Chapter 17: Mind Under Matter
Sleep came easily. Matt had returned to his room, I had showered and changed my sheets, and finally succumbed to the post-coital relaxation that had swept over my body. My limbs sprawled out, taking up the entire bed, luxuriating in the feel of the clean linen. My asshole twitched every once in a while, content with the feeling of its dull ache, missing the stretch.
I dreamt again - this time a more narrative, linear-sequential and less surreal series of images. In the first, I was at Adam's feet looking up at him, he cupping my head against his thigh in his hand. He smiled down at me, a gentle, loving smile - one that I knew, even in my dream, he had yet to show me in real life. My dream-self took solace in the knowledge that I had pleased him, my analytical-self too asleep to ask what I had done to make him pleased. The image faded to one of the two of us in bed, he lying on my back, pinning my hands with his over my head. His dick was in me, enormous, spiking me like a butterfly on a pin. We did not move - I took his full, dense weight both on me and in me. To have him take me was enough. I felt, in the dream, complete, whole, at one with him. In that position, I was his extension, his shield, his armor. I was merely and contentedly his. Another fade, to Adam on the rings in a Maltese Cross. His body in a horizontal plane, his arms extended at 90-degree angles to his sides, his muscles, engorged with blood, strained to hold the position. Still, he had the strength left over to slowly look up and make eye contact with me. His mouth curled into his asymmetric smirk. He did not talk, but I heard his voice within my brain. "Have you figured it out yet?"
Another fade, and again, I was at someone's feet. This time it was Brad, standing over me on the couch, his arms flexed in the pose he had taken the other day. The blond hairs of his armpits shimmered, as did the light off the pumped muscles of his upper torso, shoulders, and arms. His beautiful dick bounced in the air above me, his angelic, open face pointed down toward mine in friendliness. But he was not seeing me. He was facing me, but not looking.
Another fade, and I was with Matt, lying in the afterglow of sex. There was fondness, there was pleasure, there was desire, there was joy, but there was, as there had always been, through Matt and all the boys before him, some unidentifiable missing thing. Something dark and secret, which left me always only partially filled, and always yearning.
A final fade, and there was Dan, looking into my eyes, having captured my king. Dan. Powerful, competent, self-assured. Dan, who got me to laugh hysterically about a joke involving Locke, Bishop Barkeley, and a beagle. Dan, whose biceps were full and round and menacing even when he relaxed.
I awoke upset and upset I was hard. Scrooge's words rang in my ears - a bit of undigested potato, I thought. Nothing more. A second night found me in the bathroom splashing water in my face before I could return to sleep.
The next morning, Matt approached me in the locker room, asking me to help tape his wrists - something he had been doing on his own, probably, since he was six.
"Last night was so cool," he said. "Did you like it?"
"Oh, it was fun, no doubt," I said, wrapping the roll of tape around one of his wrists as we sat facing each other, straddling the bench in front of the lockers.
"You're really nice. I like you a lot. Do you like me?" He was so strangely insecure, given all he had to offer.
"I like you just fine, pup," I answered.
"I like it when you call me 'pup'."
"Well, it seems to fit."
"Did you like where I found to bury my bone last night?"
I laughed.
"Listen," he said, "where are you going to be living at school? Next year, I mean."
"In the graduate apartments in the South Quad," I answered. "Why?"
"You got a roommate?" He asked.
"Naw. That's why I'm on campus. They provide shit-boxes to the graduates, but you get to live alone. If I had an apartment off campus, it'd be nicer, but I'd have to pay much more and get a roommate."
"Cool," he said, offering me the other wrist to tape.
"Why?"
"I have a roommate next year. Three, actually. We're in a suite."
"Oh."
I let the conversation flag, not particularly liking where I felt it was headed.
After a pause, Matt asked if I wanted to hook up again that night.
"Make it three-in-a-row, huh?"
"That's the plan," he said, smiling.
"Probably. We'll see."
"'Kay." I had finished his second wrist, and he bounded off toward the gym.
Later in the stands with my notebook, I surveyed the boys again. Matt, sweet and innocent, determinedly pitting his considerable strength against the still rings, Brad, open, sunshine on the ocean under blue skies, doing a tumbling run. Steve and Evan were talking next to the pommel horse. I didn't know them yet, already a week into the summer. Steven certainly enjoyed reading - he read almost every night in the commons room. Evan, pretty, quiet, but still totally undefined. Eric, his uni pulled down to expose his chest, dark, brooding, talking to Johnston, Corey, muscles bulging, face contorted by his concentration, doing giants on the high bar. Drew - another blank spot in my book, was adjusting the vault. Doug, big, oafish, well-meaning, loud, generous, talking with Adam and Dan next to the parallel bars.
