Muscle Men, page 7
And in the midst of his wife’s spiritual transformation, something happened to Jericho as well, something that jolted him like a bolt of heaven-sent lightning.
It was around Easter, the spring after Sherie’s conversion, and Jericho had been out back by the pool, planting geraniums in the giant terra-cotta planters that ringed the far side of the patio. He had his hands deep in the potting soil when he heard Sherie clicking across the flagstones, her annoyance somehow clear in the rhythm of her steps. He looked up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun, and realized there was a man he did not recognize standing beside her.
“This is the pool guy,” she said, then, “I’m going to the church picnic; I guess you don’t have time to celebrate the rebirth of the Lord.”
“Not at the moment, no,” he said, standing.
He and the pool guy watched her click back in the direction of the house.
“Holy shit,” the pool guy said.
“Yeah, she’s something else, ain’t she?” Jericho said.
“At least,” the pool guy said.
“I’m Jericho,” he extended a hand.
“I’m Pete,” the pool guy said, “the pool guy.”
“You live behind us,” Jericho said.
Pete nodded. “Yeah, I own Petrovsky Pools. We do most of the pools in the neighborhood.”
Pete was over six feet tall with a broad, muscular chest that spread the cotton of his tank top thin and tight. His arms were huge, the bulging muscles inked with intertwining tattoos, tribal bands and a couple of Navy tats. His broad upper body sliced down to his hips in a thick triangle of flesh supported by strong, well-proportioned legs. His thighs bulged from his cargo shorts and his legs were covered with strawberry blond curls. His hands and feet were large but perfectly formed. He was a Norse god come to life.
When their hands touched, Jericho’s face flushed, and he knew by the subtle narrowing of Pete’s eyes that he recognized the color of desire on his cheeks. They stood in awkward silence for a few minutes and then Jericho walked him over to the cabana where they kept the pool supplies.
Pete had changed him, at that moment, in an uncomfortable and unexpected way, though in years to come, when he recounted this first encounter to others, he would be greeted by incredulous looks and snorts of laughter. How could he, after all, not have realized he was gay?
It just hadn’t clicked for Jericho until Pete touched his hand that day. And then suddenly a million little moments in his past shifted into place, neat rows of seedlings sprouting before his eyes. Oh, shit, he thought, holy fuck.
He had always been a big guy, always outside with the horses, working in the fields or on his daddy’s trucks, and so the natural progression from farm chores to weight lifting and competitive wrestling seemed as natural as the hair that sprouted between his legs and crawled across the muscles of his belly to the gentle slope between his pecs.
In high school, his wrestling coach started calling him Jericho, telling people “God himself couldn’t make this boy come tumbling down.” And for the most part that had been true. He had led his team to state championships every year. And he had loved wrestling, loved the smell of it and the feel of it. Loved the closeness of the combat and the impending exhaustion that would hit him later, when the trophy was won and the adrenaline had dissipated.
And he had missed the wrestling once he graduated high school. UF didn’t have a wrestling program, but he’d managed to play football well enough in high school to leave the wrestling mat behind and run out onto Florida Field as a Gator. He had sailed through four seasons of football and come to love it as much as he’d loved wrestling. The Gators officially took the SEC Championship his junior year; they’d earned it the year before but been denied the title as a result of SEC sanctions. By 1991, Gators Coach Spurrier and the boys were riding high, and Jericho was riding with them.
He’d gotten a lot of attention from girls at UF, enough in fact, to drive Sherie to force an engagement ring from him during their sophomore year. But he’d also gotten a lot of attention from guys at UF, a fact he initially failed to recognize. He soaked up the attention of his male admirers as carelessly as a palm tree soaks up the tropical heat. Only in retrospect did he recognize the pattern twisting through his life like an invasive vine, something tropical, yes, but lazy and heady too, something that flowered at inopportune moments and then died away when the weather shifted.
