Chapter IV
But the most fantastic part of the gathering, as Leda had promised me, were the men. Long since forgotten was the spectacular form of the fellow who had bathed me. Now the wondrous beauty of men from all over the world swirled past me in flurries of muscles and demure clothing, for as Leda had told me so many times, it isn't nudity which attracts so much, as the suggestion of nudity and the desire to know what's under the clothes. That was true: I hungered far more for the beauties passing my couch because they were covered than I would have hungered for them if they had merely been undraped, sauntering past my table. But it was the clothing, the artfully draped sashes which left exposed enormous areas of torso, but which hid the marvelous line which the Greeks concentrated on which ran from the waist to the crotch, and along that line ran the sash, revealing a tuft of curly black hairs above the silken whiteness, but below the tuft were only appealing folds of cloth with the suggestions of something contained within which excited my imagination beyond end. In a dream the apparitions appeared before me: from the fountain a head capped in shimmering silver appeared, and rose until the broad expanse of forehead was molded into two widely-spaced eye sockets which held two lined orbs which glittered out in serpentine splendor from a sequined face. As the water flowed down the incomparable angles of the cheeks, the texture of the water became like that of an infinitely fine gauze veil which the head pulled out of the water as it rose. The veil adhered to the flesh of Being within, and the surface was a marvelous conflict between the too-smoothness of oiled water and the fingertip-tingle of a webbing of gauze. The water continued to the point of the chin, which stood imperiously upon a columnar neck whose lines begged to be looked upon and admired. Still higher rose the figure as the lights and waters played about it, but those luminous lined eyes still looked over the crowd, the consummate actor ignored the brush of water and wave and his eyes swept over the crowd as though he would seduce them all. Only the passing of ravishing couples could draw my eyes away from the slowly rising figure in the center of the room, but as soon as I satisfied myself that the thick legs were merely flesh and bone, that the bulge of pectoral was merely a pad of muscle stretching the skin atop it, that the hair was merely a silken skein of individual human hairs arranged in perfect symphonies of curls---only then did I accept the passers-by as human and returned to the sea-god rising from the fountain. The triangles of muscles which flanked the neck widened in the water until it seemed that the torso was unbelievably broad, but then the caps of the deltoids on the arms broke the surface of the ripples, and the staggering expanse of shoulder promised that what followed would only have to be exceptional. Leda plopped down beside me and offered me a cup of broth, exquisite mushroom flavor, but the fleshy taste of the mushroom only made me concentrate the more on the blue-green body emerging from the shadowy waters. A hand rose from the side and the breadth and strength of the hand did not belie the promise it gave of the corded forearm which appeared after it. Milo walked past and crossed my line of sight. I moved my head impatiently so that I wouldn't miss an inch of the vision in the pool, and he chuckled softly and patted me on the head, "So this is the first time you've seen Aquanon. Really, you have to believe that it's all in the makeup." Laughing, he sat down a few terraces away to chat with someone who'd grown used to the performance; as for me, I couldn't have looked harder. Aquanon, my lips formed the syllables, the middle almost being the full-throated sound of the Spanish sound Juan, and as if in response to my bidding, those emerald eyes flashed in my direction and I was caught in the reptilian gaze for so long that I felt I must be able to breathe water. During this time Aquanon was bared to the waist, and still the veil-oiled-water clung to the fantastic torso, belling out over each convexity of the tuned body. His nipples were completely invisible, giving a remarkable smoothness to the entire front of his body, as if it were sculpted out of the whitest soap, of compressed soap-foam, so that such graceful lines could not possibly have substance, and a touch of the finger would penetrate into the flawless shell. As the lights played slightly, I was aware that not all the movement was coming from the lights, but no, the vision, the beauty, Aquanon was alive and breathing, it was not merely a perfectly symmetric model which was produced from an artist's imagination, but was composed of flesh and sinew and gristle like all the others of us sitting, staring at him from the cushioned couches around the panting room. It was the same apparent diversity between the thought that the human body was worth 98 cents in simple chemical compounds. This body which glistened in the air before us was as far superior to any body I'd seen yet that evening as my body was superior to reagent jars containing the chemicals which comprised my now-palpitating