Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---
Part VI
I walk slowly through the forest. My coat drags behind me, crinkling the leaves with each step.
I left my window open just a crack; I see the glinting glass and black gap up ahead.
Something about all this just didn't feel dignified—but I force the worry away. I have to.
I wrench my window open; it squeals with rust; I cringe. Then, I roll over the sill into my room, pulling the window shut behind me.
I shrug off the coat and crawl into bed. I could mull over what happened for hours.
What had they done to me? They made me part of their game—a piece, a bargaining chip.
I see the flexing muscles, the killer smiles, the piercing eyes.
I wasn't myself in there. My mind was useless, my personality was gone. I had let go. My will faltered; my pride turned inside-out.
I feel the warm bodies on me; they are soft at first, brushing against me, then colliding, harder and harder, finding my holes and filling them hot.
Helpless. That's what I'd become.
I hear the grunts, the groans, the snarls; the dark words and the clapping noises of skin against skin.
I am ensnared.
I smell the sweat, the dirt, the cum, the piss—the masculinity.
I taste the power.
I wake up in a pool of sweat.
Sunlight claws at my eyelids—and honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready for another day like this.
Most of my classes are a blur. The only one that seems to really gel with me is Ceramics. The spinning wheel is cool in my hands. I can still sculpt; I can still formulate. I don't think; I don't listen to Cynthia and the others, who have been looming over me all day like vultures circling something about to die. There's no room in my mind for any of them—for anything anymore. So I just feel it out, and hope that when I'm done, there's more than just a mushy clump of clay in my hands.
In Wrestling, all I do is lift weights. The others are less entertained by me than they were the days before, and now they give me a wide bubble of privacy.
If they get too close, they will catch my faggotry and die.
The bubble seems to not apply to Calvin for whatever reason, but I find his presence increasingly frustrating. Sure, the bubble will probably pop sooner or later, but he doesn't want to be inside it with me when it does.
I'm lifting more than I could last year, working the machines instead of the bench press so I don't need a setter. And so that I can be more casual about testing my limits.
I channel everything into the push, then do it again and again.
It would be easier for everyone if Calvin just left me alone like everyone else.
I hear rustling behind me and grimace.
"Not now, Calvin."
"Is now okay if it's me?"
"Coach!" I drop the bar. The pulley tightens, and the weights fall down on the rack with a clatter.
"I've wanted to talk to you, Travis," he says.
"About what?" I pick up the bar, straining, and lift again. "You still worried? I'm still not up to snuff?"
"Actually, I wanted to encourage you," Coach says. "You've been working hard and it's starting to show. You seem more dedicated—more focused—more noticeable. Travis, sometimes in life, the spotlight will be on you. And when that happens, you gotta perform. You've made progress; it's time to test it. I'm recommending you as on the JV spot for your weight class at the Storm Meet this weekend."
The Storm Meet is something of a ritual for our area. Since we live in a backwater town, some of our rival schools aren't too close to us. It is essentially a midseason convention. Chris's parents like to make a show of it by getting the team hotel rooms for the night prior, but only the varsity and JV players get to go (with one of each per weight class).
Since our weight class is sort of spilling over with people, typically Chris and Calvin wrestle "up" into the higher weight class, opening up space for Zane and Damerae in our weight class. They all win enough that Coach forgives them for it. He used to badger them to put on more muscle and own the higher weight class too, but frankly, it's really hard to see flaws in them, at least physically. Anyway, Coach doesn't want to push too much for people to put on weight, unless it is muscle, or a player is at the low end of their weight class allowance, like me.
I swallow. "Who am I supposed to challenge?"
"Damerae, cautious as ever, has twisted an ankle jumping off a roof, so there is one opening."
"Eduardo," I say, realizing Coach's intention with a prickle of fear.
Coach nods. "You are going to wrestle him for it."
"I don't know if that's a good idea."
"I am your coach. And I am telling you that you are challenging Eduardo for the open spot. Now get in your singlet, and get to the mat."
I wrinkle my face and push the weights harder.
I've never lasted more than a minute against Eduardo. He isn't as good as Damerae or Calvin, but he has always been worlds better than me. Is Coach trying to humiliate me?
I go back to the locker room and switch into my singlet. The tight fabric stretches and tightens over my body.
Or does Coach really believe in me so much that he thinks I stand a chance?
Memories of the clay echo in my palms. I start to get clammy.
It's not long before we are standing across from each other on the mat.
"You're no match for me, cundango," Eduardo growls.
We circle each other slowly.
