Date: Mon, 12 Feb 2001 16:49:37 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male -- Chapter 20

Chapter 20:  Ripped

	It poured that night. One of those midnight thunder and lightning storms
that wakes you and has you running to the window when you realize the lack
of delay between the sound and light.  The boys were in the halls, buzzing
with the electricity of the storm.  One of them had the bright idea of
running outside to enjoy the deluge.  This is how nature keeps the stupid
from reproducing I pointed out, but I was merely the voice of reason.  Fun
was to be had.  They flooded out of the dormitory as the raindrops, big as
grapes, pounded the earth.  I stood under the small portico at the door and
watched them.
	Except for Eric who wore his pajamas, they were in their underwear.
Quickly soaked, the briefs and boxers became transparent, shining with the
treasures hidden beneath.  Abercrombie and Fitch had nothing on these boys.
Fresh, toned muscles dripped under the sheets of water.  In the fury of the
storm, they went wild.  Wrestling matches broke out until Brad had the idea
of pantsing Doug.  The favor was quickly returned and soon Brad's pale white
ass was brightening the dark night.  Eric was brought into the fray then
Dan, who with a brilliant feint, was able to avoid Doug's attempt to rip his
boxers off, catching hold of Steve's instead and pushing them to his ankles.
  As I watched from the shelter of the portico, Adam joined me.  He had been
in the bathroom when the stampede began.  Now he surveyed the pandemonium
before us - boys running around all reaching for each others' underwear as
the heavens themselves opened upon them.
	"They're nuts," I said.
	"They sure are," he replied, placing his arm casually over my shoulder.  It
was a gesture I least expected.  He was treating me like one of the guys.
It was glorious.  The storm raged, the boys were manic, and Adam, in his
underwear, reeking of himself in the heavy, wet air, was taking a quiet
moment with me.
	"What gets you off, Adam?" I asked, possessed with a sudden urge to know
him - to *really* know him -- to be his friend.  "You're always talking
about giving guys what they need.  Who gives you what *you* need?  What *do*
you need?"
	"That's some story," he said, winking at me.
	"No, I'm serious," I said, taking his wrist in my hand and pulling on it
slightly, increasing the weight of his arm on my neck.  "If I wanted to do
something for you, what would that be?"
	"If I have to tell you, champ, then it's…"
	"No," I said, cutting him off.  "No jokes.  No mystery.  No twists.  Just
tell me.  I want to know."
	He looked deeply in my eyes and found only sincerity there.
	"You're doing it, champ," he said.  "You're getting there."
	Another bolt of lightning stopped the action in the rain as the boys
reacted to the sudden, blinding light as if frozen on film.  The
ear-splitting crash half a second later rose a primal, howling scream from
Dan. Our moment was shattered.  From under the portico, Adam joined him,
letting out a hoot of such force and intensity that it rivaled the thunder
itself. He ran out from the safety of the portico and was immediately among
them, standing next to Dan, the two of them screaming at the top of their
lungs. In no time, the ten boys were all howling like a pack of wolves.
	Evan found a mud patch, and the boys took turns running at it as they did
the vault, seeing how far they could ski the slime.  Within minutes, the
torrent had passed, and the boys, to a man, were sopping, filthy and drunk
with the exertion of physical energy.
	It made me strangely sad to watch them.  Despite Doug's friendliness,
despite Brad's easygoing inclusion, despite Matt's crush, despite Adam's
newfound warmth toward me, I was not and could never be one of them.  Why
did that make me sad?  What did this cohort share that I found so appealing?
  Was discovering the answer to that question - the yearning for what they
had, the thirst for understanding it - what had informed my many decisions
to study male-male interactive patterns?  Had Dan been right after all?  Was
I just another of those unbalanced bozos who went into psychology only to
figure themselves out?  I didn't like severe weather.  It spooked me.
	When I awoke, I was uncomfortably moist.  The front had brought a mass of
hot, humid air behind it.  By the time I finished toweling off after my
shower, I was wet again.  It was going to be a difficult day.
	In the gym, the boys all had their unis peeled down to their waists.  By
mid morning, the air was stifling - the fan Johnston had me put in the door
notwithstanding.  My duties were increased.  I was to keep the boys in both
water and ice.  By ten, I had made three trips to the cafeteria to retrieve
buckets of ice cubes that the boys were as apt to throw at each other or
drop down each other's shorts as they were to suck on or rub on themselves.
	On one trip back from getting water, I entered the gym to find a commotion
near the parallel bars.  Johnston was huddled closely with Dan, who seemed
to be in some pain.  I ran over to see what had happened as the coach turned
him toward the locker room and began walking him out.
	"What's happened?" I asked.
	"I ripped," Dan said, cradling his right hand in his left.  They walked
past me, and were about to leave the gym when Adam ran over to the two of
them.  He spoke quietly with Johnston for a moment.  Johnston turned, looked
at me, turned back to Adam, nodded, then motioned me over.
	"Take Dan to the trainer's room and help him out," he said.
	"Okay.  Sure."
	Johnston returned to the gym while Dan disappeared through the door to the
lockers.  I followed him into the trainer's room.  He hopped up on the table
and presented his hand.
