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Hialmar

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About Hialmar

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    1000+ Posts

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    Sweden
  • This profile is a...
    real profile.
  • Gender
    Male
  • Orientation
    Bisexual (Male Preference)
  • What are your interests?
    Physical exercise, reading, writing, history, world's mythologies, punk rock
  • What are your stats?
    I'm just average, but I am gradually growing - slowly but steadily
  • What are you seeking?
    Reading stories, writing stories, reading good advice about exercise. I am open for other things to occur.
  • What are your dream stats?
    Whatever I am able to achieve. Let's see what will happen.
  • Favorite Stories
    My favourite stories and writing influences are listed under "About me", where you also will find a list of my own stories (with links).
  • Favorite Bodybuilders
    Johnnie Jackson, Ben Pakulski, Con Demetriou, Flex Lewis. I keep an eye on what's happening to the next generation – Alexey Lesukov, Justin Compton and Florian Poirson. The demise of Dallas McCarver was a great disappointment: May he rest in peace.
  • Got Any Fetishes?
    Muscle, army, skinheads

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  1. I'm glad, that you are back!

  2. The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here. Preface The song lyrics The times they are a-changin' were written by Bob Dylan in 1964, which is hereby acknowledged. The use of quotes thereof in this story is for non-profit literary purposes, in the belief that this is fair use. Please let me know, if anyone want these quotes to be removed. The Orgone Accumulator: Part Six "I really appreciate, how therapy dissolves the feelings of guilt and shame, Dr. Witt, but I don't think Reich was right, when he expected homosexual men to eventually become heterosexual." "Perhaps he wasn't. Some German psychologists suggested already in the 1860s, that the homosexual condition is a permanent personality trait, even to such extent, that it is possible to talk about a third sex: Uranian men with female souls. Would you think, that that describes your personality?" He felt slightly irritated. At some times Dr. Witt sounded very much as a man of an elder age. No, he wouldn't think, that that described his personality. He might have been shy and guilt-ridden when he was a teenager (and when he began his analysis by Dr. Witt), but he didn't feel like a female soul. Neither was he attracted to camp men -- he had encountered a few camp men of his own age in San Francisco recently, and, although many of them were fun and witty, he didn't fall in love with them. How would he describe this, without Dr. Witt beginning predictable tirades about repression? "To be honest, I don't think it does. Aren't there any other possible explanations? Dr. Witt fell silent, and it took some time before he continued: "I've had the impression for some time now, that I don't know how to help you further, but Dr. Silberstein find some un-orthodox explanations useful. I am not trained in those methods. Would you dislike to begin analysis with Dr. Silberstein instead?" Silberstein had arrived to The Foundation very recently, with a fresh degree and with diplomas from several different schools of psychology. He wasn't much older than The Young Man, preferred to wear suits of a very modern cut and with a hair-style resembling the Osmond family. Perhaps it was worth it to change. "No, I would be very grateful if I was allowed to continue my self-exploration with Dr. Silberstein, but I am very grateful for the help you have given me these years." When he returned home to his cottage, he switched his transistor radio on: * * * He had eventually found an athletic facility in a smaller town located between San Francisco and the countryside where The Foundation was located, and he went there three times a week. It had begun as a boxing-club, but in the recent years it had gradually changed more and more into the emerging new sort of "gym", as they were called. The use of dumbbells, barbells and cable stands had revolutionised his physical exercise. He was ever learning more about new exercises. Muscles he hadn't known existed had begun to form, grow and become visible all over his body. It had also increased his appetite. Those nights he chose to eat at The Foundation the kitchen staff were joking about his ability to eat unexpectedly large amounts of food. He assumed, that all other men at that athletic facility were hetero. It gave him some smug satisfaction, that he was able to lift heavier than some of them. Heavier than them. Stronger than them. Beginning to look more like the imaginary men in the beefcake drawings. The imaginary men had been ideals to lust for. Be attracted to. To be overwhelmed by. But now something else was happening: He was becoming one of them. One of Tom's men. It didn't take much time until he lost his patience with the rusty used car he had bought when he moved to The Foundation. Everyone owned a car. He wanted to be himself. He wanted a motorcycle. As soon as he could afford a motor cycle he bought one: A black shiny motor cycle: A symbol of liberty. A black shiny leather jacket was already a part of of his leisurewear, and rumour had it, that it had caused some gossip among middle-class and upper-class guests: Let them gossip! He was becoming himself. It was evening and his day off. He returned home to his cottage after one of his usual trips. His muscles were still warm and filled with blood after his weight-training. He switched the radio on. Something about the Soviet troops in Czechoslovakia and President Johnson's reply to recent international developments. He felt so alive. Earlier that day, he had found a retailer selling and repairing leatherwear. He liked the scent inside the shop. He had found trousers in his size, but he had a nagging thought in his head, that there was a risk, that they soon would become too small, if his thighs continued to grow in the same pace. He had also found a pair