body. Even Leda ceased to twit me, as if I had paid any attention to her at all, and she, too, though she had seen the performance before, kept her gaze on the shimmering body. And as lines and streaks of light I hadn't seen previously appeared and vanished on that living surface, I realized that Aquanon was moving very slightly, undulating in the play of light, catching colors and highlights first on this lump of flesh, then on another, then he raised one arm higher and I sucked in air for sustenance, that such a simple motion could be so beautiful: a mere lifting of the arm, yet it was an arm without an elbow which rotated about its axis to give the motion a fluidity which bones do not ordinarily possess. As on oiled frictionless bearings the shoulder acted as the pivot, and the lines of the back pointed up to the motion and the bicep rolled from the front to the top of the arm as if it were a buoyant mass of flesh which became lighter as the arm was lifted. The hand, too, rotated from palm down to palm up and the fingers traced perfectly circular segments in the air as the cupped hand raised in a salute to the watchers. The wrist acted effortlessly, as with great practice the massive arm transfigured from a passive projection of the body into an upheld beacon of welcome to the eyes of the marveling assemblage. That simple motion alone deserved the applause of everyone, but the fixity of the eyes gave the credit that mere hand-sounds could never duplicate. Lower crept the water, down those gleaming loins, and darts and arrows seemed directed toward the focus, the crux of the body, which yet still the water covered, and those unwavering snake-like eyes transfixed the audience, defying anyone to find a fault with what their wondering eyes beheld before them. As the arm reached upward, the chest tilted slightly, and one pectoral rose higher than the other, shadows changed, and each instant of change surpassed any stroke of Pericles or Phidias. The line of the waist canted slightly, and one thigh-top cleared the water, and the enormous hollows between the massive legs began to take shape. I wish I could say I was disappointed when there appeared an actual netting of opaque material which completely concealed the genitals, but the downward sweep of the netting so beautifully echoed the curves of the legs, the entire body was so eye-filling that it would suffer if any one point of it drew any more attention than any other point, and long before, the body had far surpassed any beauty which mere sexual attraction could give to a body. Here was a body one could not easily get excited about: here was a body one merely wanted to look at, to view from various angles, fearful to touch, since any touch must mar the universally even surface of the skin. It was, I imagined, a feeling akin to the feeling the Beatific Vision must give someone. Here is a Face which is supposed to contain all the beauty possible in a face, and yet be concentrated in one face, so that all who look upon it love it. Such is the beauty of that Face that the major portion of the suffering endured in Hell are not the burns and the tortures, but the deprivation of that omni-beautiful Face. Since God is perfect, His Face must be perfect, and one is doubtless unable to feel any emotion but supreme love for this Most Perfect Face. And here, as closely as the world could offer, was the body which was the analogue of that Face. It might sound obscene to wax religious at the sight of such a body, but some sights so surpass the human experience that the only feeling one has, the only way one can describe the overpowering feeling one has, is to say that the feeling is religious. Blinding flashes of light when suddenly an entire fact of creation is blindingly clear in the mind, sublime sunsets when the colors and the surroundings simply pass out of the sphere of ordinary experience, moments in love when the emotion must leave the sensate body behind and soar to new heights of feeling which have no name in the realms of sight or sound or hearing or smell or touch or taste: heights of feeling from which one can only dimly comprehend the actual HEIGHT, at which point I had so far outstripped my powers of communication that I could only gasp and gulp air into my opened mouth and somewhere in the back of my mind I'm hoping the body I left so far behind truly has involuntary muscles which will keep my heart beating, my blood moving, my body under control, for my mind is so distant from the mere sensate centers of existence that, if not, the body would die in that instant. I wonder at times like these whether, if the body WOULD die at such a moment, whether the soul would comprehend the fact that the body had died? So FAR is the soul from the body at those moments that they seem two entities, completely independent, so that when the apex of the separation is reached, and the soul turns back to more mundane roots to find them scattered, what then has the soul to do? It's been caught with its back turned, so to speak, and the soul is now lost, unable to re-enter the dead body it left so many milliseconds ago, unable to go elsewhere. One is almost tempted to think that such enormous soul-body