Dan was in what I had identified as Adam's pose 3: standing with his weight on one leg, hips askew, one hand on his hip where it jutted out, the other slowly, unconsciously stroking his own abdominals. Next to Adam, he seemed a poseur, observing and mimicking. And yet, the Dan I had spent time with the night before - whose company I had so enjoyed - had seemed genuine, at ease and entirely his own man. I didn't know how to resolve the discrepancy in my mind, but determined to do so. I had liked Dan. Something about him was very compelling, very intriguing...very erotic, I found myself thinking. Certainly he was stunning. But more than that, he seemed to combine surety with expertise in an entirely appealing and attractive way. My dick stirred. "Guys, girls..." he had said the night before, "whatever floats my boat." I wondered just what floated it, and whether I would have the opportunity to be at his particular shore when the tide came in.
And then, of course, there was Adam, leaning with one arm hooked over one of the bars. He was laughing with Doug and Dan - Doug had just told a joke, and it had cracked up the three of them. With a smile on his face, he was even more devastating. His eyes twinkled, his tongue rested on his lower teeth, sticking out slightly, like a cat who was distracted while licking himself. If only he weren't such an asshole, I thought. How could Dan have thought him a good judge of character?
The dreams were beginning to concern me. I was not a big fan of dream analysis - a leftover from the sillier days of psychoanalytic theory, I had always felt. I put much more credence in the cognitive and behavioral schools, which tended to look at dreams as random neural firing. Still, knowing they didn't mean anything was not the same as feeling comfortable having them. A nightmare is still a nightmare. I was particularly offended that my subconscious had eroticized the violence to which Adam had subjected me.
Mid-morning, Johnston came over to my place in the stands, and told me and told me it was time for my first "gofer" run. As a result, I brought a piece of paper and pen to lunch, and took orders for shampoo, razors, stamps, any conveniences they needed or had run out of.
"You skipping the afternoon practice?" Matt asked at the table.
"Nope. I'll go before dinner."
The afternoon came and went. So that I could get away early, I started cleaning the locker room while the boys were still in the shower. All that skin! Smooth, shimmering in the water, streams cascading off muscles pumped after six hours of strenuous use. Lather was worked up, worked in, rinsed away. O! To be a bubble! Dan's dick was impressive. Soft, it hung long, straight, and thin. I marveled at how sexualized I had become in the past week. Was it the proximity to such flesh? The easy access? Between Matt and Brad alone, I was having more sex than I had had with my last boyfriend. Or was it Adam, who was, as I watched, running a bar of soap from his balls up the crack of his ass? Was he, as I feared, infecting me? Did his effect build over time? Was there some critical mass being reached in my bloodstream which would leave me totally invulnerable to his...critical mass? I tore my eyes away from the scene, and continued to mop.
Finished with the day's chores, I left the complex on my way to the car. Dan fell in with me on the path between the buildings.
"Heya."
"Howdy," he said, walking me to my car.
"You coming with?" I asked.
"Yep."
We got in the car, and I pulled out.
"Had a good time last night," I said. "Would love a rematch."
"Maybe sometime," he said, staring out the window at the forest passing by.
"You're a good player."
"Just fair, actually," he said.
"No, really. You played an excellent game last night."
"No, I'm just an intermediate. Somewhat above average. I'm not that good."
"Aw, c'mon," I said, "none of this false modesty."
"It's not false modesty," he said, matter-of-factly, "it's accurate. That's how well I play. Intermediate. I'm not that good. You just suck at it."
"Pardon?" I laughed.
"You suck at chess."
"I do?"
"Yes."
"I suck at chess?"
"Is that so hard for you to believe?" he asked, turning to face me as I drove. I thought about it. I never really learned how to play formally, and never really practiced. The last time I played a game was probably when I was a freshman, and never against opponents who were, themselves guaranteed to be good. I had just assumed I'd be good at it. But there was something else going on here more interesting to me than the fact that I had just realized that I probably did, indeed, suck at chess. Dan had told me I sucked, and it didn't bother me. I wasn't offended, my feelings were not hurt. That kind of statement usually rankled me. A lot! So why hadn't it bothered me when Dan had said it? It wasn't just that he was right, that's for sure. I found myself getting pissed at people all the time for criticisms whether they were accurate or not. The trick with criticism is the manner in which it's given, not the content. And yet, Dan had put it so starkly. He hadn't even been polite about it! Why was I not bothered?
"I guess I do," I said, smiling. He smiled back.
"Man, I had to create little games for myself just to keep myself entertained."
"Really?"
"Please," he said, turning back to watch the trees, "checkmate with three pawns? I had most of my pieces on the board."
"Oh," I said. "Good point. I guess you could have done that more easily, huh?"
