time, Zane's shoulders are firmly
against the mat.

"One," Calvin cracks.

The tomb of silence is back.

"Two."

The maggot-like crawl of goose bumps ridging on my skin.

"Three."

It's over.  Just like that—I can't believe it.

Chris has won.

---

Chris orders Zane off to the cider shelves, to fetch us hard cider and wine
glasses.

Their eyes glitter as they stare at each other—not in passionate
affection, but rather, in some kind of doppelganger emotion.  The
interaction is beyond me.

Zane shrugs Chris off of him and sidles away.

As we make our way back to the entertainment center, Calvin thumps me on my
shoulder.  "Why don't you pick out something to watch while we cool down
for a while?"

I look into his eyes, and I see a hint of remorse there.

Confusion grips me, but I shake my thoughts loose.  I pop in the Mokimon
movie, and then I sit between Calvin and Chris on the couch.  I'm enveloped
in their heat—in the vapor of their sweat.

All of us are still in our boxers, and my heart is beating quickly.

I never climaxed after I sucked Calvin's dick, and it shows.  Try as I
might, I can't get my dick to go down.  Sitting sandwiched between two
jocks, stripped of the brunt of their customary refinement (and, indeed,
down to their boxers), yet beaming in victory, their pectorals rising
impulsively in triumph –has me on edge.

Perhaps if Zane had not been beaten, the frustration of my own defeat would
have sunk in about now, but instead, I feel a sense of belonging.

Not that I am meant to be a victor, but rather, that I belong to a victor.

I am a bargaining chip.  A coin.

A slave.

I look on at Zane with a look of compassion as he uncorks the bottle, but
he remains expressionless.

Did I wish he had won?  Was I wrong to have told Calvin—I approved of
the game?

"How tall do you want your glass?" Zane asks.

"Half," Calvin says, biting his lip.  He shifts in his seat.

"Full for me," Chris says.

Zane had avoided my gaze.  It sends lightning sparks through me when he
glares right into my eyes.  "And does our guest of honor want a glass?"

 "I don't drink," I mumble, looking down.

"You don't drink?" Zane repeats, incredulous.  "You drink human urine.
Suddenly you are a connoisseur?"

"Easy now," Chris says.  "He lost--just like you.  You don't have any
authority over him anymore."

"Like hell I don't!" Zane hisses.  "Faggot pussy position."

Slowly, I sink forward off the couch and onto my knees.  I reach for my
boxers.

"No," Calvin says, gripping me by the hair.  "You don't have to obey him
anymore."

I look into Calvin's eyes, then back at Zane.

"Do it punk," Zane says.  "Show them how good I got you trained."

I push my boxers down to my knees and bow down between Zane's feet.

Like a lightning rod struck, Calvin bolts up and shoves Zane again.  "You
lost, asshole.  I get Travis for a few hours.  A few hours of freedom."

"He doesn't want your freedom.  He'd rather be a slave to me than a free
man with you."

When Calvin moves at Zane again, Zane retaliates, swinging his arm out,
splashing the hard cider all over Calvin's upper chest and chin.

"What the hell, man?" Calvin says.  "You are supposed to behave.  For a few
hours of your life, can't you behave?"

"No."

"Why even pour me a glass if you are just going to toss it all over me?"

"Why do people have kids when they are all going to die?"

Chris throws the remaining contents of his glass into Zane's face.

"Well, fuck you too," Zane says, choosing an odd time to finally smile.
"At least my spill was an accident.  My arm just kind of—you
know--slipped out."

"Clean the mess off of him," Chris says.

Zane wrinkles his face, and then reaches for the stack of brown paper
napkins, but Chris bats Zane's hand away.

"With your tongue," Chris adds.

"No homo, bro," Zane says.

"So--do it platonically."

"Fine," Zane says, rolling his eyes.  He pushes Calvin back into the couch,
then steps over me, clinking the bottle down between my outstretched legs.
I hear the clap of their bodies as he pins Calvin flat on the cushions.
"Didn't put up much of a fight—like usual."