of shiny boots suitable for those who ride motorbikes. He had arrived at his athletic facility wearing his new biker wear. It gave him some satisfaction to take the gazes from the other men in the locker room in: Puzzlement, respect, perhaps some awe and some fear, too. He lapped it up. Something similar happened, when he returned to the locker room after his exercise and changed from his sweat-drenched training clothes back into his leathers. Then he ride home on his motorbike, and felt the wind rush around him. The enticing feeling of speed. Then his thoughts wandered to the Orgone Accumulator. The Orgone Accumulator was a part of Reichian treatment, but its usefulness was a matter of discussion among the guests as well as the staff. The first time The Young Man entered an Orgone Accumulator, it had been a slightly underwhelming experience. It looked like a wooden wardrobe with a seat inside. He was told, that it was constructed of alternating plates of wood and metal, which were supposed to accumulate his bodily Orgone, which was named after the human orgasm. He was supposed to sit inside wearing a thin layer of clothes of natural fibres, but some enthusiasts shocked the other guests by suggesting, that full nakedness would be more efficient. Did he feel anything? Well, yes. The inside of the box felt slightly warmer than the surrounding room, and he thought he felt some sort of pleasurable tickling feeling in his skin, but it could have been his imagination running wild. Since he moved to his cottage at the Foundation premises, he had undergone Orgone treatment once a month, and although some treatments had been pleasant in some vaguely undefinable way, he wasn't sure if it really added anything substantial to the analysis sessions and the massage. He enjoyed the massage. The new masseur, Jack, was a man his own age, and they were slowly becoming friends. But now his thoughts wandered to the Orgone Accumulator. No-one was scheduled for it this late in the night. Most guests and staff were probably asleep. With a sandwich in one hand and a glass of orange juice in his other hand, he decided to give the Orgone Accumulator another try. He finished his meal. He had removed his t-shirt, because it was damp of sweat, and he was too lazy to wear it. He took his leather jacket, wearing it without anything under, and walked over the grass to the main building in the moonlit night, dew causing his boots to become wet. The Orgone Accumulator. There it was. The lights in the room switched off, and the treatment floor abandoned for the night. Moonshine entered the windows, and formed a pattern of silver-light on the floor. He left his jacket on a chair, and entered the Accumulator wearing his new leather trousers and boots. With the door closed, the Orgone Accumulator was entirely dark. Sometimes he had noticed what looked like a dim light form around his body during treatment. It could have been his retina being exhausted. Or it could be a proof of the existence of Orgone. He didn't expect much. He felt calm and relaxed sitting there in the darkness, his boots on the wooden floor, his leather-clad legs wide apart, and his upper body naked inside the moderately warm box. The hair on his arms were bristling. His skin began to tingle pleasantly. The scent of his new trousers and boots filled the Orgone Accumulator. He enjoyed that scent. He enjoyed the smooth and glossy surface of his leather trousers. Leather -- reminding him of primordial hunters triumphing over game, using its hide for clothes. His muscles were still warm, firm and blood-filled after the exercise. He clenched his right biceps with his left hand. Warm. Firm. And Blood-filled. He clenched his right pectoral muscle. Warm. Firm. And Blood-filled. It wasn't the only part of him becoming warm, firm and blood-filled. His dick throbbed inside his new trousers, rubbing itself against the leather. Glossy. Black. Rubbing itself. His now muscular legs enclosed by black, glossy leather. His now sexy bum enclosed by black, glossy leather. New boots hugging his feet. He remembered how the other men had watched him. Their gazes. He felt so present, so bodily present. Embodied. Relaxed in his body, in a way he wasn't in the past. Calm and relaxed. Skin tingling. Dick throbbing. Warm, firm muscles. So hard. Hard everywhere. Hard dick. Hard mind. Hard body. Hard muscles. Leg-muscles hugged by black, glossy leather. Manhood. He wanted other men to be attracted by him. Lust for him. Be overwhelmed by him. Him: The muscleman in leather, the unknown biker. Feeling so alive. So free. Alive. The memory of his colleague Jack, the masseur floated through his memory. Jack's kind eyes. Jack's powerful arms. The physical sensations of his body caused the mental image of Jack to fade. Strength flowing through his veins. Strength flowing through his muscles. Strength flowing through his dick. Manhood. Embodied. Present. Powerful. His power to change himself. Changing. Becoming his dreams. Becoming others' dreams. So big and hard now. The Strength. So alive. The Power. Skin tingling more now. Muscles buzzing more now. Of Strength. Of Power. Alive. His entire physical extension. Full of Strength. And Power. And Hardness. Tingling. Buzzing. The wave of energy inside his entire being. His veins afire of Pleasure. His mind connected to a cosmic grid of golden light and red mists inside his eyelids. Cosmic grid of Strength. Cosmic grid of Power. Buzzing. Wave. Uh! Yes! Himself so buzzing of Power, brimming of Power. The Wave intensifying. Throbbing. His entire body throbbing. His entire Self throbbing. Throbbing of the Powerwave. Powerwave. Even more! Yes! Powerwave. He is Muscle now. He is Strength now. He is Manhood now. He is Power now. He is ... Uh! The Wave! So good! Hadn't thought ... Never had experienced ... The Orgone? It's true! The Orgone! Filling himself with Orgone! More Orgone! Becoming Orgone! The Wave! The Wave! Uh! Oh God, it's ... It's ... Power. Becoming. It's ... It's ... Wave ... Uh ... STRENGTH STRENGTH MANHOOD POWER STRENGTH WAVE WAVE WAVE WAVE WA- !!! ... mindless, mindless bliss, mindless bliss, mi- ... !!! !!! !!! !!!