Once on an overnight trip he’d had to share a hotel room with a guy they all called “Bakery,” and he’d awakened in the middle of the night spooning Bakery’s sleeping breadbasket, his erection straining beneath the cloth of his tighty-whiteys, perfectly aligned with Bakery’s crack. He’d eased himself away, untangling his arms from Bakery’s muscled torso. He’d heard a catch in Bakery’s breath and then, in the softest, beer-soaked whisper, “It’s okay, Jerk-o.” But Jericho had rolled over, watching the wallpaper on the wall beside him shift from darkness into early morning light. When the digital clock on the bedside table finally read 5:30, Jericho pulled on his clothes, slipped out of the room, and ran fifteen miles through the chilly dawn.
There were other times too, moments when the vine burst into spontaneous bloom, times when he’d felt light-headed and disoriented from its seductive masculine perfume. Kissing that handsome artist, Jude, at Claire and David’s house, lips touching briefly under the moonlight; watching porn with buddies in college; sleeping half naked with his work buddies, three to a bed at the hunting cabin he borrowed from his Uncle Jon; flirting wordlessly with strangers in elevators and hotel lobbies. The moments, so separate and diffused before, twisted into clear relief when his hand touched Pete’s and his sexual ambivalence shifted to a startling, brilliant certainty.
These thoughts were whirling around his head as the plane approached Chicago. Brad Paisley’s crooning voice comforted him and eased him into sleep.
He took a cab to the hotel, changed and headed for the office, focusing on work until the evening wound down and the final meeting dissolved into groups of men and women leaning against tables or standing in doorways talking about dinner and smelling of sweat and coffee.
Jericho tapped out the final lines of an email and shut down his laptop.
“Hey, Jerk-o, you up for a bit o’ lifting?”
Jericho looked up and smiled.
“Yeah, baby,” he said, tucking the laptop into his shoulder bag.
He and Josh had struck up a friendship at a corporate retreat in Arizona and eventually become workout buddies whenever Jericho came to Chicago.
They rode the elevator up to the corporate gym, which was perched on the top floor of the building with a stunning, vertiginous view of the city. They changed clothes and cycled through the weight machines, finishing up with a run, feet pounding out a steady rhythm on the treadmills, talking and watching the blinking skyline outside the windows.
“You still thinking about coming up here?” Josh asked.
“Cliff’s been pushing pretty hard.”
“Of course; he’s scared shitless of losing you to ATR in Atlanta.”
“They’re a bunch of crooks and crazies.”
Josh laughed. “Don’t tell him that; you might need the leverage.”
“Maybe,” Jericho laughed. “Up?”
“Up,” Josh said, increasing the incline. “I wish you’d consider it seriously. Chicago’s a great city.”
Jericho glanced at Josh, whose eyes were glued to the skyline.
“Yeah, maybe,” he said.
“Not maybe, Jericho, it’d be good for you. You need a change.”
“How do you know what I need?” Jericho asked, his voice gentle, betraying him.
“Oh, I know what you need, bubba,” Josh said, eyes catching Jericho’s and winking broadly.
Jericho blushed. “Up?” he said, reaching to adjust the incline again.
“Up,” Josh said.
When they finally hit the showers, Jericho’s body felt hot and loose and wonderful. His joints were light; his limbs rangy as a scarecrow’s. He stripped off his workout clothes, grabbed a towel and walked into the tiled shower room where Josh was already lathering up under a steaming stream of water. Jericho glanced at Josh, whose muscled body was slick with soap, the runoff forming rivulets in the hair on his thighs and his chest. His nipples poked out of his chest hair, dark and heavy and succulent.
Jericho felt the warm looseness of his limbs being eclipsed by the growing tightness between his legs. He threw his towel over the low half wall and approached the showerhead closest to Josh.
He blasted the cold water and ducked his head under the stream until his body relaxed again.
“Watch it, man. You’re spraying that ice water all over me.”
Jericho’s face emerged from the chilled spray, spitting a stream of water in Josh’s direction. “What?”
“Nothing.” Josh laughed. “You staying the weekend?”
“Yeah,” Jericho said. “No reason to go home.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah, Sherie’s probably riding the reverend as we speak; she’d probably rather have me gone for good.”
“Jesus, man, when you gonna put a stop to that?”
