The Night of Forced Hegemony:
The train clattered comfortably, rocking sensuously along the trajectory, lulling James West into a womb-like stupor as he leaned into the brocaded velvet sofa set against the vibrating wall of one of the lushly appointed compartments shared with his partner Artemis Gordon. Even so, cat-like, with hard body coiled beneath seeming insouciance, he was ever-ready for action and primed for the slightest provocation or response to danger. All seemed well and he half-closed hooded blue-green eyes and scratched sexily at the pelt of short, curling hair peeking from the top of his shirt. ‘They’re starting to call this the Victorian Era, did you know that Artie?’ Gordon pretended to snore in a mauve-colored alcove but James knew better, or thought he did, having caught the glint of an obsidian eye perusing his crotch on the sly not five minutes before. Artie, Artie…!!! How come you never seem to care when I ALWAYS get the girl? And, come to think of it…why are you so good at those disguises you get up to, especially the ones that involve, ah, cross dressing?? Thoughts kept to himself, the handsome James West nevertheless cracked a broad smile as Gordon’s inky eyes flew open, fully awake. ‘Is that so?’ West’s sidekick faked a theatrical yawn. ‘That’s right, my friend, they’re calling it the Victorian Era after that fat old bitch in London…fucking Brits think they own the whole world instead of their goddam three fifths…’ Both agents laughed the superior mirth of young, post-Civil War America beginning to flex her muscles and Artemis, shaking his head, lurched across the swaying compartment and uncorked a bottle of champagne. ‘Here’s to us, Jim, and another assignment finished with both of us alive to enjoy another day…’ He gazed out the compartment window looking doubtful into a night time landscape of grey shadows. ‘I’m troubled, though,’ the champagne bubbled in twin glasses and he handed one to West, ‘how did that slippery, butt ugly, if admittedly bright little midget maniac get away?’ James West merely shrugged, stretching long legs in impossibly tight blue trousers sensuously along the humming corridor. Dr. Loveless- approximately three feet of vicious, homicidal criminal intent- was far from his mind…and besides, Artie, we saved San Francisco didn’t we? And there you go again, staring at my crotch… ‘Damn, James,’ Artemis cocked an eyebrow and daintily loosened his collar, ‘Summer here in the Delta sure gets muggy!’ He raised a leaded glass window to let in the breeze even as his partner, the very macho James West, sighed and obediently peeled off his shirt.
Though straight as the proverbial arrow, Jim West tolerated his partner’s suspected proclivities and, a die hard narcissist at heart, joyfully threw him the occasional bone (pun intended) as long as things didn’t get out of hand or go too far. No chance of that you pudgy faggot!! Besides, Artemis was almost always right and, sure enough, the night was sultry humid in the Sacramento River Delta and only marginally cooler than the sizzling day. And…aside from all of that…it just felt damn good to strip to the waist, letting the evening air flowing through the raised window caress the rounded curves of tanned muscle, ruffling the wiry bronze pelt on chest and belly…James suddenly felt horny and, even though he noticed the basalt gaze of his partner roaming his half naked body like an Apache marauder, threw caution to the winds and languidly loosened the top button of his trousers. Ahhhhhh, that’s better! The ridiculously high waist of the Victorian (hard to get used to that term) outfit split open with plenty of room left for modesty revealing, nevertheless, a deep, masculine navel spilling a whorl of dark hair yet lower along the trajectory of Jim’s rippling abs. Artemis wiped the beading sweat from his upper lip, trying hard not to stare and failing. ‘Where we headed next, Jim?’ He made a valiant attempt to hide his breathlessness, which the amused West interpreted as a simple matter of unrequited lust…to his peril. Hadn’t the special agent learned anything at all concerning his wily, highly intelligent and, yes, rather devious partner? Apparently not.
Jim reached for a delicate, cigar-shaped silver object rattling against the parquet surface of a Louis XV desk. Twisting an engraved lid, he removed a rolled telegraph message from the tube just as the train entered a narrow underground tunnel roughly thirty miles west of Sacramento somewhere in the trackless Delta. He meant to read the coded message revealing the next assignment, portentously re-asserting his alpha dog status and satisfying the curiosity of his partner at the same time, but never got the chance. ‘WHAT THE HELL?????’ James lurched forward as the train shuddered to a halt in a brightly lit tunnel, slamming against a wall. The sliver tube with unread message clattered to the floor even as the special agents, both now crouched in tense action mode, half rose and carefully peered from a window of the train. ‘It’s a set up Artie…careful.’ Artemis didn’t answer but, in an act uncharacteristically brave, crossed the silent car and, gingerly opening the door, slipped outside. James West, masculine pride suddenly at stake, glanced at his shirt but reconsidered leaving it draped on a chair, buttoned his trousers, and followed his partner on to the tarmac of the suddenly ominous tunnel.