  3. SeaMusc posted the links to chapter two and chapter three January 1st 2016. Just scroll this thread to January 1st 2016.
  4. The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here Preface The song Little Boxes was written and composed by Malvina Reynolds in 1962, which is hereby recognised. It became a hit in 1963, when Peter Seger released a cover version, and it remained popular in the entire 1960s. The inclusion of of quotes from that song in this story is for non-profit literary purposes, in the belief that this is fair use. Please let me know, if anyone want the quotes removed, and I will happily oblige. The Orgone Accumulator: Part Five John unpacked his bags at his hotel room in San Francisco. He had just finished his phone call to Jim, and the time difference had become painfully real. Jim! His heart felt warm. He had thought, that it would be just a single night's innocent fun, no strings attached, but they had both considered, that it could be something more than that, when they woke up the next day. It had never occurred to John, that he would be able to enjoy the vanilla-version of BDSM, but the New Yorker was so incredibly playful and happy and incredibly hot ... Jim had guided John through some soft games with boots and handcuffs, but the props were just icing on the real cake: Jim was an incredibly warm and caring man. John missed the seven year older man. Older — slightly older — but they both belonged to those years in-between young adulthood and the real middle-age. John hadn't expected himself to warm up to the leather scene: His book had begun as an entirely dispassionate journalistic matter -- no personal taste involved. And now he was here for a one-week course, supposed to lead him closer to the whereabouts of the man he wanted to interview. "Improve your life holistically!" The New-Age-speak didn't appeal to him, but, according to the folder and the website, there were separate courses running for straight men, straight women, lesbians and "men-who-have-sex-with-men". He wasn't used to the latter moniker, but it made sense that it included both gay men and bisexual men. From what he could gather from the vague description, most of the course would take place somewhere in the Californian countryside, and the participants would leave San Francisco by the same bus. A therapy session in downtown San Francisco was included, as a preparation for the course. Therapy session? He wouldn't need any therapy session, and the words on the website didn't mean anything to him: "... combine the best methods from client-centered, Reichian and post-Jungian therapy". The labels "rainbow-friendly", "contact with your inner nature" and "in the company of real men" sounded assuring, but slightly cheesy. Some of his friends in Portland wouldn't agree with the latter label: "Who had the right tell another person what masculinity is supposed to be, or assume another person's gender?" Jim knew which sort of masculinity he felt grounded in, and he had explained how the leather scene, or parts thereof, was playing with exaggerations. "Relax. Have fun. Don't take everything too seriously. Go with the flow. Later on, you might discover things about yourself, but, for now: Have fun." Jim would probably upset some of his Portland friends, if they ever met. Which was unlikely. For now. Jim. Confident. For a few seconds, John felt a lack of confidence, and then the crack closed again. * * * The young man unpacked his bags at his cottage at the premises of The Foundation in California. He had just finished his phone call to his mother, and the time difference had become painfully real. He left the black bakelite telephone on the floor in the, otherwise empty, hallway. He wouldn’t have dreamt of this a few months ago. Now it seemed to be the beginning of a new life. Free from the shackles of his childhood town. Nice wage for his new work as an office clerk at The Foundation — the doctors weren’t good with the administrative side of things, and they had needed an office clerk for some time now. An anonymous benefactor had payed his cost for moving, but the young man guessed it might be The Businessman. When they had met the second time he stayed at The Foundation, The Businessman had noticed The Change. ”Did you listen to that advice of mine about joining a boxing club, son? You carry yourself in a more confident manner, than last time we met.” ”No, Sir, but I have spent some time on exercise on my own.” ”Listen, if you have any expenses for that exercise, I’m willing to pay.” ”I didn’t have any expenses, Sir. I’m using my own bodyweight. I don’t think there are any boxing-clubs in my town. They prefer football and baseball there. It’s a rather small place. I was surprised to even find a psychoanalyst there.” ”Do you consider yourself to be a smalltown boy?” ”For ever? No, Sir. If I had the means, I would probably move somewhere bigger.” He