separations might be responsible for whatever vestiges of "ghosts" we still hear reported today. However, the speed of the mind and the emotion being so much faster than words, these flying chains of thoughts looped through my mind as my eyes frantically tried to convince my mind that the vision was real, and trying to convince my memory that it was not really so faulty, but that this IN ACTUALITY was the most beautiful body I had ever seen in my life. In this state of my numbness, the legs of Aquanon rose completely free of the water, and the entire body, naked except for the perhaps merciful covering of the genitals, stood exposed before the enraptured guests. I could still console myself with the idea that the genitals were imperfect: there must be something wrong with such a body. If I were firmly convinced that his genitals matched the beauty of his body, I would probably feel free to die, since I had seen all the physical world had to offer, and there was no longer any reason for me to stay alive. Just as some men who desire riches so intensely lose the will to live when they've made all the money they care to make, so my quest for physical beauty would then be satisfied, and other reasons for living would pale into insignificance. But the idea that this body must have, somewhere, an imperfection, that the genitals COULD NOT be perfect, or else Milo would have had Aquanon show them, was the only one that saved me from despair. "Dear," Leda said, "I know exactly what you are thinking. Though the genitals are covered, you've been staring at them, though objectively they're hardly the most spectacular things on view at this moment. You must have the same feeling, and I can assure you it IS the same feeling, that everyone has when they first see this body,"---she shook her head in infinite patience---"and even I have to admit it's the most perfect body I've ever seen---that there must be something wrong with this body---something wrong with this body, or they would feel impelled to destroy this body utterly, and every memory of it." I started from my seat, at last severed from the magnetization of such perfect flesh. "I assure you, Leda, I wasn't thinking of destroying it, I was thinking of destroying myself." "Oh, darling, how quaint, but if you look at it, there really isn't any DIFFERENCE between destroying it, or destroying yourself, it all amounts to the same thing as far as you and that body are concerned: they can't BOTH exist." I turned back to the fountain, not interested in following her argument---she could be right and I wouldn't care. "Be happy you haven't had the "pleasure" of seeing Tzianya---I've always thought the female body was innately more beautiful than the male body---the male body can attract through numbers of lines and groups of masses of muscles and gracefulness of movements, and certainly Aquanon has that area all to his own, but Tzianya has the most beautiful FEMALE body in the world, and she doesn't even move---a curtain merely rises and she's there, poised, immobile, and the pedestal turns slowly, so that everyone can look at every inch of her, but she needn't move, because the female body, receptacle, container, is beauty in repose, while the male body, warrior, penetrant, is beauty in motion." From the sidelines came a scuffle, and a white-clothed figure burst over the edge of the pond and threw itself at the feet of Aquanon. The regal head held steady for only a moment, then slowly moved to look down at the figure clasping his knees. Abysmally moaning, the figure moved upward, pulling aside the netting which hung from the hidden center of Aquanon's body, and at that point the lights from the fountain dimmed and died. A gasp and a sigh came from the center of the room, and the silhouetted figure which had once been fully lit sank again into the floor. "Is this supposed to happen?" I had seen nothing to disturb the orderliness of the party, and feared this might be an indiscretion of some magnitude. "No," said Leda. "Certain individuals can't believe that veils might be for the better, they must tear the veils aside. Right now that figure in white, I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, though"---and Leda smiled her superior smile at me---"I'd prefer to think it was a man. They're the more adventurous, and, thankfully, better able to stand disillusionment." "Disillusionment?" "No, I don't know anything, but I merely know that when someone launches themselves at Aquanon like that, or at Tzianya, for that matter, they're never seen at the parties again." "They've killed themselves?" This wouldn't have been the first intimation that a party of such intensity could hardly help from having violent repercussions. "Silly, it could merely be that Milo doesn't want them to come back again and say 'Oh, they weren't perfect.' Milo has a certain reputation to uphold, too, you must realize. Sort of a product to stand up for." "How could he keep anyone away who had been here before?" "I don't know, but Milo certainly knows. I've said someone should be thrown out once, for making obscene remarks after I'd given her---him fair warning. For all I know, that garbage chute to the incinerators may be