Taste of Power by: Krazytop ---
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 in his red jockstrap, Chris 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 unveil 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.
Pay the price of action
Or let time slip away
You can't foretell collateral
When you sculpt with clay
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 still in our boxers, my heart pounding.
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 your eyes keep flashing between my legs."
I click my tongue. "And here I was hoping we would talk about the meaning of life."
"Is that really what you are hoping for?"
"It's on my list...somewhere."
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 heck 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 keeps me in the mood to write and brainstorm and is always appreciated. :) email: krazytop@gmail.com tumblr: krazytop.tumblr.com