"Zane," Calvin says, breathing loudly.  Hesitation flecks his voice.
"Fuck!"

I crane my neck in time to see Zane's protruding tongue curl and capture a
little pool of cider on Calvin's chest.

Calvin grunts, shaking a bit.  "Tickles, man.  What the hell, guys..."

Zane raises his eyebrows, his eyes glinting--his lip curling--as he drags
his tongue over Calvin's stretched pectorals.

"Get him off me, Chris!" Calvin shouts.

"Grab his wrists," Chris says.

Calvin grips Zane's wrists tightly.  Chris positions one foot on either
side of me, looming above me, with his crotch dangerously close to Zane's
face.  Then Chris arches his back, projecting his silk bulge right at
Zane's lips.

"No homo, asshole," Zane says, frowning again.

"What if it was an accident?  What if it—you know—just kind of
slipped out?"

"You'd know better than to try that with me," Zane growls.

Chris reaches over, grabs the pouch of garlic sauce, and slowly drizzles it
into Zane's hair.  It runs down his face in little streaks.  Shock flecks
his green eyes, morphing quickly to rage.

"Come on, Zane."  Chris frees his cock, pushing the bulbous head against
Zane's lips.  Zane recoils and turns; Chris chases him with his bouncing
shaft.

Then--Zane emits a visceral roar, and Chris freezes.

For a moment, all is quiet.

"Let me be clear, Chris.  If you do this, I will go home, grab my dad's
revolver, and shoot you in the head."

Zane and Chris glare at one another for a few moments, with Calvin and I
draped helplessly under them, reduced to spectators.

"Let him go," Chris says, and Calvin lets go of Zane's wrists.  He turns
back to Zane.  "You lost, Zane.  You lost fair and square, and now you are
a sore loser.  Calvin is right.  If you can't behave, you can't play.  So
how about you just go home?"

Zane gets to his feet, looking us over one last time, his facial expression
draining away.  Then, in an awkward huff, he grabs his clothes off the
floor, throws them on, and turns away.

I hear each creaking step echo as Zane ascends out of sight, slamming the
cellar door behind him.

"Get the fuck off the floor," Chris says.

I stand up, gaping.

"So—are we going to finish this damn movie?" Chris asks.

I nod.

"Snuggle up behind Calvin on the couch," Chris says.

It never occurs to either of us to argue.  As I wiggle into place, Chris
walks up the stairs to lock the cellar door.  He comes back down grinning
from ear to ear, and I shift in place, waiting for him to stop looming over
us.

Chris slowly crawls over me, lying behind me on the couch.  I can't even
focus on the movie when Calvin plays it.  I feel Chris's lips drag across
my back and my neck.  He sucks on my skin softly and I shudder.

I float through the film, the images flashing like the ideas that sit on
your eyelids when sleep is near.

I melt into the men around me.  I feel a quiet peace.

When it ends, we sit up on the couch, remembering ourselves.  I shiver,
growing cold.

They each nurse another glass of cider as it grows closer and closer to
midnight.

---

This time, I am the only on the sidelines.  My heart pounds.  Honestly--I
am not sure who I want to win.  They circle each other; they slide their
hands up one another arms till they've grabbed shoulders.

Chris, my idol—my dream—socially astute, physically perfect,
coquettish, and fun when he wants to be. His golden eyes twinkle like
sunlight and his muscles cast deep shadows like a hillside at dawn.  He
makes my mouth water, my heart race, and my knees buckle.

Calvin, my best friend for so long—my crutch—caring, cute, youthful,
and loving.  His blue eyes sparkle like foam on the ocean and his muscles
fold like waves on the sand.  He makes my lips tingle, my toes spark, and
my eyes well.

I don't even want to think about what Zane makes me feel.  He is
intoxicating.

There isn't much time to think it over.  Chris is stronger and more
skillful than the rest of us.  It was impressive how long Zane lasted,
frankly.

Chris breaks him down, tracing Calvin's limbs into jelly, moving them into
awkward places with precise positioning of his legs and arms.  Calvin
collapses; Chris is on top of him; Calvin cannot even roll them over once;
he struggles; but Chris is solid, consistent, and uncompromising on the
mat.

