Muscle Men, page 15
“Edgar Allan Poe. ‘The Fall of the House of Usher.’”
“That’s for English Twenty-three-oh-five.”
He looked at the first page. After five seconds he turned a page, then another, then another. I laughed halfheartedly at the dumb display.
After a moment of awkward silence on my part and quick page flipping on his, he looked up and launched into an explanation of Roderick Usher’s house in minute detail, describing every plot point as if he were a walking, talking set of SparkNotes. I stopped him after a few seconds. “You probably read it before.”
“Do you rely so much on empiricism?”
“Yeah. That’s how you learn things. Look, forget the story. I believe you.”
“Good. Faith. Absolute knowledge. You will learn to rely on that.” He handed me The 12th Planet. “Read this one first.”
I held it. He said nothing, just looked down at me.
“Now?” I asked. “You want me to read it now?”
“Yes.” He walked to his Bowflex and sat on it, reclined and started pulling the overhead bar down, lifting weights. “Don’t subvocalize words in your mind. Receive them.”
I watched, intoxicated by the sight of his hairless underarms and stressed core muscles working and pulling. His veins stood out, spidering down his solid arms. Some people find that unappealing, too organic, but to me it’s blood, life, strength. At least a hundred pounds of resistance thrummed behind him. I tore my gaze away from his spectacular body and looked down at the book. This was fucked up. But I found myself sitting on his foam mattress reading the first few pages, glancing up occasionally to watch Jordan work his body as I worked my mind.
But I actually wasn’t working my mind. I still subvocalized the words I read, going at my normal pace, but right away I could tell this was a book of quack science and conjecture, some sort of new-agey bullshit about how ancient Sumerians believed there was a giant “12th planet” of the solar system called Nibiru in a vast elliptical 3,600-year orbit. The planet originally created Earth in a great collision with another planet and it was going to eventually return and destroy us. Oh, yeah—and the planet has alien inhabitants called Annunaki, or Nephilim.
“You don’t actually believe this, do you?” I asked after a few pages of the intro.
“Yes,” he growled as he lifted even more weight. “It’s absolute knowledge.” He stopped and looked at me, wiping his sweaty brow. “I know for a fact it is your biological and genetic destiny to read these books.” He stretched his sculpted arms, pulling one against his chest, then the other.
“This is kind of hard to swallow,” I said. “If there was a giant planet out there, NASA would have discovered it.”
“Bodes Law says a planet should be between Mars and Jupiter. But instead we have an asteroid belt. Nibiru is why we had Pangea, why we have the moon. Why Uranus is tilted on its side. Why Pluto’s orbit is crooked; it used to be a moon of Saturn.”
Wow. The rabbit hole just got a little stupid.
“You know what the Sumerians called Pluto?” he continued on the tangent, not bothering to answer my issue with the theory, my point about NASA. “They called it Gaga. Like a baby. The Sumerians knew it was tiny. They knew about Pluto before its discovery by modern man in nineteen-thirty.” He said modern man with disgust.
“You mean modern science,” I said. “All of what you’re saying is conjecture, based on this one Sitchin guy’s ideas about Sumerians, his interpretations.”
“Sitchin’s brother, Amnon Sitchin, works for NASA. He knows these things too, but he’ll be in danger if he talks about it.”
“So it’s a cover up?” I asked, continuing helplessly on whatever tangent Jordan took me on, because I was feeling awkward pressing him on points about his belief system, like telling a 230-pound Baptist that Jesus never walked on water. I was also simply curious where his thought process went, how it moved. It was a ride, sifting through his random trivia and justifications for absurdity.
“Yes,” he answered. “The West is being tricked by Nephilim among us, so that they’re not ready for the return, so they can be enslaved by Nephilim. The Middle East knows. Saddam Hussein was trying to find the answers in an ancient Sumerian city in southern Iraq, but Nephilim in our government stopped him. We’re not ready. But I’ll be.”
He started lifting again.
Aliens in our government. Awesome. “Is that why you’re working out?” I asked incredulously. “To fight these aliens, these Nephilim?”
