Bodies and Souls

by John Rechy

  “You wouldn't expose your sacred parts,” Newman said.

  Sandra said, “Yummy,” and bit on her hamburger.

  “Wouldn't even consider it,” Mick said staunchly. “And they offered me a lot of money,” he emphasized his moral fortitude.

  “I've kept my eye on you, know all about you,” Newman told Mick. “And you're clean as a whistle. Nothing to forgive you for.”

  Mick was so relieved he, too, topped the meat with brown onions and relish, surrounded his plate with pineapple slices, and heaped salad onto his small plate.

  “Nothing to forgive,” Newman repeated almost ruefully. “Can you believe,” his voice shot forth, “that Cal Slauson actually sent somebody to sound me out about his prospects for entering the Mr. Universal? Of course, I have nothing to do with his entering or not; that's up to the committee, the federation— …”he went on.

  Please, please!—not Cal Slauson! Don't let him have forgiven Cal with his unbelievable lats and his— …

  “I said, No, no, no!”

  Bless you, God. Thank you!

  “No, no, no, no!” Newman emphasized. “No unions! That's all he wants, to work behind my back, trying to organize bodybuilders. Well, unions have destroyed the initiative in this great country of ours. Bodybuilding has to resist, on behalf of the whole body politic. It's no accident that it's called the body politic.”

  Accidentally, Mick chewed on one of the yellow chunks in the salad. It was cooked squash, still warm. Looking up, he caught Sandra's gaze traveling from one side of his wide shoulders clear across to the other. He pulled his eyes from the unbelievable thrust of her breasts against the sweater, the nipples a further outline; he wondered how long his eyes had been there.

  Just like that, dinner was over. Sandra dumped the plastic dishes into a large can near the dead barbecue pit.

  “I've offered to give Mick some pointers on his posing routine,” Newman informed Sandra.

  “Grrrreat,” she growled.

  “I think he has a very good chance of winning the Mr. Universal. If!” His eyes shot twice at Mick.

  If— … Mick blinked twice.

  “If he does everything right,” Newman finished.

  Mick felt as if all the muscles of his body were breathing in triumph; his lungs alone, formidable as they were, could not contain the excitement without gasping.

  Newman pushed his chair back, rose, and disappeared into the frozen house.

  Sandra sat next to Mick and said, “Wow, man, what a stud; you're gorgeous, sweetbums!”

  Sweetbums! Josie was no liberated woman, but if he had called her that, she would have had a fit. He looked about in torment when Sandra propped her pretty face on her hands, elbows on the table, and studied him.

  “Mr. Groovy, that's who you are,” she said. “Turn profile.” With a finger, she maneuvered his chin sideways.

  “Wow! See mine?” She turned hers.

  Mick wondered whether God or a surgeon had created her cute tilted nose. He didn't dare compliment her.

  “It's cool, man.” She understood his nervousness. “Bob's just fucking around inside for the posing. Lots of cats have great bodies—period—but you! You're really cute. Howrya hung?”

  Jesus! Mick was sensitive about that. “Average,” he said.

  “Good,” Sandra said. “That Ward Elder!” She defined a small distance between her thumb and her forefinger.

  So Ward had been here! But how did she know that about him? For all the bullshit about his turning into a minister and having a girlfriend, Ward was gay; everyone knew that.

  “Now you take Oklahoma!” Sandra said. This time she used both hands to measure a long invisible distance.

  “You know Oklahoma?” If Bob didn't know about the party, did she!

  The stirring music from The Ten Commandments thundered out of hidden speakers. His music! Mick felt thrilled.

  Newman strutted in, taking giant paces in rhythm to the music. “Ta-ta, ta-tam!” he boomed. “Come,” he said to Mick, moving back into the house.

  Mick followed.

  “Later,” Sandra called out after them.

  Newman led Mick through various rooms cluttered with gold-painted statues and mismatched soft furniture. The attacking cold air made Mick realize he'd be stripping to his posing trunks. Would he even be able to pose? The rousing music made him think, Yes, yes, anywhere!

  As they moved down to another level of the house, Newman's walk became statelier, slower, more carefully paced. He's Moses! Mick thought. The thrilling music flushed away all thoughts except those of himself posing. It was the music to which he displayed the moving symphony of his muscles.

