THIRTY-ONE DAYS

CHAPTER ONE

This is certainly not the best part of the big city. Sitting in the parking lot across the street from my destination, I see nothing but dull, worn, dirty brick. The street level windows are covered in metal caging. Graffiti is sprayed here and there. The building I am interested in is two stories high and at least a hundred years old. The ground level started life as a small manufacturer, with offices and living quarters on the floor above.

The entire neighbourhood is made up of similar structures, interspersed with garbage strewn, potholed, parking lots. At one time, serious retailing in mom and pop stores occurred here. Butcher shops. Small engine repair. Leather goods. Shoe repair. Convenience goods and dry goods. At one time, serious alcohol production and bootlegging occurred here. On this exact block. Little Al Cabrezzi and Johnny Polenta. Today, it is pawn shops, massage parlors, payday loans and seedy bars. This neighbourhood is stuck in no man’s land. It is both years away from rejuvenation, and decades past its prime.

The date is January the first, the beginning of the New Year, and the time on my dashboard clock says ten p.m. Everything is closed tonight, except for the place across the street. Apparently, this place never closes. I am into my second can of beer since arriving. I feel apprehensive about the next few hours of my life, but a little buzzed at the same time. New things have always made me anxious. This thing, what I am doing here tonight, is really, really new. Life altering new.

Curiosity will probably be the death of me.

I have ventured nearly three hours from my small town. I sure as hell don’t want to stumble upon anybody I know. Not where I am going. How would I explain? I couldn’t. So it wasn’t going to happen. Three hours driving distance should be a safe buffer zone.

I look around. Vehicular traffic is almost non-existent. I have seen only a dozen cars in the past hour. The first car was a cop, and the next eleven were lone men cruising for hookers. The men were searching for the shivering ladies of the night who had been moved away from the near street corner. I did a hooker once. Actually, twice. Nasty business, but way in the past.

Everything I was seems to be in the past.

The pedestrian traffic is also pretty thin. A few folks have entered the building I am watching, though I don’t imagine this place will be busy tonight. There is no reason to be out and about. The temperature is five degrees below the freezing mark, and after all, it is New Year’s Day. Last night’s parties and consumption will have laid most of the citizenry to waste. They will be taking advantage of this annual day of recovery. For me, this makes it a good night to begin the big experiment. If I can call it an experiment.

I shake my head.

I don’t want to dwell on it.
Because this is crazy.

I finish the second beer and pinch myself on the cheek. Yes, there is a tiny bit of numbness. I haven’t consumed a drop of alcohol in six months. At least I will be a cheap date. As I mull over what I think goes on in the place across the street, I don’t yet feel ready to venture forth. I figured two beers would be enough to get me going. I have finished two Buds, and I am still firmly planted in the driver’s seat. With no intention of moving.

When I took this new challenge on, I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I now under-stand my miscalculation. Two cans of beer, and not ready to budge. This should tell me one thing. My internal sensors are correct. My internal sensors should be obeyed. I don’t need to do this. This is not right for me. Put the last four beers in the trunk and drive this car home.

Go now.

For god sakes, go.

What would change though?

Anything?

I would still be in the same boat as I was yesterday, and last week and last month and six months ago. Even eight months ago, and a year ago. Yes. One full year. One full year of frustration. Of confusion. Of second guessing. Of depression. Of self-loathing.

One full year of nothing.

Shit.

I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

A yellow taxi stops in front of the building, breaking my thought pattern. An old guy climbs out; he is probably fifty years of age. The old guy pays his fare and walks toward the entrance door.

My signal to rip open beer can number three.

The music is playing on my stereo, a ‘number one hits’ station. My car’s engine is idling and the heater is set on low. I drive a fuel efficient Toyota Camry. I am not worried about burning a little gas to stay warm.

I am not aware when a car pulls in beside me. The driver gets out and looks around. I slide down in my seat, not wanting to make eye contact. The guy is five years older than me, maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. He looks to be strong and athletic, about ten pounds past his prime. He is looking down at the ground as he scurries across the street.

I laugh to myself.

Married?

Father of small c***dren?

Well known in town?

A pillar of society?

Which one buddy?

This guy clearly does not want to be seen going in. I don’t blame him. He quickly enters the building I have been watching.

Whew. He made it.

I am still here.

In my car.

I am not even close to being ready.

I tip the third beer can to my mouth and guzzle the contents down my throat. I turn the music up louder.

Four young guys, they appear to be college k**s, are sauntering down the street. They pause in front of the building. They are hoofing on marijuana joints. Four joints, four guys. They toss the roaches in unison and enter the building. These guys aren’t hiding or scurrying. They are out and open. They are a different breed than I, a different breed than the guy who parked beside me. these college boys have bought into the program. I have not. I hoped I never would. I will definitely be a scurrier. In fact, I am seriously entertaining the thought of leaving.

Beer number four is in my hand, the tab is ripped open, and I drink. I slap at my face. Quickly, my face has gone from tiny numbness to nearly full out numbness. I crack my face once more, hard enough to leave a red mark. With the interior lights switched on, I see the red mark when I look in the rear view mirror. My face is beginning to feel stupid, similar to the aftermath of my one and only dental visit. I am not feeling drunk, but I do feel buzzed. Finally.

The music is cranked again and the bass beat is thumping. I chuckle to myself. Starting to feel a little better about all of this. I check the dashboard clock. Eleven twenty-four p.m.

Where did the hour and a half go?

I look at the last two beer cans, lonely in their plastic rings. I am thinking of taking the two cans in for backup. I feel okay to go, but I don’t know what is lurking behind the entrance door. I down the last half of beer can number four.

It is now or never time.

I take forty bucks out of my wallet and tuck the cash in my front jeans pocket. The wallet goes under the driver’s seat. I turn off the radio and pull the keys from the ignition. What the hell. I grab the last two beers and tear them from their plastic holders. I gather up the empty cans, take a deep breath and get out. Shut the car door; take a quick look both ways and behind me.
Nobody around.

Safe.

I step to the back of the car, fob the trunk and dump the empty cans in. I tuck one full can down the front of my pants and the other goes in my jacket pocket. My jacket is long enough to provide cover for the two can bulges. I close the trunk and look around again. No cars and no pedestrians. I tug my baseball cap down low over my eyes and move quickly across the street. I am scurrying, similar in movement to the guy who parked beside me. Scurrying as a rat would. Guilty. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

This was the second warning regarding the great experiment. If you have to scurry to get where you are going, you must be doing something wrong.

I already knew this, didn’t I?

I sure did.

Desperation makes you do desperate things.

I am less than thirty feet from the entrance to the brick building, moving smartly. A guy comes out of nowhere, perhaps from between the buildings, sort of cutting in front of me. What the hell?
He is taller than me, at least six foot four, slim to scrawny, and young with shaggy cut blonde hair. He is wearing tight black leather pants and black stomping boots. A white baggy tee shirt completes his look. He must be freezing.

Good timing, idiot.

I veer off and head down the street, a little discomfited. The young guy heads into my building as I pretend to window shop. I am looking at grimy, wire covered windows with nothing on display. I must look the fool.

Okay fool. Turn around, go back, and go inside.

I peek back. It is all clear.

I turn around.

Start walking.

Approaching the front door I look up and see a small sign.

The sign says, ‘House of God’.

House of God? Seriously? A little bit of blasphemy, no?