At first, the sight of the blue coated Union soldiers was reassuring; the regular army had smelled trouble and beaten the special agents to the mysterious scene. Jim puffed out his hairy chest, tan skin glowing with health despite the greenish light and, putting on his best ‘man among men’ grin, shrugged muscular shoulders, winked at Artemis (who still seemed oddly tense), and called to the Union men, now fanning out along the silent tracks. James West was no fool and he quickly picked up the tell-tale signs that something was still amiss; the sullen silence of the soldiers, stubbled chins belying military discipline, the odd cut of this uniform jacket or that pair of yellow striped trousers… Jim was an avid fan of Conan Doyle and, though no Sherlock Holmes, was still a fair hand at deductive reasoning. ‘Back up, Artie!! Something’s not right!’ Artemis ignored his partner and, exhibiting bizarre signs of increasingly perverse behaviour, squeezed the other man’s hard shoulder before allowing his hand a fast flutter down the hairy cleft of James’ sweaty chest…did that fucker just TOUCH me like that?????!…and, instead of dashing back to the train, boldly approached what his partner Jim now suspected were bogus soldiers. Small glass vials emerged from half a dozen navy blue pockets and clattered against the steel rails, breaking in the process. ‘GET BACK, ARTIE!!!!’ James West, ever altruistic, shouted to his friend, watching with horror as pale tendrils of acrid gas began to fill the close confines of the tunnel. His handsome blue eyes widened with scandalized horror as Artemis Gordon not only ignored his partner’s advice but turned instead toward the soldiers. Pulling a strangely crafted device sprouting rubber tubes from inside his vest, Gordon shouted to the ‘soldiers’, ‘Masks on, boys, it’s time to take down this cocky stud!!’ He turned to his stunned partner smiling like the Cheshire Cat, ‘Take a deep breath Jim and get some rest- where we’re going, you’ll need all the strength you can muster.’ Jim gagged on the acrid vapour as he watched Artemis clamp his mask over sneering lips. Eyes fogging with soporific mist, the hairy stud’s rage wasn’t enough to sustain the motion he longed for with all of his heart; to plant a balled fist in the center of Artemis Gordon’s smug face, irrevocably re-arranging his already toad-like features in the process. Instead, James West reluctantly followed his erstwhile partner’s advice; breathing deeply, he heaved a long sigh and collapsed unconscious onto the track.
(Author’s note: At this point there is, of course, a commercial break…as the semi-nude James West collapses onto the track, the camera pans backward from his handsome, sweat beaded face, taking in the slow rise and fall of the hairy chest so sexy and vulnerable as the hero heaves deep breaths in his unconscious stupor, but with those ridiculous Victorian trousers still hiked (and firmly buttoned) half way up his beautiful torso, hiding even his belly button!! Trash the costume designer, I say!! Those damn pants need to come off anyway…but did they ever come off? I always wondered what went on behind the scenes while I was listening to some ditty about the cleaning power of Zest or how great a Lucky Strike cigarette might taste… Well, guys, let’s take things just a bit further here, in the first scene of the first Episode of this special Wild Wild West series [keeping in mind that this is only the first of three parts of this episode and that the action will, ah, heat up considerably]…and at least get those damn pants off of that hairy stud James West before we wrap things up for the first act. Damn! The show’s starting up and I still have to take a pee…)
He clawed his way forward, through a thick fog of nightmare, and found himself finally awake and strangely lucid flat on his back in some sort of surrealistic warehouse or factory. Some of the Union soldiers still stood around, smoking foul smelling rolled up cigarettes, looking dangerous and strangely interested in the prisoner…I’m a fucking prisoner!!! James tested the hard steel binding his arms behind his naked back, flexing the massed muscles of chest and abs in the process. ‘Very nice, James…very nice indeed.’ ‘Artie?!’ ‘Of course…’ James West’s erstwhile partner oozed an oily concoction of mock surprise and incandescent lust. ‘What did you expect Jim?’ And, in truth, as the handsome secret service agent ruefully realized, the signs had all been there but he had been blinded by cocky self-confidence and a bizarre kind of loyalty grounded in assumptions of innate superiority- what right thinking man, once he came under the spell, would betray, contradict, impede, or gainsay the likes of James West, dashing employee of the President himself and all-around macho hero of any number of crises that threatened to subvert, even destroy, if not the world, well, at least the good old US of A? Thirty years later (in real time) Kiefer Sutherland would mount a fair reprise effort as Jack Bauer with a mere 24 hours to accomplish the same feat…but he did it with less panache, frenetic energy lacking a certain grace, complete lack of wry irony, and a body, though lightly dusted with blond peach fuzz, that seemed oddly shy when displayed (on rare occasions). James West was a different animal all together and was not particularly scandalized (yet) by his predicament, at least in the sense of being stripped to the waist and cuffed with hands behind his broad back…that happened with nearly boring regularity and he was supremely confident that the good guys came out on top in the end…and kept their trousers on. It did hurt, though, and came as a rude, even shocking, surprise that the downfall (temporary as he knew it must be) should come at the hands of his partner and friend Artemis Gordon.