returned to the present. There were not much furniture there to speak of. One of the psychoanalysts had donated an armchair and a standard lamp to the cottage, and he had bought a transistor radio on his way there. The former occupant had left the old immovable wardrobe. The vanload of his old furniture would arrive later that day: A kitchen table with a fancy modern plastic surface with the reputation of withstanding all scratches, four simple wooden chairs, a bed, his grammophone, his vinyl records, the low teak table for the telephone in the hallway, his black-and-white television set and his sofa. He had returned the table — also teak — he had borrowed from his mother. He supposed he had to buy a new one, an expensive one to demonstrate his step upwards, if that sort of demonstrations weren’t futile. His therapy sessions had gradually led him to question some habits his older relatives — and some of his old classmates — took for granted. What was success — real success? And did you need to show it in any way? Why? Mirroring his thoughts, his transistor radio began to blare one of those contemporary protest songs: He put a few shirts on hangers, and put them in the wardrobe. He put his suit on one of the hangers, and put it in the wardrobe. One of his faces. His workplace face. Not his real self. He wouldn’t look the same as anyone else. Not his uncles. Not his classmates. Not the other employees at The Foundation. Not the guests. He would be himself. He would become himself. Continue to reshape his body. Constinue to reshape his mind. Reshape himself. He went into the bathroom and watched himself in the mirror. Already different. Blue denim jeans. White cotton t-shirt. The outline of his chest through the fabric. He took a comb and some pomada. That parting had to go. Go with his old life. Go with his hometomwn. Shed himself. After a few seconds he looked different. Less like your standard office clerk. He looked younger. But not like the hippies. Like the opposite of the hippies. Also like the opposite of those mindless patriots spluttering pre-fabricated slogans. Also like the opposite of those doctors and lawyers and business executives, who look all the same. Not the newest style, perhaps — it had been around for some time now — but the style of a rebel. Yeah: rebel. He felt how he became hard. He allowed the thought to return: Rebel. He became harder. He placed his left hand on his right biceps and clenched it. He became harder. Reshape himself. Become himself. * * * Next chapter is found here.
  5. Thank you for your encouragement!

    1. Tobias

      Tobias

      You're welcome. I enjoy the back-and-forth between timelines.

  6. Thank you. Without a slow build, I wouldn't be able to tell this particular story. It is its own sort of sub-genre.
  7. Are you reading my thoughts, or am I too obvious?
  8. The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here The Orgone Accumulator: Part Four It was evening. He was back at The Foundation, and all the guests (and the analysts) were eating dinner in the dining room. Snippets of conversation reached his ears, but he found it hard to follow, for several reasons. "... and then I told him, that the meditation room was entirely unnecessary, and that the money could have been spent on improved massage benches. And there was no reason to include a lot of Carl Jung and Carl Rogers in the library. All that money on Eranos yearbook was mis-spent, in my opinion. It is supposed to be a Reichian collection." "By the sound of it, you seem to be obsessed by some sort of Reichian purity. I'm interested in psychological methods that really works, not in any attempt at doctrinal Gleichschaltung. Do you forget the entire work on liberation from authoritarian ethics? An authoritarian person will never reach full orgastic potency ..." "... very nice potatoes. Did you read those news about the dangers of pesticides? Who could have known? In retrospect, I think it was the right decision to farm The Foundation's own vegetables. And this sauce! So delicious ..." "... will watch TV with me in the TV room tonight? There will be a new episode of Perry Mason. I never miss ..." "... as Camus put it: 'The Soviet Union isn't really socialist, and the United States aren't really liberal', and by that he attempted to say ..." "... a new car, a mint-green one with large fins, and then she said ..." "... not the same since Dr. Witt returned from his sabbatical at the Esalen Institute, but I do not complain: If clients become healthier and more liberated by mixing Reich with other methods, the aim of The Foundation will be reached ..." "... opinions about the Vietnam War?" "Well, it is complicated. We can't allow the Communists to trample another country, but on the other hand, I'm not entirely sure if war is the best method to ..." "... listened to a lecture by Alan Watts a few months ago. Zen Buddhism