used for far more than old hambones. It's big enough." Leda sat looking seriously at me, or I would have burst into laughter, but her seriousness cut through any suspicions I may have had. "Is Milo a murderer?" "You ARE a child; how should I know if Milo is a murderer. He's certainly organized everything here very well, and he keeps his business going on the side too---how else do you think these are financed, through Government subsidies?" "What happened to the person you wanted gotten rid of?" "I pointed her out to Milo, and I didn't see her again. There was a little social notice that she was sailing for New Zealand the next week, but when I went to the ship to see her off, the Captain regretfully told me that she was very ill, and that she couldn't possibly be disturbed. Nerves before the sailing, he said, though I didn't believe it, this girl---oh, dear, I meant to say fellow---NEVER had cases of nerves, that's what inspired her to go further than she should have with someone who had Milo's ear." "Did you trace her?" "I sent a telegram, return requested, to her hotel in Auckland, but they said she'd skipped that, and sent it on, considerately, to her hotel in Wellington, she DID have relatives in Christchurch, you know, but the hotel returned it, saying that she had left. When I telephoned her relatives in Christchurch they said they hadn't heard from her." "She just vanished? How long ago was that?" "About four years ago." "Three years to go," I mused. "What?" "Statue of limitations, you know. Three more years and her "disappearance" will be official." "Mmm, yes." "Quite a man, is Milo." "Oh---oh, YES, that reminds me of the ORIGINAL Milo." "Original Milo?" "Yes, our host's name isn't Milo, no more than mine is Leda." I gaped at her as she grinned: "Did you REALLY think my name was Leda." "I never thought about it at all." "Everyone who comes up takes a name finally---no more troubles about Jane WHO? or WHICH Mr. Vansitart. No, when I first came up here, Aquanon hadn't been discovered as yet, and the attraction was Milo, who was appropriately Greek, but HIS name wasn't Milo either. Our host was quite taken with him, and Anakanan's predecessor wasn't nearly so original as Anakanan, so "the host" had free rein with Milo. No one knows exactly what happened, but after Milo was here for a few years, Taural, whom you've heard mentioned before, took a liking to Milo, and one night when the stage was set for Milo, Milo didn't appear. There were no parties for a number of weeks after that, and then for the next one Milo had been replaced by Aquanon, Taural no longer appeared at the parties---I don't know his real name, so I wasn't able to find out if he vanished from the face of the Earth like a number of others have---and the host changed his name to Milo. Milo didn't watch Aquanon's first few performances; I think I agree when many of the older guests say that Milo was far better than Aquanon. Aquanon is so STATIC, but Milo really moved around." "Was he 'hidden' from the eyes of the onlookers, too?" "Yes, but not so completely as Aquanon. One had the decided impression that Milo COULD have been perfect between the legs, too---but let's change the subject, I should tell you that you should never refer to the original Milo. Milo might have reason to get rid of YOU," and Leda pointed a toothpick at me. Still the men passed. Leotards now graced handsome flanks, and though none of them could hope to equal the elegance of Aquanon's legs, even the idea of perfection, even fully visualized, fades when the stimulus is gone. Leda, the bitch, wanted to talk about what might start happening as Aquanon aged, and wondered where the first chink in that flawless armor of beauty would appear. She even whispered that the black lines around the eyes concealed certain wrinkles---. But the living, walking legs around the couches were still tantalizing. Blond curls lapped around white edges of garments, and many of the men chose to tighten their white clothing into revealing closeness. The lines of the loincloth underneath blended so well with the body-lines, that it was sometimes difficult to recall that warm penises weren't pulsing immediately under the taut white material. The tiny folds and waves in the cloth accentuated the motion of walking, tightening over knots of calves as feet pushed past my face, stretching over thighs as they strained under the tension of walking. Young men with no hips lounged against the pillars like statues taking a breather, and the curved swells of their thighs were in robust contrast to the straight linear quality of their loins. And everywhere the eyes glistened in the dim light. More than anything else, I though, that eye-salve made everyone appear beautiful. Eyes were jewels of amethyst, jade, aquamarine, cats-eye, set into a pearly white that seemed to take softly the color from the iris. Pupils were dilated in the dim light, and the iris was only a thin band of color, but so intense was the color, as if always catching light from the direct side, almost as if lit from behind with a luminescence of its own, and so impeccable was the white of the eye, that the whole impression was one of brilliance and clarity. No