Yes, I would say, a lot of blasphemy.

Below the ‘House of God’ is another sign.

‘Members Only’.

What the…?

Members only?

Not good. This may be all for naught.





 
CHAPTER TWO


My foot catches on a heave in the sidewalk and I nearly do a face plant. I am able to right myself, but I am staggering. I am drunker than I thought. I have consumed only four beers, but the six month layoff has become a factor. My body and brain are probably counting twelve beers. This is beginning to approach the fun zone for the old me.

I take another deep breath, tug my Brewers cap lower over my eyes, and yank the door handle. I step into the brick building.

A dark, narrow hallway leads me to a caged booth. A flat counter with a pass slot juts out from the booth. Behind the caging, the booth is covered with smoked glass. I can’t see into it. I read another sign.

‘Membership Fee $20’.

I dig a twenty out of my pocket and slide it across the counter.

Why is it so dark in here? How are you supposed to conduct business?

A hand reaches out from the slot to take my money, and hesitates. I feel eyes upon me, scrutinizing.

“Are you sure you want to join this club?”

It was an older voice, belonging to somebody my father’s age. Gross.

I simply nod. I did not want to speak aloud. I thought someone might hear me and recognize my voice. How ridiculous. How paranoid. Three hours from home.

“You know what kind of club this is?”

What is with the fifty questions? Open the stupid door, and let me in.

I nod again.

Silence.

More silence.

This is going to require a verbal answer, I deduce.

“Yes,” I respond.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

Seriously? Are you k**ding?

I knew this was the ‘House of God’, or whatever they called it, but come on. It was no church in there, behind door number one.

“Yes,” I answer. “Two beers.”

The almighty wizard must have ruled in my favor. His hand took my money and then slid out a sheet of paper, with a pen. I looked at the paper. Barely legible in the darkness.

‘Requirements for Membership’.

Name.

Address.

Phone number.

Email.

No way was I going to do this.

The mind reader behind the smoked glass window saved the day.

“Make something up. Tax rules and all. We are a private club.”

I quickly filled in ‘Dave Watson’ and an equally bullshit address, phone number and Email. I pushed the pen and paper back. A pause. The paper was returned to me.

“Read the last paragraph and sign below it.”

I picked up the paper and read. Tried to anyway. It was dark, and the four beers were playing with my vision. I narrowed my eyes.

‘I absolve the club and any of its members from…blah, blah, blah’.

Eight lines of waivers. Blurring as my brain swam in the four beers.

Whatever.

I signed Dave Watson’s name and returned the paper.

I heard a buzzing sound. An inside door had been unlocked. The door was on my right hand side. I could barely see the outline of the door frame in the dark hallway. I felt for and found the knob, turned and pushed on in.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the heat, humidity and sickly sweet odor. The guy who took my money passed me a key and a towel. He smiled at me, a welcome of some sort, I suppose. The guy was thin, gaunt and ugly, had a wispy pony tail, and was older than my dad. Grandpa comes to mind.

“Rooms are at the back, rookie,” he says.

Rookie. Right. As if this is a locker room full of athletes. More likely, a room full of ass-holes. I grab my key and towel, nod and walk on, passing a long bar. The bar is empty, save the bartender. There are guys sitting at small tables, drinking. Some of the guys are fully clothed; some of them are wearing towels. Seeing the towel men is not a happy development.

A couple of ninety inch flat panels are playing a basketball game. Lakers versus somebody. These guys obviously enjoy watching sports. Which I find a little weird. Because I enjoy watching sports. Drinking beer and watching sports with my buddies. No different to what is going on in here. Also, I could see a pool table, a foosball table, shuffleboard, a dart board, vintage pinball games and sit-down Pac man tables.

The place reminded me of the old Colony Bar at home. It was where I took my first drink. The Colony divided the men and women into separate rooms. The place was always packed. The ‘Men Only’ room meant no women to fight over, no jealousies, none of the competition bullshit. It was men and sports, and men and drink. Simple, peaceful, quiet. A relic of the past.

I put my head back down and keep walking, coming to an open doorway at the end of the barroom. I look at my room key and am able to see the number, one twenty-nine. I exit the bar and enter a series of hallways. Immediately, thumping dance music fills the air. The hallways are dimly lit with red L.E.D. lighting. Some sort of attempt at ambience. This part of the club resembles a hotel. Plenty of doors with numbers.

I follow the numbers down a corridor, make a left, then a right and head deeper into the building. I keep moving, scanning the doors. Some of the doors are cracked open. Some of the doors are wide open. There are single men in these open door rooms. Sitting on small cots or lying down flat. Some of the guys are ass down. Some are ass up. Most all of these guys are completely naked, the small white towels cast aside. Not the same civilized scene as the guys drinking beer and watching the basketball out front.

As I move further in, there is man traffic in the hallways. I have to squeeze by two forty year old guys, having a serious close chat. An ancient guy drifts out of a doorway, gawking at me, smiling as I pass. How disgusting. Other males drift into and out of the rooms, using the hallway to get around some sort of maze. Finally I see my number on a door. I am at the dead end of a hallway, middle door, with a room on each side of me. The doors on these other rooms read one twenty-eight and one thirty. I quickly key my door and step in. I close the door behind me.

Well, I made it. So far so good. Kind of nasty though, so far.

My eyes accustom to the small room. The room is about seven feet long and five feet wide. The entire room is mirrored. All of the walls and the back of the door are covered. As is the ceiling. Mirror, mirror on the wall, I bet you have truly seen it all. I bet.

Against a side wall is a cot, about three feet across. There is a small locker bolted to the end wall above a night table. I toggle a light switch on the wall. The light rises up to a screaming intensity. I can see a plastic bowl full of colored condoms and mini lube sticks.

Christ.

Lovely, isn’t it?

The light is blasting off every mirror surface, seemingly intensifying. It must be like this inside a microwave oven. I toggle the light back down, dropping the wattage lower and lower, setting the mood. What the hell am I talking about, setting the mood? I think I need way more alcohol than these first four beers.

I toggle the lights off. Pull the two beers out of my clothing. Set them on the night table. Take my jacket off and toss it on the night table as well. Pop the top off one of the cans and begin to sip. I relax back on the cot with my head against the wall. I notice a red light on the ceiling, directly above me. It must be a smoke detector. No way would there be cameras in here. Cameras would be i*****l. A serious, nasty breach of privacy. I think some amendment covers this.

A few minutes pass and I hear the door next to mine open, and then close. A patron has entered. The light is turned on because I see bright laser beams of white poring through the wall into my room. I can see perfect circles cut in the wall. The circles are at various heights and range from peephole size to three inches in diameter. Holy shit. Peepholes and glory holes.

Quietly, I shift on the bed, slipping my eye to the nearest peephole. I carefully run my finger against the edge of the nearest three inch hole. It is smooth and polished. No jagged edges. I can see into the next room. A hulk of a man is undressing. His shirt comes off first. The guy is about five foot six in height, and easily, two hundred pounds of steroid enhanced muscle. The guy is a tank. A pit bull. Shaved head, massive gold stretcher rings in each ear. His upper back is heavily inked. As is his lower back. Great. A guy with a tramp stamp.

I sip more beer and continue watching. The guy drops his jeans, and then peels off his gitch. Gross. Completely naked. He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist. Then he reaches for something out of view. When his hand comes back he is grasping what appears to be a dog leash. The leash is a black leather strap with a loop handle at one end, and a metal clasp at the other. He wraps the leash around his wrist and exits the room. Before the door closes, he snaps off the light. The bright white laser beams die.