	A gymnast's hand is a remarkable thing.  To begin with, they're unusually
large - flattened and widened, I suppose, by all those years of supporting
so much weight.  They are, as well, callused beyond belief.  Where one would
expect a pad just below the junction between the third knuckle and the palm,
for example, the gymnast instead has a mountain of hard, weathered skin,
creating topographical contours so pronounced they rival the Himalayas
themselves.  The combination of the constant rubbing against the apparati,
the leather grips they used and the rosin that constantly coated their hands
in an effort to keep them dry worked to deaden, dehydrate and finally crack
the skin of their hands.  Each gymnast had his own routine for trying to
deal with this problem: some swore that washing dishes without gloves
helped.  Others filed the calluses down regularly with a stone.  But every
gymnast eventually had to deal with a callus that ripped off by itself.
	Such was the hand which Dan presented to me.  The callus over the first
knuckle of his thumb had torn off along three of its edges, and was hanging
awkwardly by the fourth.  Underneath showed a layer of angry purple.
	"Excuse me," I said, "but ewww."
	He laughed.  "It happens all the time.  It's the humidity this time.  The
rosin is caking."
	"Does it hurt?"
	"Of course," he said, though not showing any signs of pain.
	"What do I do?"
	"Get a scissors from the drawer over there and cut it off."
	I found them and took his hand in mine.  I hesitated.
	"I say again, ewww.  Are you sure you want me to do this?"
	"Yes.  I'd do it, but I'm a righty.  It's okay."
	"Really?!" I said, "and here your major minipulator is out of action!  What
will you do?" 	Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps the proximity to his most
hot, semi-naked form.  Perhaps my curiosity was just getting the best of me.
Whatever it was, I couldn't help but steer the conversation toward his
sexuality.
	He laughed. "That's not my 'major manipulator'."
	"Oh?  You do it with your left hand?"
	"You know what the most erotic organ is, Mark?"
	"Yes, yes," I said, "the brain.  Blah, blah, blah.  I've given too many
blow jobs to really believe that."
	"Then you're missing a lot," he said, looking into my eyes with his magic
blue circles.  "Now let's get to the matter at hand."
	"As it were," I added, speaking directly to his eyes.
	"…as it were," his eyes said back.  He turned to look at his hand, which
was a good thing, as if he hadn't, I would have been content to be wrapped
in the blue forever.  I joined him in examining it.
	As gently as I could, I lifted the flap of dead skin enough to be able to
position one blade of the scissors underneath it.  Dan didn't even wince as
I manipulated the callus in a way that I knew must have been excruciatingly
painful.  Instead, he just watched with morbid curiosity.  Were our
positions reversed, the only reason I would not be insisting on a screen to
block the sight of the procedure from me would have been the copious number
of Percocets I would have already consumed.  Positioning the tool as closely
as I could to where the lump of dead skin clung to his living flesh, I began
to cut.  The sharpness of the scissors surprised me and I was able to
complete the separation in one fluid motion.  The chunk of skin fell to the
floor.
	"Oh," Dan said, "don't lose that."
	"You want the used parts?  What - don't you trust my work?"
	"It's a thing we have," he said smiling.  "We compare them."
	I retrieved the callus from the floor and handed it to him.  He inspected
it, turning it over and measuring it with his eyes.
	"Boys the world around compare dick size.  You compare your calluses?  You
guys are truly bizarre," I said.
	He laughed again.  "I only like sports where the possibility of competition
exists."
	"Oh!" I said, fanning my face and falling into my best camp voice,
"goodness gracious, my good sir! Do be careful.  You tread dangerous
grounds!"
	"Have ah offended your delicate e-ahs, Miss Mark?" he asked, laying on his
southern accent as thickly as he could.
	"Not at all, sir!  Just that you shouldn't wake the kitten unless you're
prepared to feed it!"
	We laughed together, a delightful, shared moment.
	"What's next?  A bandage?"
	"Nope.  Have to let it breathe.  There should be some vitamin E in one of
the drawers.  Get it for me."
	I found the dispenser, opened it and handed it to him.  He doused the
circle of raw purple skin with the vitamin E.
	"Doesn't that hurt?" I asked.
	"Like a son-of-a-bitch," he replied, but again evenly, without a trace of
indication that what he was saying was true.
	"What now?"
	"That's it.  Just have to let it heal."
	"So it's back to the work-out?"
	"Nope," he said, cocking his head to one side in an effort to stretch his
neck.  "I'm out for the day at least."
	"Pull a muscle?"
	"Yeah.  When my hand ripped I fell off the horse."
	"Let me see if I can do anything about that.  Here," I said, motioning what
I wanted, "turn sideways."
	He swung his legs around to the side of the table.  I walked to the other
side and stood behind him.  It only took a few moments to find the offending
muscle - his right levator scapula.
	"How's this?" I asked, digging into the muscle, working to lengthen and
stretch it.
	"You got it," he said.  "That's the one.  Good job."
	I went to the cabinets and took out some oil, lathering my hands and one of
my elbows.