vestiges of hair remained on the faces, no moistness of sweat blemished the oil-powder-spray after the antiseptic shower. Each face was as flawless as the individual features permitted, and with such settings, each contour of nose, each line of lip, each chin, whether slack or angular or smooth or craggy, took on a character and beauty. The faces were not changed at the party, but they were refined, polished, all the flaws were taken away and the natural beauty of the human face as found in the adolescent---when not plagued with pimples---shone forth. Even the older men and women, serviced specially with an astringent which drew the skin tighter than usual, revealed character in faces ravaged by time, creased with wrinkles too deep for cosmetic removal, weighted down with cares and worries---even these faces bloomed with character and attractiveness when assisted with the clear eyes of youth, robust color of vigorous health, and the hair was livened to a sheen which made every hair fall brilliantly into place next to its neighbor. The cosmetic skills worked best because they worked subtly, and the faces, their possessors confident of their basic beauty, lifted in cheer and good-feeling. If money could not buy happiness, money could make it as easy as possible for those who wished to be happy to find that happiness. Discolorations were softly shaded into the flesh tones, yet each face had its distinctive coloration, there was no matte-finish of the pancake makeup. Each head of hair glowed with its own color, and even the balding heads looked ruddy and scrubbed and naturally appealing. But my eyes wandered from the faces to the bodies of the young men who endlessly roamed the room, delighting in their own company, every so often succumbing to the flattery of men or ladies on the couches, yet all easy, confident, trusting in Milo to have organized the party so that everyone would have a more than adequate choice. And no one seemed willing to hurry the evening to its ultimate climax. All knew the climax must come, a climax at the end of a long day when the body, wanting rest from simple activity, would begin to fall asleep whether the mind would wish it to or not. "You look so funny, darling, drinking Scotch." "What are YOU drinking, I thought it was Scotch, too." "No, there's no need to get drunk---why? We need no inhibitions, we need no artificial cheerfulness, so we don't need alcohol. Only the newcomers need that stimulus, or else they'd flee from the party as if their golden idols were being toppled by the missionaries. Drink doesn't make these parties; the best parties, think back, were usually those at which you didn't drink at all, isn't that true? There are so many pleasant tastes other than the taste of Scotch, or tonic, or whatever your desire was. Men I used to know loved Brandy Alexanders, but they'd rather die than order them, since somehow Brandy Alexanders got the reputation of being a lady's drink, and most men were so afraid of being accused of being ladies, they couldn't stand ordering such an epicene drink. Here there's no problem. I happen to love the taste of licorice, probably from when I was a kid, or something, but I didn't like ouzo, it was too strong, or sake, it was too alcoholic, or pernod because the aftertaste was terrible, or Anisette, because such a little taste of that went such a long way, so Milo had his cook fix me a drink---here, taste it." I sipped, and the essence of licorice hit me at first, but then, holding the liquid on the tongue, that primary taste dwindled and little tastes, sweet, sour, bitter, bit through my palate, and when I swallowed I could almost taste the blackness in my throat from the licorice shoelaces I devoured by the yard in grade school, but as the saliva reasserted itself in the mouth, the taste vanished, and I found I was ready to start on the buccal carousel fresh from the start---I took another sip and the return to normal was still complete. "I could drink it all year. Babies never get tired of milk, and adults seem to keep up a taste for orange juice and such drinks for many years, so there seemed no real reason why any one taste should get boring. I love this." I went back to my Scotch with appreciation, but I knew that after five or six drinks, the taste of the drink didn't seem important, and I wished I could recapture the same smoky, thick, full taste of the first sip of good Scotch through the entire evening. Next time I would talk to Milo about his cook. "Darling, I'm amazed at how typical your reactions are. I can read your mind. Yes, there's a perfectly good Scotch substitute already dreamed up, all you have to do is take three sips of a test substance to see what it IS about Scotch that you like---each taste has components, and we react more strongly to some than to others---in some cases only the temperature is the important thing, like in beer for some people, for example. Milo's cook has test substances for each beverage, and then gives you the beverage he thinks you'll like. I've never known him to fail yet." My eyes were again drawn to the native dancers, bare middles lumped with muscles developed from years of swinging their bodies in the rhythm of the skin