For a second I am blind, as my room is back to near full dark. When my eyes accustom, I notice a leash and a collar are hanging on the end wall beside my locker. What the hell are these things for? Does every room have them? I slide empty beer can number five into the locker and pop number six. Might as well go for the soda. I take a big gulp from can number six and set it down on the end table.

My fingers run off and begin to touch the collar. I lift it off the hook and bring it close. The collar is black, heavy leather, about an inch in diameter, and covered with pyramid shaped metal studs. I finger the leash. It is of the same heavy material as the collar. Weird stuff, for sure. I let go of the leash. Stand up in front of the mirror, loosen my shirt and wrap the collar around my neck.

Looks good.

I cinch the collar. I hear it click.

Feels good too.

Illicit.

Dangerous.

Makes me a gambler.

Or an idiot.

I am not wearing this thing. No chance. Too fruity.

I try to unsnap the collar. Nothing happens. I twist the collar around on my neck, bringing the back to the front. I toggle up the light and look at the mirror, trying to decipher the hasp and lock system. I tug and twist and pinch at the collar but it won’t open. I stand as close to the mirror as I can. My stupid eyesight is blurry; the beers are catching up with me. I can see a slot on the collar hasp. A key of some sort will be required to open the damn thing. Shit sakes.
I have my first souvenir from the House of God.





 
CHAPTER THREE


My descent into this squalid, underground world was the inadvertent outcome of a seed planted thirteen months ago. Actually, thirteen months and one week ago. It was me and my best buddies at the Double Eagle Bar and Grill. The last week of November. Chilling, drinking beer, eating nachos, onion rings and pizza. Talking about chicks and shit. Eyeballing the different sports on the TV screens. One of the boys had read on the net about a guy in California who had banged thirty different chicks in thirty nights. A world record the guy claimed. Wow. We were all impressed. Because we thought we were all that, and more. We were. Good looking, well built, young, with decent jobs and our own places.

What’s not to love, right ladies?

We were all players. We usually had girlfriends, but we would still bang anything we de-sired. The local chicks knew this, and went out of their way to offer themselves up when one of us was dating. Got to love the girls and their support for one another.

I was the king of our group. Always, with one more chick or one more score than the next guy. I held our own private record, the legendary six chicks in one night. Granted, it had been a pretty wild house party, but with this kind of accomplishment already in the books, what could I do next?
My posse and I were intrigued at this new world chick fuck record. If it was even true. There was a lot of bullshit on the internet.

Didn’t matter if it was true or not, our interest had been piqued. Damn, if one of us or all of us weren’t going to make this happen. We clink beer bottles together as the Four Amigos decide to take on the challenge. The first day of December was going to be the start date for our record attempt. It was to be on the honor system, as we couldn’t figure out how to get video documentation of so many conquests without being caught by some angry bird. An angry bird combined with today’s social media could quickly spell the end of our little adventure. No, the honor system and juicy details would suffice to document the journey.

Danny, the youngest of our gang at twenty-three, crapped out on night one. His girlfriend of two weeks was on the rags and would not put out. His pre-planned, easy, first night mark proved to be his downfall. Was he ever pissed. He dumped the poor girl the next day. Or tried to. Long story there. Long, ugly story.

Rico, the oldest of our gang at twenty-seven, fell next, on night number two. He actually got to bang his current girlfriend on night one, the easy bang Danny missed. Rico was forced to work a double shift at the General Motors plant on night two. Because Rico’s second shift ended at eleven p.m., and it was a Sunday, he was screwed. Twenty minutes to shower and change, thirty minutes to drive home, leaving him ten minutes to score. It was the fat waitress at the pizza joint in the back room at one minute to midnight, or it was nothing. Rico reluctantly chose nothing. Rico was loud, Latino and proud. He was not going to lower his standards. His girlfriend was gorgeous, probably a nine out of ten. He was used to soaring as an eagle. No way was he going to muddle around in the hen house. After all, there were no prizes up for grabs, no money and no trophies to be won. The drive to succeed on this mission rested solely with the desire of each individual participant.

Donny was the next member of the gang to fall. Donny actually made it to week two. Seven days of week one, plus one day of week two. Eight different chicks in eight days. Pretty impressive. Incredibly impressive, actually.

Banging eight chicks on eight consecutive weekends was impressive for most guys. Out of reach, for most guys. I could screw at this rate for ten years straight without blinking. Twenty years. Hell, probably for the rest of my life.

However, eight different girls in eight straight twenty-four hour time segments was something else entirely. Unless you dropped your standards into the toilet, or you lived on a commune. We know why those bastards ran the communes. Everyone I had seen in the news had a leader who fucked like a bunny. Naïve, silly girls looking for pure love or dirt farming communism. Finding an old man’s dick waiting for them.

Poor stupid girls.

Poor little bunny rabbits, being tainted with the questionable reputation of fuck bandits.

As a young stud, I had commitments taking time, energy and resources from my day. There were full time job commitments, buddy commitments, family commitments, eating and sleeping commitments, wasting time by playing video game commitments. Grocery store, gym and workout commitments. Sports on TV, banking, shopping at the mall and all kinds of other commitments. Life commitments, you could say. As I would find out over the course of those thirty-one days, the consistency required to break this world chick fuck record would become an enormous draw on my life skills.

With Donny falling after night eight, I had to go it alone.

Alone I went, on my journey to fun, fame and fucking.

And something far worse.

This place I was now in.





 
CHAPTER FOUR


I adjust my shirt to cover the collar and sit back down on the cot. The music is thumping away nonstop. The music is loud enough to mask any sound made in this room. By the way, why exactly do they call this place the House of God? I’ve got to find somebody and ask. The curious thing, again. I should have checked this place out a little more carefully on the internet. I pick up the beer can, but it is empty. I don’t remember finishing it. I do the face check. Yes, nice and numb. It is time to explore.

Before I can get going, someone enters the room on the other side of me. The light switches on and is immediately toggled down. In the brief instance the light was on, I could see a similar set of holes neatly set in the mirrored wall. Holes to my left, holes to my right. Fabulous. I can hear a bustling tight up against the wall, but can’t see anything. Somebody is doing something in there. I shouldn’t be staring, but I am. Something black is being pushed up against a three inch diameter hole, at crotch level.

I stare harder. Black pants. Somebody is dry humping the hole in the wall. Great. The freak show has begun. I can see a metal zipper. Pressing into the hole. A long finger caresses the zipper, finding the metal tab. Slowly, as if in a strip tease act, the finger begins to tug the zipper down. The zipper slides back up and the finger disappears. The black bulge remains at the hole.
Time for me to go. For sure, I am not yet ready for prime time.

I stand up from the bed, ready to exit my room. As I move past the hole in the wall, for some stupid reason, my fingers run over the mirror surface. I try to stop, but my fingers keep going. Heading towards the three inch circle and the black bulge. My fingers arrive. Hesitate. Technically, the bulge is in my space, my room. I can do anything I want to it. Smash it, slice it, or kick it.

Ignore it.