“They enslaved us once,” he said, lifting and heaving. “They made us from the DNA of monkeys. They needed a smart ape to mine the gold in Africa. They need our planet’s gold to survive. When they return, they will enslave us again to mine gold. Then we’re going to have to escape onto Nibiru before it destroys the Earth. You will train too. Learn to fight with your body, despite its puny size. I will build your muscle.”
Suddenly I forgot the string of stupidity in all of this. That last part sounded hot. “Um. Okay.”
I’m not sure why I read Sitchin’s books. After leaving Jordan’s place, I read half of The 12th Planet and finished the rest the next day sitting in the library, utterly convinced of its insanity and pseudoscience, convinced of Jordan’s insanity. But I went right along to reading the next book in Sitchin’s catalog, The Stairway to Heaven. That book dwelled on how the Great Pyramid of Giza was built by those Nephilim aliens. Generally it all sounded like a bad treatment of that Kurt Russell movie, Stargate.
But still I went to Jordan’s house at least twice a week. I was drawn by his way of thinking. I wanted to see how deep the rabbit hole went. I wanted to know the limits of his conviction, how someone so seemingly smart, someone with a mind as muscular as his body, a mind with gifts like speed-reading and a practically autistic memory capacity, could fall prey to such stupid pseudoscience. It became a routine.
And I went to Jordan’s house because I wanted to be close to his muscle, while he trained me to box and kick. He had me watch mixed martial arts training videos, with guys like Randy Couture wearing tight shorts and doing kicks and lunges.
My roommate started asking where I was going all the time. Professors noticed I was tired and sore every day. Most of the time during our sessions Jordan took off his shirt, showing the full splendor of his muscular torso, two broad pale pecs, centered with pink nipples above a hard stack of abs leading down to the V-shaped ridge just above the elastic band of his athletic shorts. He would tell me to take off my shirt too, even though I’m just a 120-pound twink.
In between exhausting, rigorous sessions of punching the bag and punishing his Bowflex, Jordan would sit and light a bowl of weed and argue with me about Sitchin and Nephilim. I would smoke with him and try to reiterate my skepticism of so many of the concepts he took as pure reality. Jordan seemed to like that I kept questioning him, challenging him to defend his thoughts and, perhaps, giving him the sense that he was enlightening me.
“Sitchin could be mistranslating the Sumerian texts,” I said on a wet day in October.
“People in a posteriori fields of knowledge say that about Sitchin,” Jordan said. “They feel threatened because his ideas will eradicate their useless fields.”
“Useless fields? Surely you don’t mean anthropology or physics or chemistry?”
“Yes,” he said. “Evolutionary biology can’t explain how we came from one hominid. But Sitchin already knows.”
“Sitchin has a theory. An unproven theory.”
“Scholars back him up. You’ve read three of his books now.”
“These aren’t exactly peer reviewed,” I said. “There’s a process in science.”
“That process is a part of game theory, economic theory. You feel so reliant on that process because those theories guide everything in our country and world and dictate that humans are simple morons who act to fulfill consumption and productivity, to keep the masses blind to true knowledge.”
“Sitchin being true knowledge?” I asked.
“Yes. True knowledge. I think you were brought to me. Your intellectual strength stood out to me in class. I knew your mind would be ready for a challenge.”
Another tangent, this time to flatter me. Sitchin was selfabsorbed supposition. Not knowledge. Not peer reviewed by modern standards. My question couldn’t make this gap clear to him. To Jordan, Sitchin was absolute fact, unquestionable, like Agrippa to Dr. Frankenstein, something requiring cultish devotion. “I was thinking you were drawn to me because I’m gay,” I said. “But I guess I was way off.”
Jordan sat on his Bowflex and wiped his pecs with a towel. He glanced at my body as I lay on his mattress. I wasn’t getting buff from all the training, just wiry. “I’ve been interested in the subject,” he said. “I’ve thought about ants and how the workers never breed. They evolve because the Earth needs something whose energy is devoted entirely to work and thinking, not breeding.”
“Is that why the Nephilim made some people gay?”
