Muscle Tf Lover

threatsareillogical:

1. “I’m kinda surprised I made the cut, Coach,” said Ethan. “All the other dudes on the team are so much bigger than me.”

“Well, I see a lot of promise in you, Ethan,” Coach said. “I’ve been doing this for a long time now, and I’m pretty good at picking out which guys have the potential to become bigger. Which ones I can trust, and which ones trust me. You know, real jocks.”

Ethan was sitting on the couch in Coach’s living room, his elbows on his knees and his face cupped in his hands. His fingers cradled his cheeks like the longslim petals of a honeysuckle flower. Stripped down to his gunmetal squarecut briefs Ethan felt the dregs of the lazy, humid air condensing on his belly; he felt Coach’s gaze, Coach’s lazy, humid gaze, condensing on his belly. The fading sunlight prickled the fuzz on Ethan’s forearms pale gold.

“You want to be a real jock, don’t you, Ethan?” Just the slightest tremolo in Coach’s avuncular pretense.

“I sure do, Coach.” A blandish sigh, upturned lips like a crescent moon.

“You sure do,” said Coach. “You’re an eager lil jockboy, aren’t ya?”

On the table between them lay a small box, worn velvet with the picked-at sticked-on remains of a pawn shop’s barcode sticker in the corner. Coach leaned forward and opened the box, stealing faux-discreetly a whiff of Ethan (sweat and sporty roll-on and something floral–no, not honeysuckle, not really?). There was a polished worn pocket watch in the box and Coach took it by the fob, lifting it out, playing out the chain before the watch’s round body came up and out and seemed to float in the air.

“Lay yourself on down, Ethan. Get comfortable.”

Ethan folded himself onto his side, bunching up a throw pillow to cradle his head, his feet crossed at the ankles on the arm of the sofa. He smiled again.

“Let’s do some visualization,” said Coach. He gave brief impetus to the pocket watch and it started to sway. And the fading sunlight prickled the timepiece and prickled Ethan’s eyes.

“Just listen to what I tell you, Ethan. You just have to agree with me, let everything else go out of your mind. Visualize my words in your brain like a good jockboy.”

“Be what you want to seem,” murmured Ethan.

“Um, yes. Keep your eyes on the watch.” Coach sent the watch swaying in a wider arc. Ethan’s eyes kept time.

“You want to be a good jockboy for Coach, Ethan. You want to grow big and strong like the other jocks.”

“Mhmm.”

They kept time.

“You want your muscles to grow and your mind to shrink, like a good thick jockboy.”

“Mhmm.”

“You want your pecs to swell and your biceps to bulge out, like a good thick jockboy.”

“Mhmm.”

“Keep your eyes on the watch, Ethan. You’re doing good, really great.” Coach’s free hand quavered on his thigh as his pinch on the watchfob whitened. He forced saliva into his dry mouth and tamped down his premature delight.

“You want to only listen to Coach because Coach knows what’s best for his jockboys. You want to be a drone, a bulging muscle drone, living for the weight room. Your free will dying as your traps grow. You want to become big and muscly….”

Ethan snickered. Coach’s eyes squeezed a little.

“Shhh…just empty your mind and listen, Ethan. Keep your eyes on the watch.” He breathed deeply. “Ethan, you want to become all big and muscly like….”

Ethan spluttered a chuckle, then closed his lips again. “I’m sorry.”

“Ethan….”

“It’s just…‘muscly’? Come on. Really?”

The pocket watch lost some of its glide. “Ethan…you’re doing so well. Just take a deep breath for Coach and….”

“And you’re getting sleepy, so sleepy.” Ethan wiggled his fingers at Coach like a ghost in a dimestore comic.

“Ethan,” Coach spat. “Listen.”

“No, you listen, Coach.” Ethan’s eyebrows angled and his eyes narrowed and they chased away his docile gleam and stared back at Coach predatorial. “Listen. Don’t you hear it?”

Coach let the pocket watch thump down into the velvet case. His nascent erection thumped down as well. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything, brat.”

“The bell.”

“What bell?”

“The temple bell. The bronze temple bell. The peal and the echo of the bronze temple bell.”

The lilt in Ethan’s voice slipped around Coach’s throat like a hangman earning his keep and Coach blinked and he choked back a little in his chair. “I don’t hear no bell.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” I said behind him.

The doorway to the kitchen framed me and behind me the doorway to the front yard crept shut and clicked shut. I came into Coach’s living room. I wrinkled my nose to the cloy of Febreeze and stale Axe body spray. Coach made as if to stand up but Ethan had blossomed from the sofa and laid his hand on Coach’s shoulder, and Ethan is light and lean and pretty but he is strong and his hand laid on Coach’s muscly shoulder like a squared cut stone crushing promises of amontillado.

Coach did not stand up.

“You are trying to poach one of my pups, Coach,” I said.

“Poacher-coacher,” Ethan tickled Coach’s ear with his tongue.

“Who are you?” Coach asked me.

“Who am I?” I put two boxes of my own upon the living room table. A tackle box. A bento box. “The question you should’ve asked—should’ve asked before—is ‘who is Ethan?‘”

The tackle box was heavy and I flexed my hand once I set it down. I went over to Coach and to Ethan and I slid my flexed hand down the back of Ethan’s gunmetal squarecut and I flexed Ethan’s asscheek and said to Coach, “Ethan is alive. Ethan is awake. Ethan is no mindless drone. Ethan is my pup and, oh Coach, oh my mindless Coach, he is not yours to poach.”

“Not yours to coach, coacher-poacher,” Ethan nuzzled my neck and his ass, his roundcut ass nuzzled the tip of my pinky. Coach’s eyes swayed in a wide arc, and then a wider arc.

“I admire hunters,” I said, “but not poachers. My sister, now she is a hunter. Perhaps, if the clouds hold off, later on we’ll all go outside and I’ll introduce you to her.”

I cradled Ethan’s face and I suckled him with my honeyed lips and I opened one box and later we opened the other. Coach droned and keened and Coach was deaf to the bell, deaf to the peal of the bronze temple bell, the crest and the ebb of the bronze temple bell and later on, later on the clouds held off and we went outside, two of us whole and awake and alive and most of the other, the other keened and mindless and in the moonlight he appeared quite black.

2. “The disunited mind is far from wise; how can it meditate? How be at peace? When you know no peace, how can you know joy?”

–The Bhagavad Gita 2.66

3. “He kindly stopped for me.”

–Emily Dickinson