is fascinating." "I don't know anything about Zen, though I read The Dharma Bums once. In my opinion ..." "... the new masseur? Isn't he a dream?" The young man didn't listen. He had spent most of the afternoon and the early evening in San Francisco with The Businessman. It was much bigger, than his hometown, of course --- he had expected it to be -- but it was not just the number of inhabitants: People were individuals there, at least some of them. Of course, there were lots of men hiding who they were by wearing identical suits and ties, but there were also young people in colourful clothes, young men with long hair and beards -- beards! It looked ridiculous, of course, but at least they had made a decision to stick out from the crowd -- from other crowds than their own one. The Businessman had bought him a milkshake at a milk bar, and there had been two bikers at a table nearby. He couldn't forget the bikers. Their hairstyle. Their tight denim jeans. Their posture. Confident. Faces. Laughing. Happy. Their leather jackets and boots. Black. Glossy. For a moment, he had felt like The Businessman was reading his thoughts, and he had felt very embarrassed, but The Businessman continued talking. Telling stories about The War. The young man had used the word 'war hero', but that had only caused The Businessman to sound irritated. "Terrible things happen in war. There is nothing heroic about it, most of the time. I've seen atrocities. But what would have happened, if we had allowed Hitler to win? It was necessary. There were good things about that time, though. I have never, before or after, had better friends than I had when I served in The Army. Friends from all walks of life." The Businessman fell silent and finished his coffee. The bikers left the milk bar, and started their motorbikes. Legs wide. Boots. Black. Glossy. Confident men. Riding their bikes. The speed. The Businessman watched them, too, through the large window. "Enjoying their life, I guess. More than some people do." He didn't continue that line of thought. Instead, he asked the young man about his home town, family, work. About how Dad left. How Mom was still working at a bakery. That college was not even a thought. About working at an office. "Do you find psychoanalysis helpful? You don't have to answer, son. I've no right to intrude." "I'm glad, that Dr. Witt listen to me, Sir. The massage is nice. Dr. Witt told me, that I have inhibations, and that a wounded soul cause tensions in the body. Dr. Witt repeatedly tells me, that man is both body and soul. I think, the analysis help me to become comfortable with that." "Did you ever enjoy sports?" "Not particularly. Some of my friends were recruited to the football team, but I wasn't." "What about tennis? I played tennis in my youth, but for some reason I never continued doing so." "I don't know, Sir. I think tennis is not widely popular in my town." "Have you considered boxing? You look like you could toughen up, son." The young man blushed. "No, I haven't considered boxing, Sir. Work at the office by day and going to the theatre some nights is what my life consist of." "You are young. You have life before you. Don't waste your youth. I'm not telling you to mismanage your work. I'm just telling you to have fun when you don't work. Society is changing -- I don't understand exactly what happens, to be honest -- and the world is changing. They send spacecrafts into space, and they are able to cure diseases thought incurable. The colonies are free now, and young people in the free world are enjoying life." He shook his head, and continued: "By 1990 they will probably have flying cars. Don't waste this first step of mankind's modern progress by feeling sad. I like to watch young people enjoy life -- even those strange incomprehensible beatniks." "Thanks for your encouragement, Sir. And thanks for the milkshake." On their way home in The Businessman's big fancy car, they had bought some cigarettes, fruits, candy and magazines. Among the newspapers and magazines in the newsstand, the young man had found magazines he had never seen before: They seemingly were all about physical exercise. A jolt went through his spine. He had to swallow. The hair on his head bristled, and he felt blood rush to his still boyish cheeks. The drawings of men on the covers. So built. Impossibly big muscles. A muscular biker talking to a muscular man from The Navy on one of the covers. A big man on a beach on the other. On the back cover there was an advert for Charles Atlas' correspondence course about physical exercise. He bought two of the magazines, and hoped, that The Businessman didn't notice his choice of reading material. On his way home, he hid the magazines in the brown paperbag, where he had put his fruits, candy and cigarettes. Next morning, he began his day by doing push-ups at his room at The Foundation. * * * Next chapter is found here.
