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NOTE: This is the 9th Chapter of the story, You may wish to read Chapter 1 first.
I look out the windshield towards the club. Busy on the street. Too much of a gauntlet to run. I shake my head. What a pansy. For good reason. I am thinking about the website for the House of God. They actually advertise the sick crap on the upper floor which I have not yet seen. Things such as iron crosses and chain slings. Oil pits and water pits. Whatever the hell those things were used for. Once I got inside I might be doing some browsing. Since I was here anyway.
Wasn’t there a sign leading up to the second floor stating ‘Bathroom Attire Only’?
I would have to strip off my leather pants, and my new stomping boots to get in. Yes. The second of three purchases I made the same day. Two from the sex shop. The boots came from the Army Surplus store. Four towns over. An hour away from my home. Nobody could know. Nobody could ever know.
The leather pants were three hundred bucks. The boots were two fifty. Tall and black with a gleaming silver buckle. Two inch heels. True, fag stomping boots. The extra height from the boots certainly added swagger to one’s walk. These boots put me at six foot three, to go with my two hundred and ten pounds. Unlike Stevie’s, my boots were brand new, shiny and unmarked. His were filthy, worn and ratty. Used. His stupid pants were also used. I bet he never took them off.
I popped can number five and took a long pull. The passersby continued to slide in and out of the convenience store. I felt in my pocket for purchase number three. The small brown bottle. The chick at the sex store said this was a very powerful brand. One sniff and the inhaler would float out to Lotus Land, and stay there for five or ten minutes. Enough time to get done what shouldn’t be done. The chick laughed when she said it. She laughed a lot and was very helpful on the pants purchase. Her hands were everywhere. Making sure the pants fit. Her hands cupped and pressed and held. She was good.
I was nearly aroused by her. Almost. I was definitely aroused by the pants.
The sex shop chick was probably forty years old, but was holding up very well. Her ass and tits and big hair looked to be fifteen years younger. The only thing giving her away was her face. The face of time and worry, and stress and life. Once I put the pants on she quickly morphed from polite clerk to attentive serf. Ah, the power of the pants. Perhaps when this little adventure was over, I would return to the lady at the sex shop and nail her to the desk. Yeah, I could do her a favor.
I pulled the little bottle out of my front pocket. The picture on the bottle was of a steroid enhanced Batman. Again, black leather cape and pants. The black leather thing was certainly a theme in this world. I put the bottle away. I shot down can number five and grabbed up number six. Folks continued to mingle on the street. Braver souls than I crossed on through and continued to snake into the front door of the club. True outed fags. Nothing to worry about for them. Nothing to hide any longer. Could their lives suck anymore? Suck. Suck. Suck. Exactly why they were here. To do some sucking.
I sighed. Not for this dude. No thanks. Once. Only once. The erasure would come tonight. Then it will have never happened.
Three hours of driving is what it took to get me here. Three hours. Three hours of my stupid life. Plus gas money. It would take three more hours to drive home. Plus more gas money. Plus my outfit. Plus the nitrate bottle. Plus the motel two weeks ago. Plus the entry fee to the club. Twice. Plus the two six packs of beer. Plus the booze inside the club. If this was such nothing, why was the expense sheet adding up so quickly?
Plus, the two weeks wasted since I was last here. Thinking, stewing, figuring. Wondering what the hell happened. A time investment, to go with the brain power investment, and the cash investment. Suddenly, this was something major.
As I got closer to the House of God on tonight’s trip in, something weird began to overtake me. I began to slip away from what I was, from the mess I was leaving behind, from the life I was leaving behind. I was side stepping into this new version of me. With the black leather pants and the boots. Forging into new territory, so to speak. Into a new identity. Into a new me. Free and clear and with no preconceptions. Separating myself, from myself.
Or some sort of survival mechanism?
I checked the clock on the dashboard. Almost midnight. I couldn’t wait any longer. I put forty bucks in my pocket. No, make it forty-five. If I was feeling generous, I might tip the barkeep, if it was the same guy. After all, last time I was here he made a tasty drink for me. He certainly knew his job.
I slid my wallet into the glove box. I ripped into can number six, tipped it up, and gulped the whole thing down. A loud belch and I was ready. I scooped up the empty cans and got out of my car. Into the trunk the cans went. I looked around the street, both ways and across. A slight break in the traffic, only a few folks scattered about.
I moved across the roadway, feeling paranoid about the outfit, and anxious about the door I would soon be entering. Conversely, I was also full of myself because of the outfit I was wearing. I felt big and strong and invincible. Nothing was going to happen tonight. Nothing I didn’t want to happen. I felt as if I were a SWAT cop, decked out in war gear. Bulletproof.
I ignored a few stares and was sure I heard a snicker as I made it to the front door of the House of God. The snicker would have sent me scurrying back to my car, two weeks ago. Not this night. Not wearing this outfit. I pulled the door open, wondering why they didn’t have a private or more discreet entrance. A more discreet entrance would have saved me six beers and the beginning of a good buzz.
There were no questions from behind the smoked glass as I pulled out my twenty. There was no sheet of paper pushed towards me to sign. They must remember me. Or, with the hot leather pants and boots, I resembled a regular.