  They entered the private gym. It looked like a theater set representing a gym: The gym equipment—weights, benches, pulleys—arranged neatly, like props, on an elevated platform framed by wide drapes. At the apron of the platform were about a dozen theater chairs, upholstered. The large room was lighted brightly, too brightly, with lights that would erase definition. The cold air was either off or it had been lowered in this room.

  Mick had of course worn his posing trunks, under his clothes. He took off his jacket, placing it on a chair after removing the small bottle of baby oil, mixed with iodine to create highlights and darken his tan. He began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Newman said, “No.”

  Mick blinked.

  Sandra walked in. She was barefoot, and so he wasn't aware of her until her shoulder brushed his as she passed him. Even without shoes, she was taller than he, he noticed for the first time. She sat on one of the chairs facing the platform. Good. Mick wanted her to see him pose. She patted the chair next to her, indicating that Mick sit there. Mick looked in bewildered supplication toward Bob. Newman nodded. Mick sank down, next to Sandra. He felt numb.

  Newman marched to a panel on a wall. The lights went out, the music was lowered. Mick felt Sandra's knee pushing against his. Even muted, the epic music swelled within the deep darkness for long, long moments. Longer. The pressed knee asserted itself.

  Then the lights rose slowly, dramatically, on the platform, just as they did during the major contests.

  There stood Robert Newman, stripped to brief posing trunks. His flesh was pale, his body so thin the outlines of his bones showed through. His body was shaved, the way bodybuilders shave to emphasize their definition. The colorless skin was coated thickly with oil.

  Mick felt assaulted by an invisible force.

  Sandra clapped, the sound unreal and isolated in the large room.

  On the platform, Newman raised his arms as if in response to a giant ovation.

  “Chest pose!” Sandra shouted.

  Turning his body to the left, Newman pushed his chest out like a strutting pigeon's, except that it hardly extended beyond his shoulders.

  “Trap shot!” Sandra shouted. Her voice was cool, ordinary, perhaps bored. She merely pronounced the words loudly. Even now, she did not look at Newman. She seemed to look into the outline of darkness.

  Newman bunched his shoulders in a pose that would have displayed a squat pyramid of muscles from upper neck to shoulder blades, had there been any muscles to display.

  “Lats!” Sandra's strange voice goaded.

  Almost stumbling, Newman turned his back to them, placed his hands bunched on his waist and attempted to stretch his narrow back.

  Sandra clapped, the sound issuing like an echo without origin. “Biceps shot!”

  Newman raised his arms to his sides, tensing the tiny knots above his elbows.

  Mick felt trapped in a nightmare in which he couldn't run from the horror lurking just beyond the frame of the dream.

  “Most muscular!” Sandra said.

  It was Mick's specialty—when all the muscles tensed at once. The audience cheered!—always.

  The figure of Robert Newman moved forward and scrunched his skinny body. Now the arranged lights projected two enlarged shadows against the back wall—two giant gangling skeletons flanking the skinny oiled flesh.


  Mick touched his arms, so thick two hands couldn't connect about them. He touched his pectorals; they separated into deep mounds.

  Sandra's desultory clapping continued, slowing. “You're the greatest, Bob!” She uttered lazy, loud words. “You're the greatest!”

  “Who's the greatest?” Robert Newman shouted, body still knotted.

  “You are,” Sandra uttered.

  “Who's the greatest?” Newman demanded.

  Sandra turned to Mick and her lips mimed the words:

  You. Are.

  But they were not addressed to him, Mick knew. He knew why he was here. He heard his voice, softly: “You're the greatest, Bob.”

  “Louder! Who's the greatest! Louder!” Newman demanded, the body strangling in a tensed tangle.

  Mick stood up and shouted fiercely, “You're the greatest, Bob!” He closed his eyes—to pull away from his sudden sense of an undefined presence—cold, cold; dark, black, terrifying.

  The music was reaching its climax, reached it!