Jericho lathered his body thoughtfully, and then looked up at Josh, fingers clutching the bar of soap to his hairy chest.
His eyes met Josh’s and he felt the sting of emotion in them. “We’ve been together for twenty years,” he said softly.
“I’m sorry, man; I had no right to say that.” Josh reached out and took Jericho’s bulging arm in his hand, their flesh connecting awkwardly beneath the rush of water. They stood still, eyes locked for a long time.
“Is there anything I can do?” Josh said finally.
Jericho stepped forward, his body moving slowly, as if his muscles had suddenly turned to stone. He leaned forward and Josh leaned toward him. Their lips met, just as a voice cried out in startled anxiety.
“Ay, dios mio. Lo siento, Señores. Lo siento!” The cleaning woman wheeled her cart back down the hallway, shouting out a litany of apologies.
Jericho laughed. Josh grabbed him and pulled him against his chest and kissed him fiercely. Jericho felt dizzy with arousal. He pulled back, grabbing Josh’s arms and pushing him away. They stood like this for a long time, bodies frozen, eyes uncertain.
“I’m sorry,” Josh said.
“No, no,” Jericho said.
“Jericho, it’s okay; I know you’re married. I’m really sorry, man. That was, well, what wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Jericho was dizzy. He was falling through the branches of his old life, plummeting uncontrollably toward the earth below. He reached out to steady himself against the firm, warm tile.
Josh looked startled.
“What should we do this weekend?” Jericho asked finally, reaching over to turn off the water.
Josh, relieved but puzzled, said, “How would you feel about a cowboy-themed circuit party?”
“I have no fuckin’ clue what that means,” Jericho said, reaching for his towel.
By seven o’clock Friday evening, Jericho had worried himself into a state of near panic. He paced, then checked his emails, then paced, then changed his shirt, then paced some more. He had called Sherie, but her cell phone was turned off. He had called Emory and talked to him for half an hour, shooting the shit about his classes and his girlfriend, Kim, and finally Emory had said, “You know she’s gone, Dad.”
Just like that, the words tumbling so easily from his son’s lips.
“I know, Tiger,” he’d said, but he had been surprised. He’d seen it coming, but to hear it from his boy brought a wash of sadness up from his stomach. Although Emory was now nineteen, Jericho could hear the four-year-old Emory in his mind, voice high and mournful. You know she’s gone, Dad. Goose pimples spread across his arms. He felt a cold, overwhelming sadness grip his heart, a giant fist curled angrily inside his rib cage.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“I’m fine, Em, I just…” His voice trailed off.
“Dad, you deserve better than her.”
“Emory, she’s still your mother. Show some respect.”
“Bullshit, Dad. She’s fucking that minister; you don’t deserve that.”
“Emory.” Jericho’s lips barely formed the single word. There was a long silence. Jericho could hear music in the background on Emory’s end, an old song: Ty Herndon singing “In the Arms of the One Who Loves Me.” Jericho fell to his knees on the thick carpet as saliva churned in his mouth.
“Hang on a sec,” he said, dropping the phone and lumbering into the bathroom. He vomited, washed his face and went back to the phone.
“Dad? Oh, my god, Dad. Are you okay? Do you want me to come to Chicago?”
“No, Tiger. I just need to chew on this for a while.”
There was a long pause. “You sure?”
“I’m gonna go out with my workout buddy and get trashed and probably regret it in the morning, and then when I get home Monday, we’ll figure out what to do next. Okay?”
Emory sounded relieved.
“Okay,” he said.
“All right, good night, kiddo.”
“Good night, Dad. I love you.”
“I love you more.”
Jericho clicked off the phone and tossed it on the bed, walking to the window and opening the curtains to reveal the twilight cityscape beginning to sparkle with great swathes of light.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Josh asked when Jericho opened the door.
“What?” He looked down at his jeans, cowboy boots, and long-sleeved, pearl-buttoned shirt.
Josh laughed. “It’s a circuit party, not a rodeo. Here. Put this on.” He tossed a wad of black cloth at Jericho. “But first, give me one of those beers. I’ve obviously got some catching up to do.”