	"Lie down on your stomach," I instructed.  He complied, leaving his broad,
buff, unblemished back laid out before me. His muscles had muscles.  But it
was not grotesque, like some over-zealous body builders.  He was classically
proportioned.  Were he Greek and an ancient, he would have been celebrated
both in song and marble.   As it was, he was mine to adore.
	I leaned in with my elbow and made strong contact with the tight muscle.
"This might hurt a bit," I said, curious to see if I could make him wince.
I couldn't.  Dan responded to the pressure on points I knew to be sensitive
with, at most, a concentrated relaxation and a deeper breathing regime.
	"Does that hurt?" I asked, looking for - what?  Some kind of victory?
	"Yes," he said.
	A slight bit self-satisfied, I stopped and asked, "should I ease up?"
	"No," he said.  "The way you're doing it is fine."  So much for my victory.
  I returned to my ministrations, determined to loosen the muscle.  His skin
slid smoothly beneath my left elbow and right hand as I alternated strokes.
One would think that the fatter someone is, the looser his skin.  Instead,
the reverse is true.  It is those men who are most fit - who have the lowest
percentage of body fat - whose skin slides effortlessly around over their
muscles.  Dan's skin, pale but turned light gold from the sun, traveled
wherever I wanted it to go.  Its elasticity was remarkable.
	I massaged him in silence for a while, until I was confident that the
muscle was beginning to relax.  Rather than stopping, I broadened the field
of my work, including his shoulders, shoulder blades and neck as subjects of
my attention.  Truly, it was no imposition.  Merely feeling the weight and
density of the muscles under my touch had gotten me semi-hard.
	"Dan, can I ask a question?" I said to the back of his head.
	"Of course."  Hmmm.  That was Adam's generic response to my questions.
	"Could you describe me?"
	"Of course."
	"No," I said, beginning to work his left deltoid in opposing motions with
the knuckles of my two fists, "I mean, *would* you describe me?  Now.  Would
you give me a description of myself?"
	"And you call *us* bizarre…"
	I laughed.  "It's an exercise my advisor taught me.  Kind of a reality
check.  Do you mind?"
	"No," he said, "sure."  He was silent for a moment, then said, "you used to
be nervous around us, but you're getting more comfortable.  You hide behind
big words and ideas you didn't invent as a defense when you're feeling
insecure.  You think you're comfortable with your sexuality, but you're not.
  You are very unhumble and you're a snob."
	My hands had frozen, and I stood there, looking down at his gorgeous torso
unable to speak for a moment, so complete was the sting of his words.
Finally, having no idea what else to do, I laughed.
	"Jesus Christ, Dan," I said, "don't beat around the bush or anything."
	He shrugged the shoulders I still was holding.  "You asked."
	I took a step back from him.  "I kind of thought we were friends, Dan," I
said.  The hurt was beginning to become apparent in my voice.
	He propped himself up on his elbows, and looked me in the eyes.  I was, as
I had been before, immediately entranced by the Olympian rings of blue.  "We
*are* friends, Mark.  I like you a lot.  Listen," he continued, "if I
didn't, I would have lied.  You understand me?"
	I found myself nodding.  "But how can you like what you just described?  I
mean, the guy you described is a total shit."
	"You're a challenge," he said, and grinned.
	"Pardon?"
	He rolled over, and lay back down on the table.  "Do my front," he said.
Without thinking, merely because he had told me to, I took the step back to
the end of the table.  My waist was now above his head.  He lay before me,
eyes closed in repose.  I reapplied more oil to my hands, and started to
massage the front faces of his trapezius muscles.  I worked without speaking
and, more importantly, without thinking.  My hands did what they knew how to
do, my mind entirely blank.
	"Unhumble?" I asked at last, not knowing where else to hook onto what he
had said.
	"Humility is accurate self-appraisal.  Understanding yourself to be neither
better nor worse than you actually are.  You fail at both, my friend."
	"I do?"
	"Yes.  Think about it tonight, when you're alone.  You'll see what I mean."
	I massaged more in silence.  I had gotten to his pectorals, which I circled
with broad, sweeping strokes, ringing his small, brown nipples.  On one of
the down-strokes, when, to reach his ribcage, I had to bend at the waist and
bring my face closer to his body, he took hold of my wrists and held me
immobile.  I looked down into his face, which though close, was upside down
from my perspective.  His eyes were open and waiting to make contact with
mine.  When that contact occurred, he let go of my wrists.  He didn't need
to hold them anymore.  His eyes alone held me as motionless as his hands
had.
	"Your feelings hurt?"  he asked.  I nodded.
	"Your feelings hurt because you like me?"  I nodded again, this time more
cautiously.
	"You know what I said was true, don't you?"  A third nod, this one was
slow, almost painful.
	"You trust me?"  A fourth, much more readily offered.
	"I like you too.  You understand?"  I just stared at him, wanting more than
anything to kiss him, but knowing, somehow, it was not appropriate to do so.
	"You hard?" he asked.
	"Pardon?"
	He reached over his head, and groped at my shorts.  Lo and behold, I was,
indeed, hard.  He tested the strength of my erection, then let go.
	"Good," he said and, sitting up, hopped off the table.