Apr 7, 2007

Jackpot - It's Your Turn

'JackPot' by Max Mann is a type of erotic story that pushes plenty of my buttons: homoerotic love, muscle growth, transformation... those I always love, but it also has a mythical, dreamlike quality, and it is at the cosmic intersection of male lust with ancient myth where I dig for gold.

Jackpot is the story of Tracy, a young gay man with a transgender name, who is on a journey to begin a new job and a new life in "Reyes" (opposite of Re"no"). After crossing the border into Nevada, he chances upon a strange slot machine in a small town bar/restaurant. He notices that the slot has the usual "steel rod" (rod of iron?) replaced by a bodybuilder's muscular arm. This slot had no place to insert money (Mammon) and nobody ever played it because it never paid out, according to the bartender.

Tracy is drawn to the machine, not because of a desire for easy money, but simply because of the muscular arm. He pulls it, and lo, he hits the jackpot! What exactly the jackpot is, Tracy has no idea. Gold coins didn't pour out, just a promise that the prize would be received in 24 hours. How totally biblical is that? Jehovah makes a grand and rather mysterious promise, and then says wait, just have patience, just a little longer, you'll be really glad that you held out!

Tracy leaves the bar, mystified about the nature of the prize, and continues on his way (after splitting the prize, whatever it may turn out to be, with the bartender).

Upon arriving at his destination, Tracy checks into the Parthenon hotel and casino (The house of the gods), a small hotel with "extended stay" rooms. Tracy is given the keys to the "Zeus" suite, which happens to be the penthouse, and Tracy knows he can't afford it. But somehow, it all seems pre-arranged (pre-ordained?) and he takes possession.

Oddly enough, every clerk, busboy, and guest he meets have similar transgender monickers. And even more strangely, they all begin to morph into homoerotic, heroic, fantasy men, as soon as Tracy looks at them. The morphing of everyone at the hotel into massively muscular and hung, yet compliant and subservient erotic icons continues, as Tracy enters the casino, and sits down to play a hand of blackjack.

He walked over to an empty blackjack table where a middle-aged man, Pat from Brooklyn, greeted him with a wink. Tracy put down one-thousand dollars, and watched the mustached gent slowly expand as he counted the money first, then the chips. He pushed them to Tracy, who placed a one-hundred dollar bet. Pat dealt Tracy a king and jack. Tracy blinked and shook his head. Even the men on the cards had grown muscles! Pat turned up eighteen. Tracy smiled as he watched Pat's delts rip through his shirt. More hands followed, each one won by Tracy. He thought it was like watching Pat play strip blackjack as clothes disappeared until the blue-eyed, grey-haired adonis was nude behind the table.

Then Tracy received two unfamiliar cards. Also musclemen wearing crowns, but in the upper left corner was the letter P. Princes? He asked Pat, "Are there any queens in the deck?"

Pat asked, "What are queens?"

"You know, the women with crowns..."

"What are women?"

The Parthenon hotel has become a homoerotic fantasy, a world of nothing but hot, horny and willing men. As Tracy continues to play...

Tracy quickly sobered as he grew fearful. What was happening to him? To them? Was it everywhere? He wanted to escape, turn back time, do something...

"It's your turn."

Tracy waved his hand over the cards. Pat shook his head and again said, "It's your turn."

Then another man said it, and another, and soon the entire floor was chanting, "It's your turn." Tracy stumbled from his chair as he tried to run, but a wall of musclemen soon encircled him. His heart raced as he panicked. He tried covering his ears to no avail. Blood and adrenaline rushed through his body. His vision blurred.

Tracy grows into the image of an erotic god, and becomes master of his own domain.

And he also knew that the world outside the doors of the Parthenon was still intact. But here stood the foundation for a palace, a temple, devoted to the perfection of man as deemed by Tracy. --Max Mann

"In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." --John 14:2

Many mansions... many Parthenons, many realities?

The Book of Enoch says that the whole reason man was created was to replace the original "Sons of God" (the Watchers, the angels, the Divine Council, the ancient "Gods"). I suspect the angels had become like haughty movie stars - they cost too much, smoked too much, performed too little, and basically, had become royal pains in the ass. Finally, God had enough, and decided to "offshore" the work to a new act - Adam. I guess he figured he'd create a class of being that would be grateful for the work. So Shazam! Man shows up on the scene: the cosmic Mexican laborer, the union buster, the scab.

That, of course, totally pissed off the angels. Hell hath no fury like an angel scorned, or something like that.

It is our inheritance to eventually step into the role of "Sons of God" that the original sons corrupted and defiled. That's the plan, the script. Now, at long last, is the waiting finally over? Has the 24 hours elapsed? Is it "our turn"?

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