Instead, I press my fingers against the bulge. A chill thrill runs though me. The material covering the bulge isn’t jeans, or cords. It is something else. Vinyl, or leather. With packed heat behind it. How wrong. This reminds me of stealing a pack of baseball cards from the corner store as a k**. You know you shouldn’t do it, but what the heck, you do it anyway. You don’t need the cards or want the cards; you do it for the thrill. Will you get caught? Or are you clever enough to pull it off?

I am clever enough to pull it off. I remove my fingers.

The door closes behind me, leaving some anonymous Romeo wanting. I shiver. What exactly was underneath the black leather bulge? My mind is spinning as I digest the last three seconds of my life.

Besides the thumping, new age dance music assaulting my ears, I smell incense and marijuana and chemicals I can’t identify. I am trying to find my way back to the bar. I will start there. Or, walk right out the front door, get in the car and drive home. Certainly what I should do. I know I have problems, but can this be the answer?

Of course I make a couple of wrong turns, this place is truly a maze. I run into a few dead ends. Single men are drifting around, aimlessly looking for, for what? Companionship?

I am a little wobbly on my feet. Physically, I feel somewhat drunk. Mentally, I don’t. Not at all. Because of what I have seen thus far. Old men. Men in towels. Men with tramp stamps. Leashes and collars. Zippers being pulled down.

At the end of a main hallway, I find a wide set of stairs going up. A sign on the wall says ‘Bath Attire Only Beyond This Point’. Beside the sign is a cartoon picture of a naked dude wrapped in a bath towel. There is a similar set of stairs going down but it is roped off. An ‘Employees Only’ sign is hanging on the rope.

I will hit the bar first, before I try the second floor.

My head is down, especially when passing towel clad males coming towards me. I am still in fear of running into someone I know. Pretty lame, dude. Nobody I know would frequent this type of place. Nobody. I need to relax and go with the flow.

Finally, I find the bar.

I put a twenty on the flat surface and ask the tender how much vodka my note will buy. He holds up five fingers, which he strangely turns into a fist, and does a silly upwards pumping motion. Okay, I say to myself, whatever dude. Give me the damn juice. The bartender lays a paper circle on the counter in front of me. Sets down a large glass. Pumps five shots into the glass from the vodka bottle. Uses a metal scoop to drop in ice cubes. Holds up an orange juice carton. I nod; he pours the juice until the ice cubes are floating even with the rim of the glass. Drops in a straw, stirs and scoops up my twenty. He is standing there, as if the transaction is not quite finished.

I have not tipped the guy. Oops. I have money out in the car, but not another red cent in my pocket. If I leave now to retrieve the cash from my car, I will never come back. I will lose out on my twenty dollar drink, my twenty dollar entrance fee, and whatever else was coming my way.
I don’t give a crap if I tip the bartender or not. He isn’t my buddy and I don’t plan on being a repeat customer. No, I sure as hell don’t.

The guy is standing there. Waiting. Or thinking. Actually, to me it seems as if he is plotting.

What? Who knows? Is he somewhat pissed?

The bartender picks up a set of silver tongs and grasps a fresh orange slice. He dips the slice into a bowl of white powder he has brought up from under the bar. The powder looks to be sugar, or faux sugar. He drops the slice into the top of my drink, then uses the tongs to push it carefully below the ice cubes. The booze does not overflow the rim. I feel a little sheepish. The guy is obviously an excellent bartender.

Finally, the barkeep slides away and I can tell he is a tad miffed. Cheap prick, he is probably thinking. Cheap rookie prick. Oh well. Move on with your life.

The drink tastes good. No, the drink tastes excellent. I pick up my glass and leave the bar. Probably better not to be in the ‘no tip’ bartender’s face. I grab a seat at an empty table beneath one of the flat screens. It is the Lakers. Awesome. Against the Clippers. More awesome. Bryant and Nash and Gasol and Superman teaming up against the k**, Blake Griffin. This flat screen is amazing. I have never seen one this big. The players are life size. It would almost be worth coming here to simply watch the TV.

I take another sip of my super screwdriver. Wow. Powerful stuff. Fresh tasting, what with the quality orange juice and the sugared up slice. I calculate in my mind. Five shots. Times one and a half ounces. Equals seven and a half ounces of alcohol. Plus six cans of beer. Makes an awful lot of alcohol for someone who hasn’t had a drop in six months. It’s a good thing I booked a cheap motel eight blocks over. I am certainly going to need to lay low tonight. No driving for this dude.
The third quarter of the game has ended. After four small sips I feel brave enough to look around. The numbing in my face is spreading to my brain. I am beginning to relax. There are at least twenty guys in the room. More than I counted when I passed through the first time. At least half of them are wearing towels. Only towels. Most of them are watching the game or shooting the shit. A couple of them look to be flirting. No, let’s be honest. They are fondling each other under the table.

For Christ sake.

Stupid towel men.

I find a clock on the wall. It is midnight. Wow, time is flying by. When you are having fun. Well, the game is good. In fact, the game is excellent. Especially on this magnificent giant screen. Especially when you are feeling this hammered. Yes, it almost seems as if I am sniggering again, back home at the Colony, watching the Brewers or Hawks on those small TV’s. The place appears to be a normal bar full of normal dudes doing normal dude stuff.

Except.

Except for the flirters and the fondlers. In their towels.

I give my head a shake. This bar is far from normal.

The chair beside me is whisked out and a guy sits down. I am startled. I didn’t see anyone coming. I didn’t want company. At least not yet. Not until the experiment started. If it ever would. There is not much chance this experiment will get off the ground. Much less chance than there was an hour ago, anyway. The chances were weakening by the moment; despite the fact the booze was doing its job. Because it was awfully disgusting, the truth of this place.

The newcomer is young. He is tall. Shit, it’s the guy who came out from between the buildings. He must be eighteen or nineteen. Perhaps another college k**. His appearance, his build, everything about him screams ‘fag’. What screams ‘fag’ the most are his thick girly lips and fine features. His lips were almost glittering.

Was he wearing some kind of gloss?

The k** is easily six four. He can’t weigh any more than a hundred and forty pounds. His legs look long, but the thick heels on his boots were amplifying things. The boots are Nazi storm trooper wear, the kind of boots skinheads stomp fags with. His hair is thick and shaggy, falling down over his face. He is wearing a dirty white tee shirt, making him appear skinnier, if possible. The sprayed on, tight leather pants also scream ‘faggot’. The pants look custom molded to the guy, as if he wore them every day and everywhere.

Wait a minute.

Was this the guy who was dry humping my wall? Leather pants Romeo?

I hope not.

“What’s the score?” he pipes up.

Girl’s voice. Kind of. Though, he is only a k**.

Was he talking to me?

I guess he was. No one else was at the table.

“Clippers by six,” I answer. “Fourth quarter starting.”

There. I talked to one of them. Now buzz off.


He didn’t budge. Didn’t appear as if he was going anywhere.

I thought, not so bad, was it? Despite the fact he looked different and…never mind.

The guy was staring at my neck. What was he looking at?

Shit. My hand went to the collar I forgot I had put on. What an idiot I was. A look of incredulity formed on the k**’s face. I felt it had something to do with the stupid collar. I adjusted my shirt to cover the damn thing and picked up my drink. A nice long pull.

“What’s your story?” the fag asks.

Christ. Is he talking to me again?

“What’s my story?” I respond. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s quite obvious you aren’t gay. My Straight-Dar is flashing, big time. Are you married and not getting laid? Or dating and not getting laid? Did you lose a bet? Do you think you can waltz into this kind of place and get an anonymous blowjob because your old lady is on the rags? Are you tired of jerking off solo? What’s your story?”