drums, legs thick with practice in jumping, bending, swooping, leaping, turning. And since the dancers didn't have the certainty of sex the party-goers had, every so often I would see a fellow go past, sweat standing on his face and torso, with an enormous erection deforming the front of his costume. Others danced past with wet spots where their cocks had been unable to retain the erections for so long, and had shrunk, squeezing all fluids out of the head. Another beauty of the loincloths, I noted, since though I was certainly wet from the Aquanon performance, no unsightly spot marred the expanse of my garment-front. Not so with the dancers. As the music leaped into a frenzy, I saw three of them form a sensuous circle, feet widespread, heads twirling with the music, and they bent their torsos backwards from the circle, so that the viewers of two profiles saw that their cocks stood rigid under their clothes, rubbed to hot tumescence by the fraying of the material and the contortions of their beautifully trained bodies. Though the temperature in the room was perfect for the reclining guests, the constant dancing heated the dark natives until their skin glowed with energies, and finally, irresistibly, their cocks grew impatient at the incessant stimulus of the music and surged up in their crotches. All the muscles on the fronts of the dancers tensed, and they crouched into the position of walking under a limbo stick, but they were only facing each other. Their flashing eyes and grunts of pressure told the guests that here was a group to watch as they worked themselves into a sexual frenzy of dancing. Their close-cropped hair gleaming in the lights, their faces concentrated fully on the few square inches of cloth which kept them captive, they danced around their circle, pumping their bodies back and forth, skinning their sensitive rods against the rough material of their trousers. Long narrow stretches of moisture appeared on one of the trousers as the lubricating ooze wetted the cloth along the path the cock tip traveled. One dancer stopped, tense, and glared almost in anger down at his tense penis. The entire cloth area convulsed as he spasmed his cock to try to force it into coming, but excited as he was, the orgasm still held back, waiting for further stimulus. Their hats had long since fallen off with the furious lashing of their heads, and one by one, almost viciously, they ripped off their short shirts to free their chests to take the increasingly large gasps of air they needed to keep the dance and the erection proceeding to its ultimate point. They waved their arms about their bodies as if exhorting their exultant cocks to higher pitches. One would suddenly go off into a frenzy of concentrated body movements, concentrating on his cock, but still the stimulus level was not high enough. They began looking greedily at their neighbor's cocks, and their flailing arms began coming in contact with their own and their neighbor's crotches. It seemed that their movements could become no more erotic, but at one motion, their hands went down to their waists in a single movement and the knots that held their sashes in place were untied. Everyone leaned forward in anticipation. The stiff pricks seemed to hold the trousers up of their own accord, but finally, by jerking up and back, pumping their legs in steps of excitement, their trousers dropped from their hips and their rampant cocks were free to swing and glisten in the air. Deftly, through long practice, they got rid of the trousers and tightened their circle, still keeping a side-to-side motion of stimulation so that the audience could see the rods swinging from right to left, slapping against their taut thighs, and the arms brushed the reddened heads again and again. The testicles slowly tightened against the base of the cocks, and drops of tear-like substance would be flicked off the ends of the swinging penises. As the cocks got rock-hard, the swinging became less and less pronounced as the very stiffness prevented free motion. Now the arms and hands came into freer play, but still the contact was not direct, only brushing. Gradually the bellies drew inward even farther with the sexual tightening, and the rods lifted from the horizontal to forty-five degree angles. Every so often, one of the dancers would stop, grab the tops of his thighs as if he would squeeze them between his huge hands, and every muscle down the center of his body would spring into sharp definition as he would pump his ass swiftly back and forth, causing his stiff prick to blur into rapid motion. All this while the legs were kept wide apart, and on some of the vigorous upswings the swelling of the prostate could be seen redly beneath the testicles as the entire system cried out for release. More and more the men touched each other, steadying their pace, one stopping with a look of agony on his face, jaw clenched as he willed the sensations to lower below the danger point, so that his orgasm would not come before the others. Now that cocks were engorged to the maximum, less and less movement was necessary to keep them at the peak of sensation. At each pause, the lights would pick out each throbbing red artery, each