Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

was able to study, unobserved, the small rose-brownbreasts, at the moment concave and unaroused. Then theT-shirt was wadded up and dropped onto the floor. Awareof my interested gaze, he blushed. Beginning at the base ofthe thick neck, the lovely color rose to the level of his eyes.Like so many male narcissists, he is, paradoxically,modest: he enjoys revealing himself but only on his ownterms. A remark about his appearance was obviouslycalled for and I made it. "You seem in very goodcondition..." "Well, I work out some, not like I ought to...used to..." He hooked long thumbs into his belt, causing thesmooth pectorals to twitch ever so slightly, revealing theabsence of any fat or loosening of skin. "Now will youplease face the wall, arms at your side, with your palmspressed against the wall as hard as you can. Without aword, he did as he was told. The back was as pleasing asthe front (no hairs on the shoulder, unlike poor Myron, whowas forced to remove his with electrolysis). The blue jeanshad begun to sag and now hung several inches below thewaistline, revealing frayed jockey shorts. Aware that thetrousers were slipping, he tried to pull them up with onehand but I put a stop to that. "Hands flat against the wall!" Iordered in a sharp voice that would not take no for ananswer. "But, Miss Myra..." and his voice was suddenly nolonger deep but a boy's voice, plaintive and frightened: theyoung Lon McCallister. "Do as I say!" He mutteredsomething that I could not hear and did as he was told. Inthe process, the blue jeans cleared the curve of hisbuttocks and now clung precariously to the upper thighs of