What was with the fifty questions in this place? First at the door, now here.

“’I’m having a drink. Taking it easy. Didn’t know it was against the law.”

The fag is eyeballing me. Sizing me up for something? The same look the bartender had.

“Well, be careful. I bet you don’t have a clue what goes on in this House.”

The fag pauses.

“And welcome.”

He sticks out his hand.

“I’m Stevie.”

Since I am well on my way to drunken land, I stick out my hand. It’s a bar after all.

“Der…David,” I correct myself.

Fuck sakes.

No need to spit out my real name in this place.

We shake hands.

“Nice to meet you, David.”

The fag is smiling. He can see through my charade.

“Don’t worry. Nobody uses their real name in this place. Because this place is not real. If you stick around long enough, you will find out. Shit, be careful though.”

Unexpectedly, a third member joins our party.

What is this, the social table?

It is the guy who pulled into the parking lot beside me. The scurrier. He plops down into a chair. I look at him. He is wearing two things. A towel around his waist, and a collar around his neck. Great. The third guy at this table with a collar on. Because Stevie, or whatever his name is, is also wearing a collar.

The collar gang.

The new guy looks totally messed up. d**g messed up. He wasn’t messed up when he walked across the street. When he scurried across the street.

“Who’s the newbie?” he slurs to Stevie Leather Pants.

“This is Dave. Dave, this is Mentor.”

What was this idiot’s name? Mentor?

I didn’t want to shake hands with the towel man, but not to be rude, I did anyway. Mentor. What a stupid name. Since it was a fake name, why not go for it? I was already thinking of changing my fake name to something else. Mentor sounded better than Dave. Or Stevie. Stevie Nicks? Why not. He was almost a girl, with the features and hair and pants and high heeled boots. Whatever.

I looked hard at this Mentor dude. He had the bobble head thing going on. His pupils were dilated. Yes, he was stoned on something good. Or bad. Only the night would tell for Mentor Man.

I sipped some more on my drink. Thinking.

“What did you mean by me being careful?” I ask Leather Pants Stevie Nicks.

I saw his eyes perk up, spying something behind me.

“You watch.”

Suddenly, the huge, tattooed pit bull of a man from the room next to mine, blustered into the bar area. He was heading straight for our table. A man on a mission. His heavy feet fell as he stepped smartly. He stopped behind Mentor’s chair and snapped a leash around the stoned one’s neck. Yanked the idiot to his feet. Pit Bull growled something incomprehensible into Mentor’s ear, and began dragging him back towards the hallway maze.

WTF was that all about!

Nobody else in the room batted an eye. Only me. The rookie.

Did…? Was I seeing…?

Nobody cared?

I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. No, I sure as hell wasn’t.

“What I meant about being careful. The little collar you are wearing. It means you are available to be leashed.”

What did he mean? Leashed?

“If you get leashed in this place, you’re at the mercy of your master. Not a position you want to be in as a rookie.”

Stevie seemed to be thinking.

“Actually, not a position you want to be in, regardless of your experience. Some of the nut jobs who come in here are pretty sick.”

Jesus. No k**ding.

The Pit Bull was easily yanking the Mentor Man, rag-dolling him. Mentor Man was bigger than me.

Shit.

Were there bigger Leash Men around than Pit Bull?

What was going to happen to Mentor Man, back there in the maze?

Was he on his way to see God?

I look at my drink. It is empty, save the ice cubes and the orange slice. Using the straw, I twirl the orange slice around in my glass.

“Are you going to eat your slice?” Leather Pants Stevie asks.

Yes, I think I will. Since I paid for it. With no tip, of course. I fish the orange slice out and suck back the meaty fruit. I drop the perfect circle of cleaned peel back into the glass.

Immediately, my tongue feels numb. Novocain numb.

The game is over on the big screen. The lights in the bar have dimmed. I didn’t notice it happening. I look around the room. It’s mostly empty. The guys have headed back into the maze. They are ready to shed their ‘normal sports guys’ skins, for something entirely different. The smart ones are heading for the highway, knowing the Pit Bull is on the prowl.

There are two guys necking on the big screen. Shit. They are life size, as were the basketball players. I got it. The game is over, it is late, and it is time for porn. Both guys on the screen are young and strapping, and shirtless. Bad actors. Disgusting behavior. My face is an open book.
Stevie has been watching my reaction to the porn.

“I don’t think you belong here,” he interrupts.

I look at him. He is looking at his watch. As if timing something. Or letting time pass for something to happen. What, I had no clue.

“Why don’t you head back to your room. I will meet you there and help you with the collar. You need a key to remove it. The thing will beep if you try to wear it out of here, and then you will really be the center of attention.”

Made sense to me. I stand up to go. I am shaky on my feet. Six cans of beer and seven point five ounces of vodka. After a six month layoff. My tongue, my lips and my throat are tingling as well. From the orange slice.

“By the way,” I ask, “What is this House of God all about?”

Stevie the fag is looking at me, contemplating the question.

“You know what? If you ever decide to come back to this place, I will tell you all about it. For now, it’s starting to heat up in here. You should get the hell out while you can. You’re in room one two niner, right? See you there in ten minutes.”
 
 
CHAPTER FIVE


Saturday. Time for kickoff. Inauguration night for the big sex quest. Our regular bar, the Double Eagle, was packed and I didn’t have to work until Monday morning. I planned on getting a double to start this little competition with a bang. One before midnight. One after midnight.

Our town was indeed a hick town, but it was party bar central for a large geographic area. We had nine decent pickup bars to choose from. Country, rock and roll, dance, metal, a cougar bar, everything in between, and most of them were jumping from Thursday to Saturday.

My first pick was Lisa. I did Lisa back in grade twelve. Fumbling, awkward exploratory, useless sex. Teen sex. Stupid sex. She wasn’t much to look at back then, but she had morphed into something much better over the past seven years. Medium height, medium looks, but a stone killer curvy body. A combo I found attractive, because medium look chicks always put out more than the super hotties. Most super hotties were on the lazy side. Their looks had propelled them through their entire lives. Effort was foreign to them. Even in the bedroom. They expected pampering, and caressing, and wooing, and people telling them how pretty they were.

Lisa was wearing a tight sweater, short skirt and nice, expensive, brown boots. I always loved the boots and the heels. Any kind of high footwear. The high heels tried to say control, power, confidence, decisiveness. Chick psyche. The high heels actually said something else. Off balance, tottering, adventurous, out of control, not responsible for what comes next. Guy psyche. There could be nothing hotter than a teacher or librarian wearing five inch spikes.

On the attractiveness scale, Lisa was a solid six. Actually, tonight I am going to give her a six point five. For the body and the boots. She had always been a super nice girl, and was currently working the classy chick angle. Good effort all around.

Lisa had been gnawing at the bone ever since graduation to revisit the magical, cherry popping night. She carried a torch for me because I was her first. I knew I could take advantage and cash my chips with Lisa. I was already scouting ahead for number two. I would take my time with number two, have some fun. I had a damn good idea who number two was going to be.

A few beers for me, a few drinks for Lisa, lots of small talk about the good old days. Her fire rekindled quickly. We were sitting on my couch at thirty minutes before midnight. The usual petting and groping, me keeping an eye on the clock. At a quarter to midnight we snuggled back into my bedroom to do the deed. It was fun and sweaty and good, it was straight forward, and it was done. As I blew my load into her, a number ticked off in my head. The number was one. What a strange sensation.