taut blue vein which encircled the vital shaft. Though all three had been uncircumcised, the foreskins were now pulled back so far there was no difference between these cocks and the stiff circumcised cocks which were now jutting out all around the stage. The heads were red from excitement, and when they stopped, more and more frequently, or else the act would have been stopped by an untimely gush of semen, streams of fluid could be seen coming from their enlarged holes, sticky oozy fluid which caught every curve of the cock as it spilled from the source and ran like syrup down into the hairs, and finally down the tense balls and onto the floor. "These men come in sets," panted Leda, "these haven't come in seven days, and they're desperate to come, but they must come together." I nodded frantically, unwilling to divert my attention from the savage spectacle, for savage it now was, as each wished only to come, but each had to wait for the other to be ready, and they were now like three dusky horses pulling as a team, aching to go into top speed, but so long as one held back they couldn't achieve top speed. Their eyes, in agony, tears flowing in the extreme of their passion, turned from one to the other, nudging, calling out, shouting a word, holding back when the pressures got too great, and their feet thumped closer and closer, until ultimately their thighs touched. At this their mouths dropped open with feeling, and their bodies flung even farther back so that their backs were parallel with the floor, and the highest points on their bodies were the undersides of their enlarged cock-heads, flaming red with engorged blood, pulsing with the desire to shoot their load, dripping crystal drops onto their chests, for each of their cocks was so long that their penis overreached the distance to their navels, and now, filled to the fullest, they burst with the impending orgasm. Their hands finally reached back to their buttocks for support and for sexual drive, for they had to attain their ultimate climax at once, and without actually touching their cocks. Like a huge three-petalled flower they bent back from the common center, writhing in their agony, their faces contorted with their bursting emotions. Their feet began to move together, and their thighs touched along ever-increasing lengths, and their enormous cocks, pulsing, throbbing, red, wet with their own secretions. They gasped and groaned louder and louder as they crushed their thighs together, and their muscular, hairy legs, squeezing together that agonized nut of the prostate, forced their penises to sizes never before attained as their entire bodies focused on that spear of sensation that towered over their taut stomach-muscles. First one, then another, then all three began to roar with their coming crises. Their bodies bent incredibly backwards around their churning asses, their straining thighs furnishing the only contact to their sex-screaming bodies, the flower, shouting in effort toward the orgasm, began crushing inward to the center, the bodies attaining positions impossible except in the extremes of sexual ecstasy. The three right testicles had long since been drawn up into the body cavity from the stress on them, and then, like a rabbit seeking a hole, the left testicle of one disappeared and the body became a fantastic curve echoed by the pulsating curve of the cock above it, smooth for its entire length, a fantastically sensual curve over the wet, straining, muscled body. With an awesome throb, this same penis seemed to gain a half-inch in length and every vein stood stark on the rigid penis, and even in this impossible position, the tormented body, striving for release, managed to pump back and forth and the perfectly erect prick jabbed the naked air. At the same time this mouth opened to an "AAAhhh" of agony, and as at a signal, the other two left testicles disappeared, and all three tensed involuntarily for the last pre-orgasm strain. Each man sank to the floor, roaring in the ultimate anguish, and the flower-calyx parted slightly to show three smooth, veined, throbbing, penises straining to the orgasm. One last press on the legs, and there was a simultaneous shout, a second's pause, and three huge jets of cream flew from the center of the pulsing bodies, completely clearing the stage, landing three or four feet beyond. Another roar from their twisted throats, and another jet, somewhat shorter, but still beyond the stage, flew from the spasmed cocks, ultimately erect, shooting come over their heads, their cocks trembling, desiring the pressures of hands or mouths, shooting again and again, until five shots, the fifth hitting one full in the face, but his contorted expression showed he was still in the throes of coming. Crushing prostates, tensing penises, their testicles obliterated in the orgasm, they squeezed out three more smaller jets, then collapsed, trembling, sweating, groaning, aching to clutch their engorged penises, writhing on the floor, sobbing with relief, their cocks now actually sore from their pressures. Twenty or thirty penultimate throbs shook their cocks, and slowly, reluctantly, they began to go down. "Whew," I finally said. "That was SOME show!"