rear. He did as he was told. Waves of lust made me dizzy as those strong deep buttocks slowly revolved. Have they ever been violated? I can hardly bear the suspense. Finally, I told him he could stop. He did so, with obvious relief. When he turned back to me, I noticed the curved upper lip was beaded with perspiration. In his dense masculine way, he too had felt the tension and perhaps suspected, instinctively, its origin and so knew fear. "I can't dance so good without music," he mumbled, as if obscurely ashamed of the display he had been forced to make of himself. "You did very well." I was brisk, even encouraging. "I think I may have a solution to our problem. All you need is something to remind you to stand straight. Where were the ribs broken?" He touched his left side, below the heart. "Four was busted right here which is why I'm kind of pulled over to this side." "Let me see." At first he seemed not to understand the question. "Like this," he said, indicating the way in which he was listing to port. "No. No." I was brusque. "Let me see your back. Take your shirt off." He was startled. "But there's nothing to see...... I mean the ribs are all inside me that was broken." "I know where the ribs are, Rusty." I was patient. "But I have to see the exact point where the muscle begins to pull you to one side." There was no answer to this. He started to say something but decided not to. Slowly he unfastened his belt and unhooked the top button of the blue jeans. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off. The T-shirt was soaked at the armpits, the result of his strenuous impromptu dance and, perhaps (do I project?), of terror. For the first time I saw his bare arms. The skin was very white (no one out here goes to the beach in January even though it is quite sunny), with biceps clearly marked though not overdeveloped; large veins ran the length of the forearms to the hands, always an excellent sign, and not unattractive since the veins were not blue but white, indicating skin of an unusual thickness, again a good sign. On the forearms coppery straight hairs grew. He paused as though not certain what to do next. I was helpful. "The T-shirt, too. I haven't got X-ray eyes." Glumly he pulled the T-shirt over his head. I watched, fascinated by each revelation of his body. First the navel came into view, small and protruding. Just beneath it a line of dark slightly curly hairs disappeared inside the Jockey shorts which were now visible above the loosened belt. The shirt rose higher. About two inches above the navel, more hairs began (I had seen the topmost branches of this tree of life at the pot party, now I saw the narrow roots slowly widening as the tree made its way to his neck). When the chest was entirely bared, his face was momentarily hidden in the folds of the damp T-shirt and so I was able to study, unobserved, the small rose-brown breasts, at the moment concave and unaroused. Then the T-shirt was wadded up and dropped onto the floor. Aware of my interested gaze, he blushed. Beginning at the base of the thick neck, the lovely color rose to the level of his eyes. Like so many male narcissists, he is, paradoxically, modest: he enjoys revealing himself but only on his own terms. A remark about his appearance was obviously called for and I made it. "You seem in very good condition..." "Well, I work out some, not like I ought to... used to..." He hooked long thumbs into his belt, causing the smooth pectorals to twitch ever so slightly, revealing the absence of any fat or loosening of skin. "Now will you please face the wall, arms at your side, with your palms pressed against the wall as hard as you can. Without a word, he did as he was told. The back was as pleasing as the front (no hairs on the shoulder, unlike poor Myron, who was forced to remove his with electrolysis). The blue jeans had begun to sag and now hung several inches below the waistline, revealing frayed jockey shorts. Aware that the trousers were slipping, he
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