Check. One up, one down. Thirty to go.

This was going to be no problem.

The clock on the bedside table ticked past midnight. Sorry honey, no time for small talk or cuddling. We will talk about ‘getting back together’, or ‘hooking up again’, later. Much later. You have no idea what you have become a part of.

Welcome to the legend.

The legend of me.

It was time to grab number two. I drove Lisa home. She wanted to kiss and hug and kiss some more. Wow. Let it go girl. There won’t be a ring exchange any time soon.

After dropping Lisa at her place, I returned to the bar. The boys and girls had continued their steady drinking.

Why wouldn’t they?

They were all there to get laid.

Number two was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Number two had arrived at the bar with Lisa, and was in fact, one of her best friends. Love the best friends. I was excited about this one. Jenna was her name. Tall, skinny, freckled, long hair dyed black. The black hair had crazy red flaming tips. Again, not a pretty girl, probably a six, and no tits, so she would be a definite tiger in the sack.

Surfboard chicks always made up for their sad chests with effort. They either loved to eat dick, or they were fuck pigs. I was gunning for the fuck pig angle. Jenna wore tight, faded low rider jeans, a perfect showcase for her perfect ass. Those small tits were hidden under a half tee shirt, her white flat belly showed below. Some kind of belly button jewelry was attached to her navel. The jewelry was probably bigger than her tits. Jenna was a no brainer. My cock was already hungry. I was going to split this skinny bitch in two.

By one in the morning, Jenna was back at my place, on the same couch Lisa had been on. I felt about one second of guilt, as I smelled Lisa and our sex all over the condo.

You know what?

Jenna could probably smell it too. She wasn’t retarded.

Jenna and Lisa were buddies. They wouldn’t screw each other over a guy, would they?

Of course they would. Because Jenna watched Lisa and I walk out of the bar, sixty minutes ago.

A happy thought ran through my mind. A double.

What if I did a double? How would it count?

I smiled to myself. I would nail down a double on this quest, for the hell of it.

Back to Jenna. Since I was getting an early start on number two, and would be off duty until Monday, I will give Jenna something to remember. After the prerequisite necking and fondling on the couch, I managed to peel those skin tight jeans off her ass. Looking at her teeny, tiny, almost not there panties, my knees weakened and down I went. I tore the panties off, shredding them onto the floor. My legendary tongue worked the poor girl into a frenzy; she was panting and begging, a true dog.

Isn’t ‘Fuck me please’ the best line ever?

When a guy hears those words coming out of a chick’s mouth, it is our call to duty.

I turned the dripping Jenna around, pushed her down onto the couch, onto her knees. Ass out. Facing away from me. Remember, she wasn’t a pretty girl. She threw her hands up on the back rest, knowing what was coming. I pulled out my rock hard dick and fed her doggy style, slowly at first, then slamming her over the couch. Of course, negligent me, I had completely forgotten to close my living room curtains, and a single light burned on an end table. Bad, bad me. The picture of me fucking her was perfectly framed by the bare window. A couple of passersby on the street were thoroughly enjoying the show.

I didn’t mind.

The voyeurism was something I was beginning to get into. I had contemplated setting up video cameras in the living room and bedroom. One day I would see this through. I couldn’t think of anything hotter than watching myself in the sex act. Sweating, straining, popping musculature all over, my thick, gorgeous cock in all its glory. Wow, too much.

Then I could pause, rewind, freeze frame it all. Grabbing handfuls of these girls hair, slapping their asses, pounding their pussies, folding them up into pretzels and bringing the hammer down. Yes indeed, this would make for some fantastic porn. Only, it wouldn’t be stoned chicks and boring actors.

It would be real. It would be me.

Anyhow, super ass, skinny Jenna was number two.

Check. Two up, two down. This was too easy. It was only one thirty in the morning. I had the rest of this Sunday off to refill my balls. Tomorrow was Monday. The Wing Hut Bar and Grill would be hopping with thirty cent wings and pitchers of beer. Lots of guys would be eating and drinking, lots of girls following the guys. Number three should be no problem. I wonder how the other boys are doing, on this inaugural night of our mission.





 
CHAPTER SIX


I nodded my agreement.

“Ten minutes then,” I say and begin to move away from the table.

How did Stevie know what room I was in?

It must have been him shoving his crotch through the hole in the wall. Christ. I had my fingers on his crotch. Talk about embarrassing.

I am out of the bar room and back into the maze. I am trying to follow the numbers on the directional signs. The hallways are thick with men. I must rub against them as I pass. All of the men have white towels wrapped around them. Not all of them. Some of them are buck naked. I work hard to avoid looking at these creatures.

A lot of pot is being smoked. A lot of pot. I am getting stoned by just being in these hallways. Above the music, I can hear rutting and moaning behind some of the closed doors. Slurping and lip smacking. Exaggerated sounds, as if a show is being put on. A show, mocking those men in the hallway who aren’t ‘getting any’. Who aren’t good enough. Who aren’t hot enough. Same crap as the regular world. These sounds are ugly when a female isn’t present. I wince at the thought of these old bastards lip smacking each other. Disgusting. As Stevie said, the action is heating up.

A few errant hands brush against my crotch and ass as I continue to work through the maze. Kind of, ‘excuse me for touching, but these hallways are extremely narrow’. I wanted to drill some of these bastards. All of these bastards. Probably not the right place to do it. Definitely, me against the world in here.

Besides, these assholes are hardwired for this, they can’t help themselves. Not me. I have got to find my room, wait for my new buddy to show up, and get this stupid collar removed. Then get the hell out. This is not going to be the night, after all. There was never going to be a night, in this kind of place.

I was sure of it.

I finally find my room. I key the door and go in. Close the door behind me. Safety.

How many hands had groped my crotch and ass? Hungry, hopeful, wanton hands?

Gross.

Talk about a meat market out there. Not a comfortable sensation. I felt bad for the girls I had treated poorly. Especially the last six or ten of them. Hell, all thirty-one of them. While I am on it, most of them in my entire career. I didn’t care about their needs, did I?

I assumed I was feeding them exactly what they wanted.

What a demeaning, helpless feeling it must be, knowing the brute man pig wants a piece of you, solely for the curves of your body. Or your tits. Or your ass.

Or, my immediate situation, your pectoral muscles, or your cock, or your ass. I couldn’t imagine going down the ass road with another male. The ass road had been prevalent among my ladies. Yes, it had.

I hear tapping on my door. I can hear the tapping because the music has been turned way down. I am not sure why they would turn the music down. I would be turning it up to drown the rutting sounds of the fags. I carefully open my door, hoping it is Stevie the leather pants boy. It is. Stevie slips into my room and bumps the door shut with his ass. He toggles the light up. He is fishing in his pocket for something. He pulls out a small blue vial. It is the color of a Vick’s Vapor Rub bottle. It has a nozzle on the top. It appears to be a nasal spray of some kind.

Allergy problems? Perhaps. Who cares?

After more pocket fumbling, he finally pulls out a metal key. It must be the key to my collar.

Stevie looks at my crotch.

“Feel good to get touched out there?”

What is he talking about?

Stevie is still looking at my crotch. I look down. My crotch is bulging.