James West knew a brief moment of hallucinogenic panic, trapped in a paradox too hideous to face directly as Gordon ran a slow hand over the hard contours of his pecs (in no way obscured by the pelt of wiry brown hair stretching from pink nipple to nipple). The electric frisson of arousal was unmistakable and, grudgingly acknowledged, dragged him to the depths of humiliated despair…but this was only the beginning. ‘Why, Jim…’ Artemis was all conciliatory charm, ‘I do believe you may be enjoying this…just a little?’ He flicked an erect nub of rubbery nipple, underscoring the obvious but, still, West spluttered emphatic denial. ‘Fuck you, traitor! You’ll hang for this!!’ ‘Ahhhhhhh….perhaps…and if I do it will all have been worth it…just to finally touch (he traced a languid finger over the magnificent curve of arcing pec to a sweaty arm pit, inserting an insistent finger and tracing slow spirals in the sweat soaked hair) what has, until now, been the stuff of dreams.’ West choked on a ragged curse, shuffling helpless under the probing. ‘But, my dear friend, dreams know no boundaries, n’est pas? What about these ridiculous trousers, cut far too high, don’t you think?’ It couldn’t be happening!!!! Artemis continued in a mocking tone, ‘And, Jim, since you mention hanging…um, what do you say? Shall we see how you are…hung?’ It seemed both inevitable and impossible; Artemis reached for the buttons fastening the baby blue skin tight trousers midway up James West’s furry torso and with a fast flick spread the fly over linen shorts damp with the sweat of rising anxiety.
A few quick motions beneath nimble fingers completed the job and James West stood stark naked in all of his manly glory. Spluttering shame and outraged indignation he strained against impossible restraints, once again flexing massed muscle in futile endeavour, all uncaring and oddly unselfconscious of the erotic show he put on, consumed by the hammering realization that what had happened was entirely outside the script. Things had clearly spiralled out of control and Artemis underscored the fact by grabbing Jim’s ample balls, giving them a hard twist and squeeze. The effect was gratifying as Jim grunted his agony, gagging on the excruciating pain. Artemis, for his part, nearly passed out in bliss so profound that it crackled with energy that could only be described as atavistic, especially when the shaft of Jim’s warm cock brushed against the back of his hand, scalding his knuckles with potent heat. ‘Ahhhh, SHIT!’ he sighed, eyes mere slits of smouldering ash-colored lust, ‘You have no idea, Jim, no idea at all…how long this moment waited in careful, intricate planning…’ he trailed off, ‘…no…fucking…idea…’
(Author’s note: Once again we fade to a commercial but at least James is found, at last, stripped naked and at the not so tender mercy of his captor; in this case his traitorous ex-friend and colleague Artemis Gordon. Scene One is ended, we are back to an interlude extolling the virtues of a variety of forgotten products, wondering, perhaps, what transpires behind the scenes…but the episode still has a ways to go; two more scenes to be exact. Tune in shortly as James West, secret service agent and handsome hairy stud extraordinaire is used and abused in ways that he, a straight stud of the second half of the nineteenth century, secure in seemingly unassailable self-possession and confident that he will ALWAYS walk away with the girl…could never imagine. No, not in the deepest nightmares of teenage angst somewhere on the prairie trying to dream himself into a semblance of control. James West hasn’t seen anything yet…but he is beginning to suspect that he might!!!)
to be continued.