  9. The Prologue is found here The preceeding chapter is found here The Orgone Accumulator: Part Three The young man stood leaning on the balustrade, admiring the scenery from the terrace, which ran in front of the facade of the main building. The white-painted concrete must have been considered avant-garde thirty years ago, but The Foundation hadn't been able to maintain the building the way it deserved, and the white paint fell from the facade like unmelting flakes in the wind. Smoke rose from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a pillar of smoke spiralling upwards, disappearing. The road. Valleys of trees. Vineyards. Forests. Perhaps a hint of glittering sea, far, far away between some of the hills, but it was also possible, that he imagined the glitter of waves, because he knew it must be somewhere over there, westward. Sunny California, indeed. Not like his wintery home-town. Useful? Yes, useful therapy, to an extent, but none of the other guests at The Foundation were of his age, and the garden, atelier, library and meditation room felt suffocatingly still and lifeless. The Businessman approached, wearing his expensive costume tailored to look dull. The Businessman's actual name sounded fancy, but the young man hadn't yet been able to associate it with that famous company. "Do you mind if I join you when I smoke, young man?" He must have been more than fifty years old. By his look, he must be living a very successful life. What was he and his pearl-decked wife doing at The Foundation? Were rich people really supposed to be in need of therapy? Couldn't they buy happiness? America. The land of opportunities, as his grandparents had used to say, when they immigrated in another century. "Of course not, Sir. I hope, that I don't trouble you." "Not at all, son. I have attended The Foundation together with Julia for years, and I always appreciate when some guests are somewhat younger than we are. It enlivens the place. Julia and I don't have any children of our own." The Businessman lit his own cigarette, and looked thoughtful, as he seemed to take the natural scenery in. "How old is this place, Sir?" "The main building was built in the style of early modernism in the 1920s by a German-American architect, but most of the smaller buildings were added in the 1940s, when Dr. Witt founded The Foundation. Dr. Reich visited several times in the beginning, but then the unpleasant business happened in 1956." "Unpleasant business?" "You haven't heard? Dr. Reich spent his last two years in prison, and died just a few days before being able to obtain a parole." "What for?" "The Food and Drug Administration didn't approve of some of his inventions. They believed his methods were fraudulent." "But he was a doctor, wasn't he?" "He was a psychoanalyst, but his methods differed from Sigmund Freud. Have you heard about Freud?" "I think, I'd seen his name mentioned in some newspaper before Dr. Witt explained more about him. What do you think? You wouldn't come here, if you didn't trust Dr. Reich's ideas, would you, Sir?" "Talking to someone -- a priest or a rabbi or a psychoanalyst or someone else bound to not gossip -- wont hurt. I don't think highly of the navel-gazing. The massage is nice. I've eaten worse food than this, but I am not entirely sure what to make of The Orgone Accumulator. To be honest, I mainly come here, because Julia believe in Reich's theories." "Orgone Accumulator?" "They haven't prescribed it to you, yet? Fair enough. I suppose Dr. Witt -- you are one of Dr. Witt's clients aren't you, not a client of one of the others? -- will give you the treatment after some initial cycles of analysis and massage. Did Dr. Witt ever mention Orgone?" "Yes. Dr. Reich theorized, that there is some sort of life-force in every living being, but Dr. Witt never explained any details." "It's the details I distrust, not the basic idea. He even attempted to draw Orgone from the clouds with some sort of antenna. The American authorities burned his books in 1956, which I think is a shame: In a free country, all citizens are free to present their thoughts freely, and if they contain bogus, they will be exposed as such in a free debate, not by censorship. A shame, really." They fell silent a little while. "Do you have any analysis or massage booked for today?" "Not this afternoon. I had a therapy session with Dr. Witt early this morning." "I'm going into the city. Want a ride?" "Thank you, Sir. It's not like I dislike the fresh air out here, but I wouldn't say no to a few hours away from The Foundation." * * * Next chapter is found here
  10. Thank you. I don't expect this story to attract everyone, but I wanted to use the MG genre to mix LGBTQ history and general American and European modern history with the MG theme, with some bits and bobs of counter-culture, sub-cultures and social criticism. This story will sooner or later become slightly more philosophical in tone, than your general MG story. The legacy of the eccentric Dr. Reich lend itself easily to become an amusing plot device in a MG story. I began to approach some, but not all, of the themes of this story in a different way in my yet unfinished multi-chapter story The Company. Despite being a GenXer myself, I'm glad to give The Silent Generation and the Boomers a voice through some of my characters, since the MG genre otherwise is so obsessed with sporty college youth. Millennials got their share, when I wrote With a little help from magic, though, thinking about it, John/Brad in this story is a Millennial, of course.