“Yeah. They made the Greeks especially that way, so they would be thinkers for the masses to be more productive. Plato. Aristotle. Socrates. They sat around and talked all day and were bisexual. Aristotle was gay, though. But the point is, they were the thinkers because they didn’t have women around.”
“That sounds a little sexist.”
“It’s an archetype. We were made to be archetypes. Women are meant to bear young. But modern man has clouded these archetypes with game theory and economics. Back in Greece I would have been a warrior. A Spartan. I would have defended my city. You would have lived in that city as a thinker. You would be there with Socrates to share wisdom. You would drink with these men. You would love with these men.”
“What about you? You sound like a thinking man. I am sharing theory with you and challenging you. Would I love with you too?”
“Of course. Love between two men sharing knowledge is a high form of love, maybe the highest. Once, this black guy I was selling weed to sucked my dick.”
I coughed, exhaling smoke in bursts at the sudden segue. I sat up from lounging on the foam mattress and puffed the pipe again, like a student perking up at something profound Socrates said in his garden.
“I didn’t even know he was gay,” Jordan continued. “We were smoking blunts and I pulled over to throw out the roach and the guy pulled my shorts down and started sucking me off.”
“Wow.”
“I blame Libra,” he said. “Libra type is so bold, man. Aristotle was Libra, a prissy Libra trying to suck Plato’s penis the same way.”
“Did you like it?” I asked, voraciously curious, but trying to be completely mellow.
“It disgusted me because he was a stranger. I had shared nothing with him other than a meaningless transaction around weed. I thought about punching his head. But I was about to nut. In like ten seconds. And then I did and he kept sucking. And then I nutted again. Twice. Real fast. Never happened with a female.”
“He must have been good.”
“It created dissonance in me. It’s a man. But I know I’m not gay.”
“You don’t have to be gay to enjoy a blow job,” I said.
“Enlil, a Nephilim, was angry about how sexual man was. It didn’t matter to man. He would fuck male, female, animal. They thought to change that, but they made Athens as an experiment to see if it could be stable and they found that the civilization flourished.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Whatever you feel, I’ve liked challenging you to see how strong your convictions are.”
“I like it, too,” Jordan said. He reached for the pipe in my hand. “Let me hit that.”
I leaned back on the foam mattress and touched the glass pipe to my lips. “Come hit it.”
He slid down from the workout bench, onto the mattress next to me, the foam contouring deeply to his Herculean body. He plucked the pipe from my hand and picked up the lighter at my side and took a hit. I ran my hand along his broad back, fingers sliding around to his chest. I rubbed his pecs and nipples, then down his abs.
He exhaled and stared straight ahead and said nothing. I didn’t need a response. I just wanted to touch him. I had wanted to touch his body for weeks.
He grabbed my wrist and stopped me. “Now that you have read of and argued with what I’ve asked you to explore, what do you believe?”
I touched his knee with my other hand, testing the terminus of his athletic shorts drooping on his thighs. “I can’t believe one hundred percent,” I said. “No matter what, there will always be doubt, there will always be argument. That’s just how my mind works, despite all I’ve read.”
“Virgo,” he said, grabbing my shoulder. His calloused hand encased it completely. “Always skeptical.”
“If I yielded right away, I wouldn’t be a student. I would just be a mindless pawn.”
He set the pipe and lighter aside and pushed me down on the mattress. “Your mind wants absolute truth,” he said. His hazel eyes darted over me, from my eyes to my neck, chest, hands, the crotch of my sweatpants. “I’ll make you yield,” he said. His head drifted downward, letting his eyes go from mine. He kissed my stomach, a warm wet touch below my belly button. I seized up. Jordan’s vast empowering form was twice as wide as my body. He wrapped his hands around my shoulders, pulling me toward him as he ran his lips and nose along my stomach up to my concave sternum.
“This body doesn’t exist,” he said. “My body doesn’t exist.”
I grasped his back, kneading the musculature around his shoulder blades.
“I’ve come to realize the body is just a vibration in three dimensions,” he said. “Even though my body senses three dimensions, this spark I feel is energy, your desire for the absolute truth I want to share. The body, male or female, doesn’t matter to the mind.”