What the hell?

A full on boner is nearly bursting the front of my jeans. How uncomfortable, especially in front of this fag. I put my hands over my crotch, a pointless attempt at cover. I try to will the erection away. Concentrate. Think of something disgusting. Fat chicks, or old fags in towels. Not working, not working at all. I felt numb down there. My cock control switch has been turned off.
Stevie’s long, white fingers were on his bulge.

Why was he bulging? Was he thinking of me?

“Wanna play a bit before you go? Do you want to touch me here? Again?”

It was his crotch I had felt through the hole in the wall. The sneaky little touch of my fingers running across the mirror glass.

What was he asking?

Do I want to touch him? Is he serious?

I could only stare with confusion. I didn’t think I could speak, as the strange tingling sensation from the orange peel was confusing my mouth and tongue. I felt swollen there, as swollen as my cock.

Stevie smiled at me.

“Here, you need to relax.”

Stevie handed the nasal spray to me. I took it. In his other hand, he waved the magic key. The key to my freedom. The key to making the correct choice. The key to walking out the door, for good.

“Take a sniff. It will make you feel better. Then I will get this collar off you."

Yes, the collar. I needed the collar off. I needed to leave. A definite priority.

I was looking at the key in his hand, and the blue bottle in mine. My mind drifted. Came back. I felt tired all of a sudden. My erection seemed to be draining everything out of me. My erection felt different than it usually did. It felt wooden. Deadened. But holy crap, was my cock ever full. I stuck the bottle in my nose, pressed the pump top and inhaled. A strong smell of chemical and illicitness flooded my senses.

“Keep it in,” Stevie advised. “Suck it back, nice and deep, back into your brains.”

I did. Good. Everybody happy?

Now it’s collar time.

I handed the bottle back. The smell of the chemical was a mixture of nail polish and paint thinner. The smell had ‘headache’ written all over it. I recognized the smell from the hallways of the maze.

Stevie stepped in close. Took the bottle. Put it in his pants. He reached his hands around behind my neck to get at my collar. As he did, I sensed more blood rushing to my full cock. My cock began to throb. I swear it was throbbing through my pants. I felt pressure on my cock. I looked down. The pressure was from the bulge in Stevie’s leather pants. Our crotches were pressing against each other.

How sick? Why was he rubbing against me?

A flush of surrender flooded through my brain and body. My core temperature shot up ten degrees. My eyes glazed over as my knees began to buckle. I put my hands on Stevie’s hips for support. I was able to steady myself. I began to drift.

What was happening to me?

Stevie whispered in my ear.

“Go ahead. Feel my ass. Touch the leather. You want to.”

What?

I looked up to see what he was talking about. When I did, I could see nothing but thick, wet lips. Slick lips. Glossy lips. Girl lips. I had kissed many, many sets of similar lips. I had loved and cherished lips. Long, long ago. My hands were already moving of their own volition, coming to rest on the curve of this leathered ass. It was a nice chick’s ass. Tight and round.
My cock was engorged, pounding, as never before in my life. I pulled the ass towards me, mashing our crotches together. My cock leapt in my pants and our lips met.

We began to kiss. I felt a tongue probing. I parted my lips. The tongue snaked into my mouth, finding my own tongue. Our tongues danced and wrestled for dominance. I heard moaning. Passionate moaning, two voices. One of the voices belonged to me. I didn’t care, it felt so good. It was exaggerated moaning, similar to the moaning I had heard in the hallways. Advertising to all, I was ‘getting some’.

Fucking perverse, right?

Finally, after twelve long, interminable months, I was hot again. Hot, able and horny. Not hot, but smoking hot and good to go. Lost in this passion and unbelievable arousal. Lost in the drama of the face sucking session, not thinking of who or what I was doing.

Hands were unbuttoning my shirt. I felt fingers brushing across my nipples. I thought my cock would explode. My nipples were rock hard. Erect. My cock was rock hard. Erect. Trying to rip through my underwear and pants. Trying to break free of the clothing restraint, to punish and destroy some needing, fortunate pussy. The shirt slid down my arms, tangling at my hands. Our embrace was severed and I staggered, my knees were weak. My shirt fell to the floor, helped by Stevie.

What was happening to me?

Through my blurred vision, I could see Stevie peeling off his shirt. We were both shirtless. We could be the two guys in the porno video playing on the ninety inch screen.

Stevie was scrawny. Pale. A bone rack with black leather pants, and big black stomping boots. I loved the pants. I loved the boots. I needed to get me some of these. The chicks would dig it, big time.

Would they?

The room seemed brighter. The light must have been turned up. I could see large metal rings pierced through Stevie’s nipples.

What was with the piercings?

The shiny metal looked hot as well. I could go for this look. I knew of at least a dozen chicks who would love the piercings. At one time, anyway. A long time ago. Couldn’t be sure today.

I would hold the line on the collar I was wearing. Collars were for girls. Or dogs. Collars meant kept, as in pet. Or debased, as in slave. Or kinky girl, as in punk rocker. Or Charlene.

Why was I thinking about Charlene?

Charlene. The queen of me. The end of me. The bitch.

Forget about her, too much was happening right now, right here.

I am hard and ready. I am back. Sexy back.

Wait a second. Wasn’t something supposed to be happening to my collar?

Stevie’s hands were on my shoulders. I felt pressure, and my knees simply folded beneath me as I collapsed to the floor. His bulging crotch was mere inches from my face.

“Touch it,” he said, reaching down with his hand to take mine. “Touch it again.”

‘Touch it again’?

He knew it was me?

Of course he did. He knew what room I was in. One twenty-nine.

Stevie pulled my hand over his crotch, pressing it onto his bulge. He moved his hand away, leaving my stupid hand on the supple leather.

I couldn’t explain it. I was watching my hand rub and knead at his bulge. It was as if I was stuck in an out of body experience. My thumb and index finger found his zipper, and began to tug it down.

Why was I doing this?

Curious?

Of course.

Excited?

Couldn’t be. Not for this. Because it was totally wrong. Illicit. i*****l even, for me anyway. For my rules of engagement and code of conduct.

I fumbled up with my other hand, trying to pop the top pants button. Everything behind this button and zipper was packed tight.

What could be causing this crazy tightness?

My coordination was in question.

What was happening to me?

Why was I doing any of this?

My hands were in complete disconnect from my brain.

My cock pounded in rhythm with my skull. My body and motor functions continued to deteriorate. I heard a ripping sound. The zipper was finally down. The button was undone with a loud, popping snap. My vision swam in and out, a camera desperately trying to focus.

Why was I thinking of hot wet pussy?

Waiting behind this tight zipper and snug button?

With his long white fingers, Stevie folded the front of his pants down, exposing a long, pale cock. Capped with a heavy, purple bell. I gasped aloud. This was no pussy.

What was I expecting?

Certainly not this.

Had I not been necking with a chick, the thick soft lips and beautiful features, the hot curvy leather ass?

Every heartbeat in my chest sent energy to the shaft of my cock. Draining the rest of me, nearly completely. I tried to think, but not much was happening up there either. I no longer had any idea what was happening to me.

How could this punk have such a giant cock? How?

My hands had fallen limply to my sides, unable to push off or resist. There was not a hope I could stand up. My legs had become jelly.