Jericho handed him a beer and unbuttoned his shirt. He dropped it on the back of a chair and pulled on the thin black cotton tank top. ROUGH RIDER was emblazoned across the front below the silhouette of a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Jericho looked at Josh uncertainly. Josh’s tank top was white with the black silhouette of a bucking horse on the front underscored with the word HOSS.
“Come on. Trust me on this one,” Josh said, leaning back in his chair and piling his boots on the coffee table.
Jericho shrugged and finished off his beer.
Josh took a long pull of his own beer, eyes glowing in the half light, wet lips glistening.
“Much better, Jericho.”
Jericho walked over to him and pulled him up roughly from his chair. He wrapped his arms around Josh and kissed him like the world had just ended.
“You’re sure this looks okay?” Jericho asked in the elevator.
Josh’s eyes were wide and dark, almost all pupil despite the overhead fluorescents.
“You look great,” he said. “Really.”
The elevator doors opened on twenty and the first of the cowboys joined them. By the time the elevator reached the mezzanine, the tiny space was packed with muscular men, some in tank tops and jeans, some shirtless in jeans and boots, some in jocks and boots. They could hear the music pounding up through the elevator shaft somewhere around the sixth floor, and by the time they stumbled out into the elevator lobby the music was deafening. Josh grabbed Jericho’s hand and led him to the escalator. They crowded onto a step together, Jericho sliding his arm around Josh’s waist to steady them and to reassure himself.
The ornate nineteenth-century lobby of the Palmer House had been transformed into a huge dance floor that pulsed and writhed with men. Huge video screens had been mounted high in the room and a thunderous storm of light and sound flooded the enormous space. As they descended, a roar rose up from the crowd and Josh pointed to the nearest video screen. A carnival sideshow appeared on the screen and then the face of Dolly Parton drew another roar from the crowd that shook the crystal chandeliers. When the music started, the crowd shifted into whirling overdrive as a dance mix of “You Better Get To Livin’” blasted from the speakers.
As they stepped off the escalator, the crowd pushed them together, chests sliding against each other while they moved toward the center of the room. Josh held Jericho’s hand high above the crowd and they danced out into the churning sea of men and muscle. The air was damp and thick with the smells of cologne and sweat and beer and poppers.
They danced close, their bodies grinding against each other, their erections sliding together through the denim. The DJ cycled through a series of country divas, the crowd roaring its approval, booming male voices joining Reba and Shania and Faith in song. They danced until they were soaked in sweat, Josh finally pulling Jericho through the crowd to the nearest bar. He ordered beers, and they made their way around the edge of the crowd as a male voice boomed out across the dance floor. Brad Paisley singing “I’m Still a Guy.”
Josh pulled Jericho up a flight of stairs and they found a place to stand on one of the balconies that overlooked the dance floor. Jericho was mesmerized by the sea of male flesh undulating below him.
“Mind blowing, isn’t it?” Josh asked.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“I’m Still a Guy” segued into “Mr. Policeman.” More Paisley.
“Shit,” Jericho grinned. “I can’t fuckin’ believe this.”
When they returned to the dance floor, the room was pulsing with a pounding rhythm that knocked against Jericho’s chest like a rubber hammer. Dolly was belting out a thumping dance mix of “Peace Train” and the lights in the room swirled in a tumbling, spinning pattern that made it feel like the room itself was turning. All around him men danced close, their arms lifted in the air, hands moving in the waves of light and sound. Peace train, peace train. A white light suddenly plummeted down on them from directly above. They danced in the halogen spot, their bodies bleached pale, their clothes glowing in the light. Jericho’s eyes, so full of light and energy, were momentarily blinded. He reached out, his fingers finding Josh and pulling him closer. They danced against each other, Jericho’s heart filled to the brim with joy and possibility as their bodies were lifted by the music, rising above the dance floor, then above the heads of the other dancers until he and Josh had ascended into the perfect illumination of the spotlight, Dolly’s voice coaxing them higher and higher, their bodies spinning and their spirits touching in a moment of perfect grace.