He pulled my sweatpants down with my boxers, stopping for a second, considering the movement, then he pulled down more until my six inches popped out and slapped against my stomach. His head drifted down again and he licked the underside of my cock from the base on up until his lips came around the head, tongue whirling it into his mouth. He tongued under my foreskin, churning around the head, which sent energy through my balls and groin. I squirmed and groaned and scratched the hard biceps that were pressing against my sides.
“Student, what do you want to feel?” he asked. An order.
“Just relax with me. Stop thinking. Rest your mind.”
He sighed, caving onto me, resting his face against my chest, as if some great relief had been handed to him. His abs nestled my straining dick and balls. He slid upward, my cock rolling along each muscular bump of his torso. He slid down again, my precum smearing the crevices of his abs. I tugged on the elastic band of his shorts. He pulled them down over his magnificent pale bubble butt, his muscular glutes shifting as he humped gently against me.
I grabbed hold of his ass, sneaking a finger down into the warm tight crack between his cheeks, rubbing the hairless rim of his asshole. He moaned and lifted his head up from my chest, primed for me to kiss his lips. I leaned in but he pushed me back down.
“No,” he said sternly. “I will penetrate you like a scholar would his student, not more.” He licked one of my nipples and then gnawed on my rib cage, cupping my back. Then he stopped and looked up again. “Turn away from me.”
I turned over and presented my twink ass to a muscle god.
“We are in Athens,” he said. “You are Aristotle. I am Plato. We are in the bathhouse of the Lyceum.”
This was some fucked-up role-playing, but I was there, I was fucking there, practically with an olive wreath on my blond curly hair, transported to another place and time either from pot or from exhaustion under his mental probing or from my vigorous workout routine. I just wanted to feel him now, instead of hear him.
He put a hand on my back between my shoulders, pushing me into the mattress, arcing my ass up to him. His cock pressed against my asshole and popped into me, hot and greased up and wide as fuck. He didn’t start slow. Right away his quads slapped my asscheeks, my hard cock responding to his aggressive interior assault by flinging copious strings of precum onto the mattress. Jordan fell forward, nose and lips pushing into the back of my neck, flattening me fully into the foam mattress, fucking me into it. I groaned and drooled. He cupped my throat and gnawed on the back of my neck and gyrated his cock into me, grinding against my ass like a belly dancer, his magnificent abs rolling along my spine.
“You should know, student,” he panted into my ear, “that I haven’t told you everything yet.”
I grunted affirmatively.
“I am part Nephilim. Like Plato. The blood of giants is in me. That is why we’ll survive.”
His insanity thrilled my body. I should have shoved him off and run out the door, but I couldn’t stop this muscular fuck, not for anything.
He stopped his rapid thrusts, holding his dick still in me. He put a palm on my head and pushed my face down into the mattress. He pushed his cock in as far as he could, using just his weight. I wailed in excited terror until his low dangling balls pressed against mine. He wiggled side to side, in me somehow even deeper. It hurt like hell, until his massive dick passed some point inside me where each extra ounce of pressure created individual waves of endless orgasm through my body.
He let up and was upright again and fucked like a bull, sweaty skin slapping mine. He fucked me in near silence and with military precision for several minutes as I groaned and squirmed, my fuckhole more raw and juicy with each slap and slurp. Then he yanked himself out and kneeled over my face, jacking himself off. He grabbed my hair with his free hand, turned my face sideways and pushed the head of his cock into my mouth. I tasted my ass and sweat and musk, and suckled greedily. The first blast of cum splashed against my lips, another stream lanced over my eye into my hair, another splashed across my cheek, then more cum spurted against my tongue and down my face. I slobbered his knob as his jacking slowed, swallowing what essence of him I could. He relaxed and straddled my shoulders, pinning me to the mattress. With my head turned sideways I looked up at him, my face covered in cum. He petted my hair, smearing his spunk into my blond curls. His knuckles rubbed down my cheek, pulling globs of cum to my lips. I licked them from his fingers, then moved to the leftovers on his glistening pink cockhead.