"I dunno, Eduardo," I say, clenching my fists. "You look a little scrawnier recently."
Eduardo snarls. "You just don't want to admit that you are getting fat."
"Shut up and start," Coach says.
Eduardo circles me and I crouch down, testing his weaknesses.
He mirrors my motions.
Our hands are on each other's shoulders as we dance around. He tries to knock mine away; I flex; he twists and bats my hand down; it grazes his dick—which jolts, half-hard.
Our mouths fall half-open.
He pulls back his arm to start a maneuver I don't recognize.
I only have time to open my mouth in surprise when he punches me square in the face.
I fly backwards onto the mat, visions of the Storm Meet dance around in front of my eyes, and then everything goes black.
The next thing I know I am in Calvin's car.
"What's going on?" I ask, rubbing my temple.
"Eduardo knocked you out cold. I'd never seen Coach so mad. Coach doesn't like giving people suspensions, because it damages their grades, but I'm pretty sure Ed will have lunch detentions till the end of time. Coach says you didn't get a concussion, which is always a plus."
"I should just leave the team."
"So some people hate you. You can't just let the haters win."
"But they did win. They punched me in the face."
"Eduardo cheated. He's disqualified. The spot as at the Storm Meet is yours."
What Calvin said sunk in slowly. I taste blood on my lips and laugh. "That will fix all my problems."
Calvin chuckles, rubbing my shoulder. "I know everything is a mess right now. People can be pretty crude when it comes to things they don't understand. They'll worry--deep down--that you threaten their status. They were told all their lives that manly breeding is the height of human triumph. If that's not true--did they waste all their time working toward something that doesn't count anymore? You are a threat to them, just by living your life."
"I don't want to threaten anyone. I just want to live my life in peace."
"You can't avoid some fights, Travis. Some people want everyone to live by their narrow standards. We all want that in certain ways. You have to make the case that people should make a little room for you—that their way of thinking needs a complication or two. The hollow complaints about you will get stale, and the truth will get a shot at a comeback."
"I never volunteered for this."
"Well, black people and women never volunteered either. The difference for them is that they can't hide from it. They can't opt for the low road—they have to be themselves; that one aspect of them is right there on the surface. Gay people can't choose who they are, but they can choose how they are. Maybe that's a curse sometimes."
"What do you mean?"
"When the going gets tough, a gay guy can sink into denial about who he is. He can lie to himself, or lie to others. Every time he does, he gets a moment's peace—but delays the greater peace, by delaying a battle that must come to pass. It seems like a drop in the ocean—but it adds up. And maybe it's these internal delays that made the gay rights movement occur at the tail end of the Civil Rights movement, and not earlier. That and because talking about sex turns most people into pompous, lying dingbats."
Just thinking makes me tired. I'm not cut out for this at all. "I need to lie down."
Calvin sighs, letting go of my shoulder. "Where is your house key anyway? I couldn't find it in your backpack or pockets."
I smirk. "You checked my pockets?"
Calvin rolls his eyes. "Don't get any ideas. Seriously though, where did you hide your keys? I was going to take you inside, put you to bed, and take care of you for a while."
"I don't know where my keys are. You should just drop me off and go home."
Calvin scowls at me. "Seriously? I'm just trying to be a nice guy here. You won't even let me in your house?"
"No, Calvin, seriously, I don't have my keys."
"So do you want to go back to school so we can look for them?"
"No—I'll be fine."
"You are so full of it," Calvin says. "Are you mad at me for some reason?"
"Goodbye Calvin," I say, my lip curling, but in his eyes I can see he is hurt. I stumble out of the car, pushing the door shut behind me, as Calvin shakes his head. He smacks the steering wheel with both hands before he drives away.
I sit down on the rocking chair on our porch and lean back and forth, staring into space.
The next time I gather my mind I'm pacing back and forth. I'm still on the porch, and Eduardo is a fading distraction.
Calvin thinks I can pull through this. That I can just focus on myself and that this whole mess will all become something forgettable, like a bad joke or a bad dream. But he doesn't realize how deeply I've fallen. At this point, I'm complicit in my own shame. It's like I'm my own enemy. I've looked within, but I didn't find strength there, only misery. And when I look around me, it's even worse.
No matter how much I think about Chris, I still don't know what to think of him. I just feel this rush of emotion any time anything even reminds me of him, and it makes my logic hazy.