The door buzzed and in I went. Immediately, I was overpowered by the warmth and humidity of the inside air. Body sweat and foreign smells once again assaulted my senses. I grabbed the white towel and room key off the counter. Not a rookie anymore.
I looked around.
This time, the place was packed. Both the seating area and the bar. I leaned over the bar and motioned to the tender. It was the same guy. He nodded towards me, a questioning look on his face. As if he knew me but couldn’t quite place me. He was staring up and down at my leathers, and then he smiled, recognizing the cheap rookie who stiffed him. I pulled out a twenty and a fiver. Put them on the bar. He walked over grabbing a large glass from underneath the bar. Without a word, he dropped in ice cubes, then five shots of vodka, then the fresh squeezed juice, then the finale, the perfectly cut, powder coated wedge of orange.
He placed the drink on a coaster in front of me. Grabbed both bills off the bar. No fooling around with the cheap rookie. This time, he was taking his tip. The tender drifted off, looking after other customers.
The porno was rocking on the big screens. Most of the patrons were over forty. Over fifty. Some over sixty. How ridiculous. Go home, you old losers. Thank god, most of them were fully clothed, but there were at least a dozen toweled men. Most of the toweled men were leashed. I checked my room key. Room one two niner.
Again? What was the probability of getting the same room?
Oh well. I wouldn’t be here long. A quick stroll through the maze to tease the horny throng, then a peek around the second floor. If Stevie wasn’t around to ‘talk’ to, I was out of here.
Why the hell did I order the drink then?
Wasting another twenty-five bucks?
I sipped at my drink and watched the throng of morons. What a bunch of screw-ups.
Hey dudes? Why not try some pussy?
Much better for you. Ask me. Look what they did for me. Look what I did for them.
I wasn’t going there again, was I?
Someone was tight up against my back, grinding against my ass.
What the hell?
I turned around. It was Stevie the fag.
Grinding against my leather ass with his leather bulge. My first instinct was to plug him in the mouth. I actually cocked my fist.
Hold on one second. I have something else for his stupid mouth.
Seeing his superior mug, why didn’t I lace him one? Would I let any other guy on the planet do this to me? Dry hump my ass? At a bar? At McDonald’s? At the grocery store?
How could I answer this question?
The answer of course, is no.
In this fag club, the answer is also yes.
This was the atmosphere, the vibe running through this place. If you came into this type of place, you either rolled with it, or you left. I wasn’t ready to leave. I didn’t get what I came for. What a sad justification for allowing a guy to rub his crotch against my ass. Don’t I know it. Good old pathetic me.
“You’re back for more he says,” smiling the conqueror’s smile.
I take a large wallop from the glass. It is already three quarters empty. I set the glass down.
“Yes. I think you owe me one.”
Stevie was eyeballing the new me. I could tell he was impressed. Two could play the leather domination game. My look was richer, cleaner and brighter, and much hotter. I could tell by the hungry stares I was getting from the crowd in the bar.
Why did stares from gay men matter one tiny iota?
They didn’t. Except in here. Confusing, I know. Damn confusing to me.
My costume was on. The role playing was on. The game was on.
The look of surprise was all over Stevie’s face.
Who’s the bitch now, Stevie boy?
Stevie picked up my drink, and tossed the rest of it back. The smarmy prick. Trying to dominate with these insignificant little actions.
“Are you in one twenty-nine again?”
How could he possibly know?
Stevie looked into my glass, empty save the orange slice and the ice cubes.
“Are you going to finish this?” he asked.
Yes I was. It was my damn drink. I fished out the orange wedge and chewed it back. Immediately my lips and tongue began to tingle. We were in tight at the bar when I felt a full out hand cover my crotch. The hand stayed, the fingers caressing and exploring. My cock leapt to attention. Holy shit.
Stevie leaned in close to my ear. He brushed his lips on my earlobe, and then pushed his tongue into my ear canal. All the while, holding onto my crotch. I was mortified.
Chills flew up and down my spine. My knees weakened. I felt sudden terror.
What if someone saw?
Someone who? Someone I knew? From home?
Couldn’t happen. Not in here. Impossible. There was nobody in this place who knew me. I was Mr. Anonymous. I left me in the car, back about an hour from this city.
Yes, everybody in the bar was watching. Think about it. Two studs in leather going at it. Of course they were watching. Every fag in the bar was watching. Wishing. Dreaming.
Did it make me feel good, being the center of attention? The center of desire? Everybody here wanting me?
“Can’t wait to get some of this,” Stevie hissed. “You look hot.”
He stepped away, relinquishing his grip. My pants were bulging, the leather stretched and shiny. I looked damn good.
“Ten minutes, your room,” Stevie smiled.
I felt disgusted and grossed out. The daytime world said, ‘Be disgusted’. This underground world said, ‘It’s the way it is’. My mind was sliding between the two worlds.
Off Stevie went, slowly making his way through the packed bar. I could see cheap and lascivious hands fondling at his ass and legs as he bumped through. The same fate awaited me. Especially with my new outfit. Especially with my thick bulge. Oh well, a small price to pay. It was time to even the score with the fag. Get some info about this god character. Tour the upstairs. Then walk away.
For sure, the prime directive was to even up with the fag. Since I couldn’t erase the despicable happening of two weeks ago, I could reverse the scenario and somehow cancel it out completely. Great logic.
Didn’t make a lot of sense, but it did make some.
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