  Back to them, Newman's body sagged with a sigh of release. He moved out of the radius of light, into the shadows, toward the panel on the wall. The lights came down. In the long darkness that followed, Mick, still standing, felt a cold fever. The full lights swarmed the large room. Dressed as before, with his scarf, Robert Newman strode toward Mick.

  “The important thing I tried to stress,” Newman said in his usual voice, “is the fluidity of the movements.”

  “I understand,” Mick said. “Thank you, Bob.”

  “Glad to help.” Newman stifled a yawn. “I'm an early riser—so you'll excuse me,” he said. “Good night, Mick. I think you'll do just fine. Now do stay and visit with Sandra.” He did not look at his wife; he walked up the steps, into the cold color-splashed mausoleum of his house.

  Sandra faced Mick. She had cat eyes; had she outlined them since dinner? “He meant it—now me, stud,” she said. Her hands slid into his unbuttoned shirt, pushing it off. “Wow!” she admired his chest. “See mine?” She raised the sweater over her head. Her chest was bare—no brassiere—her breasts as erect as when they had been contained by the sweater, that firm, that round. She rubbed them against his pectorals. Swaying sideways, back and forth, her nipples kissed his lightly. She undid her pants, letting them slide down. Naked. “See mine,” she said. Her pubic hair formed a soft circle. “Now yours.”

  He slipped out of his pants. He left the posing trunks on.

  He put his hand on her crotch. She lowered his trunks. The heavy nest of thick dark hairs at his groin was the only part of his body he did not shave. She played with the curly hairs. “Nice cock,” she erased his apprehension. His hand remained between her legs, rubbing her cunt with his palm, then with his fingers.

  Leading him down by the hand, she lay back on the carpeted floor. He followed her down; he lay at a slight angle from her body. His hand outlined the sensual curves of long limbs; hers floated over muscles, sliding lower, toward his cock. He moved his body farther sideways, and he pressed her breasts together, bunched them. Her nipples were large, bold in their exaggeration. His tongue moved from one nipple to the other, his hands still fondling the moistening circle of hair. Her hand traveled from his sculpted back to his tensed buttocks. He shifted his body again. Now it was almost perpendicular to hers.

  “Now me,” she said, and she slid under his raised torso and dabbed at, licked his nipples. Her tongue glided lower. Moving his torso away, he kissed her, burying his tongue into her flavored lips. She shifted—their tongues connected—so that their bodies would touch. He pressed his hand over her cunt, forming circles, narrowing them, then sliding a finger into the inviting parting.

  Then in a strong move, she thrust her body to one side, freeing herself from the pressure of his lips, and she slid her hand under him, onto his groin. His whole body trembled when she touched his cock because it was soft, not even beginning to harden, soft, limp, cuddling into the dark pubic hair, limp, limp. He pulled her hand away, too late, and rolled over on her, pushing, pumping, pounding as if about to enter her.

  She eased him away. She stood up, looking down at his naked body sprawled unflexed on the rug.

  Flexing quickly, he stared up at her. Her breasts were even fuller, more assertive, the nipples thicker, like fingertips. He wanted to explain! The anxiety of the whole afternoon! Bob's strange exhibition! The Mr. Universal! Bob's house! Bob!

  Naked, she walked to the panel on the wall. Darkness veiled the large room. Then the posing lights rose on the platform.

  Mick rose from the floor. Sandra sat on the same seat she had occupied earlier beside him. She crossed her bare legs and waited.

  “Double biceps,” she hardly uttered.

  Mick understood. He jumped on the platform, expanding his chest, preparing a favorite pose. His arms overhead formed a bulging U.

  He heard her clapping in the darkness. “Traps!” she called.

  His body swayed. A glide, a flare, a slide of the hands on the hips—and then the perfect back spread to its awesome width!

  “Most muscular.”

  His whole body became dozens of astonished muscles: trape-zius clenched, deltoids rounded, forearms almost crossed, biceps bunched into balls, abdominals hard ridges, pectorals round disks, thighs layered striations, calves oval mounds!

  He heard her clapping, softer, more distant—exactly the way the roar of applause always became for him; his; private— … Applause!

  He felt her eyes devouring his nude body, desiring it. His cock began to harden. Hardened. Fully erect now! He cramped his muscles again, his cock pulsing.

