5 - There dwells a spirit, waiting to be released

“Where have all the good men gone,” Merlyn hummed to himself to the tune of ‘Where have all the flowers gone’ as he looked at his statue. The one he’d done on a mad impulse to create the ideal of the perfect male. He knew Alton would want it in the gallery eventually and he wasn’t totally averse to that. But after tonight’s fiasco at the club he was glad ‘eventually’ hadn’t come just yet. Over-sexed, barely legal young men like the ones who hung out at clubs were far from his idea of perfection on any level.

“You’re getting old, Merl,” he muttered to himself as he tossed his sketchpad on the workbench, took one last look at the statue, covered it and turned off the studio lights. Going down the short flight of stairs to the ground floor of his building he stopped in the kitchen long enough to pour a glass of juice which he drank quickly. After rinsing the glass and setting it in the drainer to dry he headed to the bedroom, undressed, took a fast shower and slid into bed, falling into restless sleep.

Images of the club invaded his dreams. Men dancing to a primitive beat. Lights strobing, turning the men into incoherent shapes, sharp and angular. Naked or nearly so. A spotlight suddenly shooting through the smoke-filled, cavernous space. Slicing a path to the far end of the room.

In his dream Merlyn saw a figure standing there, limned in brilliant white. Tall, lithe in its movements as it---he---walked slowly down the length of the room. The dancers froze. Every eye was on the male. Hands reached out for him. He deftly sidestepped them as he paced towards Merlyn.

Stopping where Merlyn sat entranced, the male lifted his hand, beckoning for Merlyn to follow.

Instantly they were transported into another room. Slate gray walls, barred windows looking out on steel gray skies. The only pieces of furniture a bed covered with brilliant red silk sheets and an imposing dresser, both made of gray veined marble.

With a flick of the male’s wrist Merlyn’s clothing vanished. Another flick and he was spread-eagle on the bed, arms lashed to the marble bedposts, legs spread wide but unbound.

The male settled himself between Merlyn’s thighs. “Perfection,” he murmured as he bent to devour Merlyn’s mouth.

No, you are, was the last coherent thought from Merlyn. All his senses and emotions coalesced in a burning fever of need as the male took him slowly but surely towards total, unimaginable fulfillment.

Then the male vanished.

And Merlyn awoke, shattered by the power of his release. Devastated when he realized it had only been a dream. “Who were you? Where can I find you? Are you even real or just the perfect vision,” he murmured, his voice disconsolate. Try as he might he could not recall the male’s face; only his incredible body and the tenderness and passion of his lovemaking.