Read Online Myra Breckinridge by Gore Vidal - Free Book Online

tried to pull them up with one hand but I put a stop to that. "Hands flat against the wall!" I ordered in a sharp voice that would not take no for an answer. "But, Miss Myra..." and his voice was suddenly no longer deep but a boy's voice, plaintive and frightened: the young Lon McCallister. "Do as I say!" He muttered something that I could not hear and did as he was told. In the process, the blue jeans cleared the curve of his buttocks and now clung precariously to the upper thighs of which a good two inches were in plain view. It was a moment to cherish, to exult in, to give a life for. His embarrassment was palpable, charging the situation with true drama since from the very beginning it has been quite plain to me that in no way do I interest him sexually. Since he detests me, my ultimate victory is bound to be all the more glorious and significant. I studied my captive for some moments (the spine did indeed make an S-like curve and the thick white trapezoidal ligament was twisted to one side). Of greater interest to me, however, were the Jockey shorts and what they contained. But now I knew that I would have to proceed with some delicacy. I crossed to where he stood. I was so close to him that I could smell the horselike odor men exude when they are either frightened or in a state of rut. In this case it was fright. Delicately I ran my hand down his spine. He shuddered at my touch but said nothing. Meanwhile I spoke to him calmly, easily, the way one does in order to soothe a nervous animal. "Yes, I can see the trouble now. It's right here, under the shoulder blade." I kneaded the warm smooth skin, and again he winced but said nothing while I continued to give my "analysis" of his condition. "Perhaps a brace in this area would help." Now my hands were at the narrow waist. He was breathing hoarsely, arms pressed so hard against the wall that the triceps stood out like white snakes intertwined, ready to strike. I felt something warm on the back of one hand: a drop of sweat from his left armpit. "But perhaps the trouble is lower down. Around the small of the back. Yes, of course! The lumbar region--that's just where it is!" As I spoke, evenly, hypnotically, I gently inserted my thumbs beneath the worn elastic band of his shorts and before he was aware of what was happening, I had pulled them down to his knees. He gave a strangled cry, looked back over his shoulder at me, face scarlet, mouth open, but no words came. He started to pull away from me, then stopped, recalling that he was for all practical purposes nude. He clung now to the wall, the last protector of his modesty. Meanwhile I continued to chat. "Yes, we can start the brace right here." I touched the end of the spine, a rather protuberant bony tip set between the high curve of buttocks now revealed to me in all their splendor... and splendor is the only word to describe them! Smooth, white, hairless except just beneath the spinal tip where a number of dark coppery hairs began, only to disappear from view into the deep crack of buttocks so tightly clenched that not even a crowbar could have pried them apart. Casually I ran my hand over the smooth slightly damp cheeks. To the touch they were like highly polished marble warmed by the sun of some perfect Mediterranean day. I even allowed my forefinger the indiscretion of fingering the coppery wires not only at the tip of the spine but also the thicker growth at the back of his thighs. Like so many young males, he has a relatively hairless torso with heavily furred legs. Myron was the same. With age, however, the legs lose much of this adolescent growth while the torso's pelt grows heavier. I had now gone almost as far as I could go with my inspection. After all, I have not yet established total mastery. But I have made a good beginning: half of the mystery has now been revealed, the rest must wait for a more propitious time. And so, after one last kneading of the buttocks (I tried and failed to pull apart the cheeks), I