  Now!

  He jumped off the platform. He would push his cock into her sweating cunt, he'd fuck her hard, show her he— …

  Where was she?

  He rushed to the panel on the wall, pushing random buttons. The music from The Ten Commandments started. He pushed more buttons, smothering the music, starting it again, stopping it. Finally the room was awash in light. She was gone. Her clothes remained mockingly on the floor. He dressed swiftly.

  He ran out of the darkened house and into his car.

  He plunged into the freeway.

  At home—way past midnight—he was still doing set after set of heavy barbell curls until his biceps were hard as iron, unable to budge … except… for …. one … more … urgent… repetition!

  The days before the Mr. Universal, Mick worked out—in another gym—with the same determined ferocity. He tripled his intake of steroids—Decadurabolin, Maxibolin, injected, taken orally. At home, he did his posing routine over and over—to the music from Exodus. He saw Josie only for short periods. She understood, of course—the contest.

  The Contest.

  The Contest.

  The Contest!

  “The Mr. Universal!” the electronically amplified voice announced. The scarlet curtain rose.

  Seventeen massive bodies stood silhouetted in an arc against the artificial electric dawn of the stage. Reddish lights flooded the cyclorama. A brighter glow invaded the red, tinting it amber. Slabs of carved muscular meat shone like crystal. More light, released, exposed the molded, shaved, oiled, tan-dyed, stripped muscles knotted together by powerful sinews into astonishing individual bodies.

  The capacity crowd at the auditorium roared—three, four thousand, more pushing into the aisles. This night's earlier, lesser contests, winners greeted by noisy approval and noisier disapproval, had incensed the fever for the main event, the battle still to rage in the Contest of Contests.

  An upset was easily possible this year—that had become apparent earlier in the afternoon during the prejudging display; then, the six probable finalists had been chosen, graded in several rounds—bodies relaxed, bodies in several mandatory poses. During that less formal prejudging, Mick Vale, Herbert Lichtenstein, and the Black Sultan had garnered perfect scores, Ward Elder just one point less. Bo Sanders—a surprising, strong, sudden presence—confident, lithe, bulked—and Chuck Harris—exhibiting
the hard cuts of his mature body, splendid beyond considerations of his age, arousing memories of past perfection—both men had pushed into the top with the same score; and one point behind them was an electric youngman whose presence kept arousing the question, “Who is he?” among the avid afternoon audience. All the other contestants were close enough that—a point lost here, another gained there during this evening's decisive rounds—a dramatic upset was not unlikely: A giant might crash, and one of those seemingly relegated at the prejudging to the penumbra of greatness might rush in to fill the place at the massive coronation tonight—nowl

  Now Mick Vale stood on the stage of the auditorium with the sixteen other greatest bodies.

  Fans raged, TV cameras zoomed, photographers danced for angled shots. From the black maw of the audience, cliques shouted their heroes’ names:

  HER-BERT! HER-BERT!

  MICK VALE! MICK VALE!

  Ward El! Ward El!

  BIG, BAD BLACK SULTAN!

  Bo, Bo!

  And with recurrent insistence, the utterance of one name only, an accolade in itself: HARRIS! HARRIS! HARRIS!—they screamed for the man whose past memory was so enormous that it might flush away whatever present flaws might emerge.

  After hypnotizing seconds, blackness dropped like night on the stage.

  The competitors moved away, to isolated corners and cubicles cleared of photographers and interviewers for these tense moments during which they would pull on wet towels to increase their pump or drop to the floor doing pushups, or add more instant-tanning.

  Dapperly dressed, Robert Newman scanned the bodybuilders. Mick glanced away from him and saw the Gorilla flexing muscle against muscle. No doubt about it, he was awesome.

  On the stage, lit once more, an official of the federation was announcing the beginning of a crucial round, the individual posing.

  Applause, cheers, whistles, some heckling from the mercurial audience—these hungry, mean, adoring, fickle fans, many of them bodybuilders themselves.

  Body like black ice, the Black Sultan was cool. Cold. He posed slowly, as if he were a king who did not need to wear his crown to prove royalty. He chose defiance, and from his many admirers he aroused defiant demands for his victory.