  11. The story begins in: The Orgone Accumulator : Prologue The preceeding chapter is found here: The Orgone Accumulator : Part One The Orgone Accumulator: Part Two The music made it difficult to hear what the other man said. "Could you repeat that?" Jim, the muscular forty-year old repeated, what he had just said: "I said, that the leather scene has changed. When I found the leather scene as a teenager, it was an entire subculture: Everyone made an effort to look like one's fantasy, and there weren't any visitors from the outside, like you." Visitors from the outside. John hadn't expected that to sting, but it did. His facial expression must have changed. "I didn't mean any disrespect. I just meant, that those who attend these clubs nowadays don't identify with the culture I and the middle-aged and the oldies does. Today you frequent some vanilla club with a rainbow flag one day, attend some gay rights manifestation another day, and wear a cheap harness for laughs at some surviving leather bar a third day. Community is falling apart. The apps are also a part of it. With Recon and similar apps, the need for leather bars is disappearing, and a lot of old bars and clubs have closed, not just here in the US, but also over in Europe. Gentrification has hit a lot of leather bars: The old Eagle had to move to the present location, and that's not the only one. Beginning to sound like someone twice my age, am I not?" "That's time, isn't it? Everything changes." "Everything. Not limited to the leather scene. Take bears, like yourself, for instance ..." "Wait a minute. I'm not a bear." "Sorry. You gave that impression. Take the bears, for instance. The movement began when some gay men felt left out, when all gay men were expected to be twinks, and when men were supposed to shave and style their hair, look like Ken-dolls and not share any hobbies with straight men. The bear movement emerged, when some men attracted to other men wouldn't accept to be forced into the twink stereotype. Or be forced into the mindset of the more built circuit crowd. Unlike the circuit crowd, bears didn't fear some chub nor the scent of honest sweat, but change happened, and today there exist muscle-bears, which runs counter to some of the original ideas." "You don't have to tell me. I'm writing about the history of the LGBTQ movement. Well, to be honest, more G than any other letter. Some B and Q, perhaps." "Don't say that aloud among the Trannies. They will kill you." "Speaking about history. You could show me the ropes and introduce me to the oldies you mentioned." "The oldies? Daddy chaser? I though we were have having something here." John took a step forward, put his hand at Jim's leather-clad bum and squeezed. It was obvious, that Jim enjoyed to work out, and his glutes were firm and unyielding. A lump grew in John's throat, and he felt how his own denim jeans became uncomfortably tight. Another hard bulge grew inside Jim's intimidating black and shiny leather-jeans. They pressed each other's groins against each other. "We are having something here, but I just wanted to know more about the changes you mentioned. Old times. Before your time." Jim lowered his head and kissed John. Smiling, he answered: "I'm interested in the past, myself. I know exactly which ones you ought to ask. Follow me." Their hair were grey or white and buzzcut. One of them had a beard, the other one an old-fashioned moustache. Similar to Jim, but unlike John, they were entirely covered in black leather, and, unlike Jim, they were wearing leather caps. Age had its imprint on them, but they obviously spent time to remain in good shape, and there was something intimidating about them. Jim introduced them to John. They enjoyed being called "Sir". "... all those changes. I remember, when you had to be initiated to belong to the community. Some call it hazing today, but it was a way to keep the standards up. Today they let every twink with a harness in, no offence, well, you don't look like a twink, more like a cub, than anything else ..." "I'm not a cub, Sir." "Good to know. Well ... let anyone in, and it all began when rubber was allowed, not to mention that modern "Jockstrap Wednesday", what sort of nonsense is that supposed to be?" After half a beer, John steered the conversation in the right direction. One of the elderly men had only seen the infamous photographs -- seldom or never included in any recent photo art books -- but the other man actually did remember: "Stud of Dakota ... Well, that was, uh, a specimen. Amazing man. Brings memories back. He looked like he had just stepped outside from one of Tom of Finland's drawings -- I suppose you youngsters still know Tom's art, yes? And you have to remember, that weight-training hadn't become mainstream back then. If you wanted to lift weights you joined one of those old-fashioned gyms which began as boxing-clubs, and rest of society looked at you like you were weird. Middle-class men were supposed to pretend like their bodies didn't exist, and the working-class, despite admiring feats of strength, well, they regarded the human body as a machine performing tasks, not as a piece of art to be shaped and nurtured, perfected and admired. When bodybuilding emerged in the 1950s it freaked most of society out. When gay men began to work out and wear leather ... Rest of society had expected us to be nellies, and we turned out to be hard, beefy leather-clones, well some of us, anyway, and Stud ... Well, that was not his real name of course -- I even doubt that he grew up in Dakota -- he and his friends inspired us, me and some of the other guys at The Eagle in the early 1970s. It was just some months after the Stonewall Riots, I think. Things begin to blur. Stud arrived from somewhere on the west coast and we all wanted to look like him, be like him ..." The elderly man fell silent and took a mouthful of his beer. He was visibly aroused. He took another mouthful of beer. "AIDS changed all that. It was an era that died with all those young and rather young men in the 1980s ... Died. Lost." Some more beer. "But what happened to the man, who called himself 'Stud of Dakota'. Did he die, too, or why did he disappear like that?" The old man watched John in silence, estimating him. "I might be able to help you, but there is a saying among some of my people ... You will not find Stud of Dakota. He will find you." John left The Eagle leaning on Jim's assuring glossy shoulder, surrounded by the scent of Jim's leather-clothes and with a California address in his pocket. * * * Next chapter is found here
  12. Could it be this one? SeaMusc: The Impossible Discovery
  13. Thank you for your encouragement. The story will, as you will see, oscillate between the 1960s and the 2010s. Part one is found here .