"Probably 4 moves after I took your queen. But I was enjoying the conversation."
It didn't sound like he was bragging. Maybe that was it. He was just stating the truth. I remembered my impression the night before about the difference between arrogance and accurate self-image. Maybe Dan really had a good sense of what he was good at, like he said, and that came through in his interactions. Something about him was special. It would do me well, I thought, to figure it out. I already trusted him, and I had only had one conversation.
We drove on in silence for a mile, enjoying the pines in the dappled, late afternoon light.
"So, are you as good at everything else as you are at chess?" I asked.
"Naw," he said. "I suck at plenty of things myself."
"Yeah? Like what?"
He shrugged, still looking out the window. "I can't spell for shit," he said, "and I suck at math. And I can't dance at all..."
"You can't dance?!" I asked, amazed.
"Nope."
"That makes no sense! You're so graceful!"
"That's in the gym. On the dance floor, I end up looking like a total dork."
"I can't believe it."
"Nevertheless," he said, evenly, with neither shame nor embarrassment, "I can't do it."
We fell silent again. This guy was so interesting!
"So, Magnusson, right? You Icelandic?"
"Norwegian," he said.
"Funny, you don't look Norwegian - dark hair and all."
"My whole family's this way. There's some Sami in there, we think."
"Some Sami?"
"Yeh. They're the Laplanders up North. They're dark."
"Cool. So, a Viking, eh?"
"Something like that."
"You gonna rape and pillage me?" I asked.
"Careful what you wish for," he said. I laughed, until I realized I was the only one in the car laughing.
In the town, Dan stayed in the car listening to the radio while I went into the pharmacy, the supermarket, the McDonald's. Almost all the boys had asked for something - mostly sundries - except Doug who had wanted a Big Mac value meal. I bought all the things with the cash that Johnston had given me, threw them in the back seat and headed off back toward camp. Again, we drove without talking for a few miles, listening instead to the pop music on the radio.
"Can I ask you a question?" I finally said, still a little ways from the camp.
"Shoot."
"You really think Adam is a good judge of character?"
"Absolutely."
"What does he think of me?"
"I don't know," he said, "ask him"
"I don't think he likes me very much."
"Why not?"
"Well," I said, pausing, trying to find the words, "he doesn't treat me very well."
"That surprises me."
"It does? He didn't treat Corey very well. Do you know about that?"
"What, you mean fucking him?"
"Yeah. I mean, when he was 14."
"I didn't know him then. I only got here last year."
"Still," I said, "you think he's changed that much in 3 years?"
Dan shrugged. "Prolly not."
"So you think that was treating him well?"
Dan shrugged again. "It's none of my business. I'll tell you this, though. Corey can be a little shit. He's much better when Adam is around."
"Adam hit me, you know," I said, daring to share.
"Did you deserve it?" he asked, nonchalantly.
"No one ever deserves to be hit," I replied, angered at the suggestion.
"Did you want it, then?"
"Why would I want to get hit?!"
"Did it get you off?"
I replied with furious silence, surprised that the window was not fogging up with the steam that must have been coming off my forehead. Dan looked over and studied me for a minute, then went back to beating his thighs along to the music.
When we got to the compound, I went to get the supplies out of the back of the car, but Dan stopped me, and told me to follow him.
"I really should deliver these," I complained. "Can't it wait?"
"This'll just take a second," he said, heading off toward the gym without checking to make sure I had fallen in behind him.
When we got there, he turned on the lights and led me onto the gym floor, bringing me over to the trampoline.
"Hop up," he said, and when I did, he jumped up and joined me. The trampoline had a harness rigging above it, suspended from stiff elastic cords which were themselves attached to high, vertical struts on either side of the apparatus. The boys used the harness when practicing new tumbling moves, which were invariably born on the trampoline. Dan directed me to the center of the equipment, and began strapping the harness around my waist.
"You ever been on a trampoline before?"
"Not since I was a little kid," I said, remembering going over to a friend's house in elementary school and jumping on the one he had in his back yard.
"Ever been in the harness?"
"Nope," I said, thinking that this was not the time to be making a gay joke.
"Y'all seen us in it, right?"
"Sure," I said. "You practice your tumbling moves in it."
"That's right," he said, completing the process of strapping me into and adjusting it. "You feel how tight it is? Test the elastics. See how you can't fall to the left or right?"
I leaned over, feeling, indeed, that that straps would keep me centered on the trampoline. Trusting the rigging a little more, I leaned farther, reaching about 45 degrees before the stretch in the rubber began to pull me back. I nodded at him.
"Try to reach the edge of the trampoline," he instructed. I took a step toward the heavily padded, wide, blue lip of the apparatus, feeling the harness begin to disagree with my decision. I leaned my weight into it, and tried to use the friction between my feet and the stretched material on which I was walking as an ally. I got almost there - just a few inches away - before the rigging took over, and bounced me back to center.