It is no contest.

I count it out.

"Thanks for dropping by," Chris says.

Calvin bows his head, biting his lip.

He brushes himself off as he gets to his feet.  He seems dazed as we walk
back to the entertainment center.

He puts on his clothes in a rush.

"Calvin—"

"Have fun with Chris," he says.  He won't even look at me.

"Calvin—" I repeat.  He doesn't look back at me as he walks away and
climbs the stairs.

I turn around, trying to work out how I feel, and I stumble into Chris's
chest.

I'm arched forward, so when Chris grabs my head and tilts it back, I'm
looking up into his golden eyes.

The cellar door reverberates above.

"Let's chat," Chris says, nodding to the couch.

I sit down, and he sits next to me, and we look at the blank screen for
about a minute.

"What's there to talk about?" I ask.

"We could talk about how you've been staring at my cock every chance you
get, but now that we are alone, you aren't making a move."

"And here I was hoping we would talk about the meaning of life."

Chris laughs and pushes me a bit.  When I spring back, he pushes me harder,
crawling on top me, biting his lip inches from my face.

"Why is it that with Zane, you let him do whatever the hell he wants, but
with me, you expect so much more?"

"Because it's you, Chris."

Chris starts to massage my shoulders, then my chest, and I push out in
spite of myself, emitting a soft moan.

"My turn to sculpt you a bit, I guess," he says.

"Hell," I whisper.  "Chris—"

"You like that?  You like my hands all over your body?"

"Yeah."

"I know.  But I wonder..."  He climbs off of me, retrieves the shark tooth
necklace from my pile of clothes, and adorns me with it.  The chain-link
sits cool on my neck; the tooth digs slightly into my pectorals.

"What's on your mind?" I ask.

"It's no secret I have a kind of power over you.  Zane too--in his own way.
It gets you going.  Don't deny it.  But Zane and I--we play by a different
set of rules.  If Zane acts like a monster, then, well, that's just him
being himself.  But if I act half as bad, then you might as well ring the
town bell and crucify me.  Because, as you said, it's me.  And I'm held to
higher standards."

I tongue my top lip.

Chris delves onward.  "So I guess I'm asking—if the stuff that turns you
on the most also offends you—then what the do really you want?  Do you
even know?"

"I want to make you happy.  But I want to be happy too.  I want--something
deep and long-lasting.  Something fullfilling.  A happiness—that doesn't
flame out."

"You put me on this pedestal," Chris says, twisting the links in the chain.
As he does, the slack diminishes turn by turn.  "What am I supposed to
think, when you keep acting like you want more and more, yet you act like
it's a dream come true when Zane treats you worse and worse?"

"You're a dream come true, Chris," I say, but as he tightens the chain, the
words are strained.  "I'm just more sensitive with you is all.  Don't be
mad.  I swear—there's nothing I'd do for Zane I wouldn't do for you."

"Prove it."

I look into Chris's eyes.  "It's my nature to fight back.  To act proud.
That doesn't mean it isn't cathartic to lose sometimes."

"Hit me," Chris says, the gold in his eyes glimmering.  "Right in the abs.
Go on."

I jab him in the abdominals and he smirks, unfazed.  He twists the chain
again and it garrotes me, clenching my neck.

The echoes from earlier spike, then snuff out.

I can hear the white noise of the television screen.

It hits me that I can barely breathe, and I open my mouth reflexively,
leaning toward him with my tongue lolling, looking for signs of mercy on
his face.

He tugs me right and left by the chain, and my eyes widen.

His eyes glimmer as he blows a soft kiss.

He puts his thumb in the cleft of my chin, with the tip on my bottom lip,
and I prod it with my tongue, gazing up into his golden-brown eyes.



---
Feedback always appreciated.  Messages keep me in the mood to write and
edit and brainstorm. Always grateful for kind words and constructive
ideas.

email: krazytop@gmail.com
tumblr: http://krazytop.tumblr.com/
---