Alpha Male

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.