Why would he want to be with Cynthia more than me? It's clear that dominating me is a turn on for him. He makes it sound like he couldn't be with me; he makes it sound like he is too much of a jack-ass to be trusted--but I can't help but feel it is all some mental fabrication of his, and that if he just believed in himself, if he just let his feelings realize—materialize—crystallize—that he could be free to care for me, and I could be the one to keep the light in his eyes burning. I could be the one that he comes home to, and massages his feet and back, and makes everything okay. I could tell him that I love him, that I will always love him, and that he can go out into the world protected, emboldened, and rejuvenated by my love.
But somehow it's not enough for him. Each day I work out harder; each day he won't look at me; and it's so icy it almost hurts. I fantasize about the times he let me suck him off; I dream about him fucking me; but then the cold reality sets in: I can't talk to him; I can't see him; I can't feel him; he's there, but he isn't; I crave him; I want him; I need him; I am shaking.
Even a bad dream can be better than no dream at all.
My head is throbbing.
God I am so pathetic! What is wrong with me? I am not fucking crying again, goddamn it! That heat at the edges of my eyes—it will just have to go back where it came from. Fuck it!
I need to get out of this cycle.
It's killing me.
I hear Zane at the edge of my mind.
"Come over to my house, faggot."
He asked me over, didn't he?
Calvin thinks I need to stand up for myself. I could tell Zane how confused I felt after last time, how I crave more affection than what I've gotten. He's been listening better than Chris lately, even if it really seems like there is something a little wrong with him.
Anyway, I can't spend another minute trapped inside my own head.
I walk around my house to where I cracked my window open slightly that morning, and wrench it open before hopping inside.
I get in the outfit. Boxers, the raincoat, and the fedora. It's funny; there is nothing remotely sexy about the outfit, but it makes my heart thump every time I put it on.
I leave a note saying I am over at a friend's. It pains me to decide whether or not to bring my phone. I decide to leave it in my room. I don't want to lose it again. I set the answering machine saying the phone is about to go dead and put it on silent under my pillow.
I leave through my open window, closing it most of the way from the outside. I got in trouble last time for leaving the front door unlocked and I don't want to repeat that fiasco.
I try to remember which house is Zane's. It's toward the south end of the strip, I think. The walk there is dreadful. I keep getting this sinking feeling that I'm walking into a monster's lair, but I shake it away. The alternative—the brooding and hiding—is almost as miserable and prevents nothing. Procrastinating my destiny—the looming confrontation--is everyone's loss.
- I would have to go out to the street to find it.
I cut through a backyard quietly and onto the street. I can feel the orange light glancing off the raincoat, twisting shadows as I walk.
This week is damaging my heart. I feel it crushing my chest.
Zane's house is very simple. Small. Made of concrete. Unpainted. Shingled roof.
It lacks the majesty and rosiness of Chris's house, but it makes up for it in shear fearlessness.
I approach the door slowly—and knock.
In the silence, I start to doubt my decision again. I squirm like I'm caught in a trap. Maybe I shouldn't be here. Maybe I should go home.
Slowly the door whines open, and I force myself to stay still.
In the shadows, I see those slicing green eyes, the fire-red hair with smoky black tips.
He's wearing tight black workout shorts and a grungy wife beater that show off his arms, which he flexes as he looks me over.
Zane.
"Get inside," he says.
I walk past him and he slams the door behind me, clicking the lock.
"I must say—a part of me is surprised that you made it," Zane says. "That you would give up the safe, puppy-dog feeling you get around Chris and pass some time with me."
Zane tugs at my coat, and after a little hesitation, I let him take it, feeling a little cold and exposed in my boxers. I shake the feeling away. I'm still in control. It's just a coat.
"Maybe that's just it," I say, taking a moment to find my voice. "Chris treats me like his pet—like a lowly animal. I feel that you treat me closer to how you treat everyone else."
Zane laughs, hanging the coat up on the rack. "That's because I treat everyone like animals. People are animals, Travis. Anyone who says otherwise is a wishful thinker. Or maybe just a liar."
He pulls off his shirt and exposes his cut chest muscles. There's a certain edginess about him—his body contracts not out of cockiness, but out of defiance, like he is always ready for a fight.
I brace myself and speak. "I came here to tell you that I don't like the way we left things last time. I don't like being turned out on my ass without a hint of warmth."
Zane pushes down his work-out shorts, exposing his blood red jockstrap. "Did you like everything else?"
I blush.
"I don't know."
Zane looks me over. The light dances in his eyes as his smile curls. "No need to act so anxious, Travis. Take a seat on the couch. Make yourself at home."
--- Feedback keeps me in the mood to write and brainstorm and is always appreciated. :) email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com