"I can't," I said.
"Right. You can't get to the edge in the harness. You understand that?" I nodded.
"Okay," he said, "jump. Jump as high as you can go. Stay in the middle of the trampoline." He retreated to the edge, leaving me alone on the taut surface. I bent my knees, and began to jump, timing my knee springs to the nadir of the trampoline's stretch. Weighing twice as much as the last time I had been on one of these toys, I surprised myself by how quickly I attained height. Soon I was ascending four, six, eight feet off the trampoline. Each time I was about to land, I spread my legs to give myself a wider, more stable base on which to balance. As I rose, my feet naturally came together, where they stayed until I was about to land again.
"How's that?" I asked, feeling the childlike thrill of amusement parks and kickball.
"Good," he said. "Now, keep jumping that high, but only land on one leg, and aim for a place a couple feet off-center."
I laughed. "You can't be serious! I'll go flying. I may suck at chess, but I got physics down well enough. If I aim for the side of the trampoline, I'll bounce in the opposite direction, right over the edge." I continued bouncing, two-legged, centered.
"But you got the harness on. You can't fall off the apparatus. It will pull you back," he said.
"You're nuts. I weigh 170. I'll go over, and break my neck." Bounce.
"You felt how stiff it was, right?"
"Sure, but..." bounce.
"So you understand that you're safe."
"Yeah, but..." bounce.
"And you've seen us fuck up while connected to it, and none of us have gotten hurt."
"Yeah..." bounce.
"Good. So you understand perfectly that you won't get hurt. Now bounce off-center."
"Okay," I said, half-heartedly. "I'll do it on three. One," bounce. "Two," bounce. "Three," bounce. I went up high and came down fully intending to aim off center and land with one leg. But at the last moment, my left leg shot out, joining my right directly in the middle of the rectangle of material.
"Okay. This time for sure," I said. "Ready," bounce. "Go," bounce. Bounce. Bounce. I was still centered, still two-legged.
"Do it," he said, in a commanding voice.
"I'm trying," I said, laughing nervously. "Okay. One...two...three...ready...go!...four...five."
"Do it," he said again.
"It's not so easy!"
"But you understand perfectly that it's safe."
"Okay!" I tried again and again, to no avail. I kept bouncing vertically. My legs would just not do it.
On one of the ways down, without warning, Dan took a step out onto the trampoline and pushed me forcibly to the left just before I landed. I screamed as I hit the trampoline, visions of spending the rest of my life as a paraplegic flashing before my eyes. I bounced off at a 60-degree angle, heading in a high arc that would bring me well over the edge of the apparatus onto the hard, neck-breaking floor. I was well beyond mere fear - my arms and legs flailed in wild terror, my scream turned more to a shriek. But as Dan had predicted, as I had cognitively understood it would, the harness took hold, and jerked me back toward safety. I overshot the center, but not by much, and landed on the fabric unharmed, knees bent to keep from rebounding.
Maintained as I was by the harness, I tried to regain my balance and stand of my own accord, but my knees would not support me. I was panting, still, in panic, and as the shakes began to consume my body, Dan took a step over to me and placed my arm around his shoulder to support me. He unstrapped the harness from my waist, and I fell into him, leaning on his side.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"You're an asshole," I said, angrily.
"Had to prove a point."
"What point?!"
"Your head can understand all it wants. But if your body's not on board, it ain't gonna happen."
"Huh?"
"You understood that you wouldn't get hurt. Your brain knew. But your body wasn't ready to trust the harness. What your brain wants and what your body needs aren't the same thing all the time. And your body is always going to win, Mark," he said. "It doesn't matter what you want. You get what you need."
I looked into his face. He was supporting my full weight, his arm around my waist, mine over his shoulder, holding onto the round mound of his deltoid muscle. His eyes were kind, supportive, blue rings accenting blue fields. He smiled at me.
"You okay?" he asked again.
"Yeh," I said, thinking about what he had just said. "Think so."
"Let's get off this thing."
"Oh, do let's!" I tried to take a step, but my knees were still wobbly. He walked me over to the edge of the trampoline, holding me, making sure I did not fall. When we got to the side, he helped me sit, hopped off onto the floor, took me by the waist, and lowered me to the ground. I slid down his front as he helped me stand - his rock solid, curvaceous, long front. At once I was Bette Davis to his Paul Henrid. Looking up into his eyes, I forgot my fear, and smiled coyly.
"You ready?" He asked.
"Um hum," I said, hoping I knew what he meant.
But he turned us to face toward the door, and side-by-side, with his arm still at my waist, he walked me out of the gym.