  14. The Prologue is found here: The Orgone Accumulator : Prologue The Orgone Accumulator: Part One He finished his three articles about Portland Waterfront Pride and sent them to the news-site editor per e-mail. Brad Taurus. He smiled. If your name is John Smith, and your occupation is freelance journalist and writer, you have to use some eye-catching alias to stick out in the crowd, even if it sounds silly. He scratched his hipster beard, took a sip of green tea, and clicked on one of the files that contained one of the chapters-to-be of his new book about the history of gay subcultures. Stud of Dakota ... One of the models of Robert Mapplethorpe's artistic black-and-white photographs back in the late 1970s and early 1980s. The guy had been huge and muscular long before working-out became fashionable. At a time, when other men allowed their hair to grow long like Peter Berlin did, Stud of Dakota went from a rockabilly hairstyle to a crewcut, like he had predicted the approaching fashion-changes of the 1980s. Stud was surrounded by urban legend: Had he lived among the San Francisco leather scene before it became publicly visible? Was he devoted to kinks too extreme to describe in words? Was his disappearance from the public eye in the mid-1980s caused by AIDS? No-one knew. The New York art scene was probably where to sneak around, if you wanted answers. Mr. Smith booked himself an airline ticket. His guilt-stricken conscience told him, that his travels would be bad to the environment, but the thought of a coast-to-coast railway journey caused him to shudder. He compensated his carbo-dioxide emissions with a click, and prepared to pack his bag. * * * It was days later. He had presumed, that he would enjoy New York, but he was wrong. The streets were sticky of some unknown dirt, the air smelled funny, the cabdrivers were impolite, and there were beggars or psychos in the streets. "Brad! Darling! So this is how you look in real life! I've wondered who the mysterious Mr. Taurus behind all those articles is. No-one told me, that you are a bear-cub." The Queen was overwhelming. The art dealer known as The Queen was in his eighties, and remembered the Stonewall riots and days long before these. His suit was luxurious, he wore androgynous wristbands, and his arms gestured in a manner reminding of someone's aunt, in a way that didn't feel natural, but seemed like a skilfully rehearsed act aimed at provoking bystanders, which it probably did. The comment surprised John, and it felt like it dissolved and evaporated all the polite stuff he had planned to say. Startled, he answered: "I'm not a cub, and 'Brad Taurus' is a pseudonym." "You don't say?", The Queen answered waspishly. "I would have guessed, that your inventive and creative parents came up with the name before your birth. You can never be too careful when you select your parents. My parents had the grace to bestow unto me independent means, and they tended to pretend not to understand, that the vagina business was way outside my comfort zone, just as the upper classes of their generation used to do." The elderly man's eyes glittered of mischief, and he gave the impression of being considerably younger, despite his silver hair. "Anyhow. Come in, come in, and let me give you something to drink. Something bubbly perhaps?" A few minutes later, John was sitting in a chair constructed to look artistic, but it wasn't particularly comfortable. In his hand, he was holding a flute of champagne. "So what brings you to the doorstep of my humble abode? Chin chin!", The Queen asked and toasted. "I mentioned my book about history ..." "Indeed you did, darling. Did I tell you, that those puppy eyes of your's suit you very well?" "One of the chapters will mention, how some gay men in the past behaved effeminate, in order to mock the prejudice of straight society ..." "Oh, honey! I have no idea what you are talking about!", The Queen shrieked in falsetto, but his eyes glittered of intense irony. "However, I ask for your advice about a different matter, since you are knowledgeable about the arts scene in the 1970s ..." The lustre in The Queen's eyes changed from flippant to businesslike. Even his gestures became more restrained, less studied. His body language went from a stereotype to a real person. "One of Mapplethorpe's models, the alias 'Stud of Dakota', disappeared in the 80s, and I don't even know his real name." The Queen let out a low whistling sound. "Those young boys were in an entirely different league than I or my late husband were. Beside being younger than me -- he must have been born some time in the 1940s, I guess -- Stud and his handsome friends hang out with an entirely different circle than mine: Nice to watch at a distance, but only watch, no touching! It doesn't probably come as much of a surprise, that most of my friends belong to old families with old money, but one of the benefits of moving in artistic circles is, that you encounter men from many ways of life, including some gorgeous working-class and lower middle-class men. I encountered them a few times when Mapplethorpe arranged something, but I don't know much about them -- neither Stud nor his friends." John's facial expression must have revealed the wave of disappointment, which began to well up inside him, because The Queen continued: "But have no fear. I have a fairly good idea which ones to ask. You'll have to ask the older patrons at The Eagle NYC." "The Eagle?" "A leather bar. Not my personal cup of tea, as you might guess, but the oldies over there would possibly know something. You wouldn't be able to enter dressed like that ..." The Queen evaluated John's hipsterish attire with critical eyes. "... but if you wear well-polished boots to those jeans, the men at the entrance could possibly sell you some suitable gear to wear at the bar. Better ask them first. It's not my type of place." * * * The story continues in The Orgone Accumulator : Part Two
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