I felt Stevie grasping a strong hold of my thick hair, guiding me forward, towards his bell. No way, I thought. No way am I going to…

I tried to protest but the strange numbness in my mouth and tongue would not allow words. I felt the firm heat and weight of his bell slide past my lips. Push over my tongue.

My tongue!

Holy fuck!

My cock continued to pound inexplicably, strangled in my shrinking jeans. My cock was a traitor to me, and the perversion which was being inflicted upon me.

Was the cunt from last New Year’s Eve correct, after all?

The latex bitch?

Was she?

My arms and legs and torso were dead. My numbed mouth was working. My mouth was working over his long, white shaft, without me even thinking about it. As if I had done this many times before. As if this was a natural thing. To my amazement I was sucking on his cock, sucking as a little whore would. I could taste the heat and musk of his manhood. I was thoroughly disgusted. My sucking and slobbering sounds filled my ears. Filled the room.

How mortifying?

Everybody in the building could probably hear. Especially with the stupid music turned down.

Great, I was really getting some now.

How the fuck did this happen?

Me, on my knees, shirtless, with a dog collar around my neck, sucking on a faggot’s cock.

How wrong. How debasing. How stupid was I?

I thought I was leaving. Getting the collar removed.

What happened to my simple plan? Why was my cock so hard?

My cock was drawing energy from my entire body. I was flushed. I could feel the sweat pouring off my temples, running down my back, soaking me completely.

“Now, put your hands on my ass where they belong.”

What?

Not going to happen. Never. I couldn’t tell if my hands were even attached to the ends of my arms, or if they had fallen off, let alone move them to satisfy his stupid request. Stevie released his grip on my hair as I continued sucking.

Why couldn’t I stop sucking?

He lifted my two hands to his ass. Then he returned his hand to my head. I felt him twist my hair, tugging hard, pulling my mouth deeper over his cock. His bell hit the back of my throat as he pumped at my face. My hands on his ass picked up his rhythmic movements, the movements I had used on many, many girls. Grab the bitches’ hair and pump their throats.

Stevie’s bell continued to hit at the back of my throat, bringing bile up my esophagus. I was near vomiting when his bell punched clean through my gag reflex.

My eyes flew open!

I did vomit.

Not a lot, but sour liquor and orange peel and beer flooded his cock-head as tears poured from my eyes.

He pulled completely out, leaving me gasping for air and spitting vomit.

I was thankful to get the air in.

My eyes were slits against the growing brightness in the room.

Christ sakes, was he dialing the lights up? What on earth for?

I spit and dry heaved some more. I tried to speak. To tell Stevie I had enough. I couldn’t go on with this sick gay behavior. It was over, and I was done, a terrible, terrible mistake. He had been right all along; I was definitely in the wrong place.

Stevie was supposed to remove my collar and send me packing.

Why did he have me kneeling before him, and why was he face-fucking me so badly?

My malleable, non-conforming mouth would open but not send out the words. With my mouth hanging open, Stevie must have taken this to mean I wanted more. He obliged by pushing his dripping cock back into me. He ran it deep. To the back of my throat, past my gag reflex. Into my gullet. Eight inches of white cock, topped with a thick bell. Buried to the hilt. I sensed his scratchy pubic hair on my swollen lips. Not only was I sucking my first cock, I was deep throating it.

The cock swallowing was brutal. My jaw was stretched to the limits, I heaved mightily against him, trying to expel. He ground both hands into my skull, I could feel the tearing of my hair. I tried to move my hands from his ass. My hands were not responding. Tears were pouring from my eyes, I was unable to breathe. Guttural choking sounds filled my ears.

I began to panic as stars swam in front of my eyes.

I was suffocating on his cock!

I was going under.

I felt the base of his cock begin to twitch. I heard Stevie grunt and felt the power of his thrust. The hot liquid sprayed from his bell and flew down my heaving throat. My whole body convulsed as survival instincts tried to kick in. I was both drowning and suffocating.

Mercifully, he pulled out of my throat as I heaved and spit back his cum. His cock was nowhere near done. More spurts of white liquid splashed against my open mouth and face. I felt it stinging my eyes and dripping across my nose. I finally managed to stop heaving. I started breathing.

“Clean me up,” I heard him command.

His slightly softening member was back in my mouth. Sliding over my tongue. His rigidity was waning. I tasted the disgusting cum, inhaled the disgusting cum, it was everywhere. The out of body experience continued. My mouth sucked away, my throat swallowed and most of Stevie’s load went down my obedient gullet. I felt his hands release my hair as he pulled out. The stars left my vision and I could see again.

Stevie tucked his cock back into his leather pants, zipped and buttoned himself. He lifted one of his black stomping boots and nudged my crotch. My crotch was soaked. Warm, sticky and wet. I must have blown my load into my jeans while he was shooting down my throat.

What the hell?

My pants were still full.

Had I blown my load and gone immediately hard again?

This had never happened to me before. Not with such lightning speed of recovery.

I sensed the lights dimming in the room. I opened my eyes and saw Stevie smiling down at me. In his hand he held the collar which had been around my neck. He hung it back in its place on the wall. Then he grabbed my arms and lifted me to my feet. I was pretty unsteady. He helped me shrug back into my shirt. I felt numb and mute. Totally embarrassed. Mortified. Stupid. Retarded. Pathetic.

A pathetic cocksucker.

Stevie began to button my shirt. As he did, he brushed his fingers over my nipples. I felt my knees weaken immediately.

What the hell?

Stevie continued brushing my nipples, staring into my eyes. Watching to see what I would do. I felt my cock pounding in my pants again. He lowered his face to mine. Ran his tongue over his thick lips. He leaned in and brushed his mouth against mine. I folded into myself. My mouth opened for him again, and his tongue slipped in. This time, I was able to find some strength, and I managed to push him back against the wall. My hands were back on his ass, groping, kneading and feeling him through his leather. All I could think of was girl. Girl lips. Girl leather. Girl ass. My cock thudded as our crotches ground together. Our mouths were locked in a death grip of ridiculous feral lust.

Stevie pushed me away. We were both panting. He looked surprised at my aggression. As was I.

Where did this rude passion play come from? Where?

Never mind why it had happened. Why any of tonight had happened.

Stevie smiled at me. With his big boots, and lanky frame, he was at least four inches taller.

“I think you will be coming back, after all,” he smirked.

He pulled open my door and slipped off into the dark maze, his shirt balled up in one hand. The door closed behind him, leaving me alone and strangely, feeling empty. As if there was something more to be had. A totally irrational feeling, because the only thing I wanted to do was get the hell out of here and drive to the motel.

My strength was returning, flowing back through my perspiration soaked body. Another weird sensation, because my strength had been concentrated in my cock. My cock was still thick in my pants, but not the ‘all or nothing’ feeling of the last hour. I had just shot my load, and I wasn’t sure why things remained active down there.

My vision and senses re-sharpened. I tasted the repulsive cum. Strong. Pungent. I spit and spit again, trying to clear my mouth. Crap city.

The fog was clearing rapidly. I knew exactly what I had done. I had sucked a guy’s cock. Not any guy. A scrawny, shirtless, leather pants clad, full bore faggot. Talk about wrong. A legendary pussy hound such as me? Sucking cock? I nearly dry heaved at the thought.

A worse thought?

Some of the bastard’s cum had shot down my throat. Was deep in my belly. Not some of it. Lots of it. Most of it. Jesus H. Christ.

It really was time to go.
 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN

I met Danny at The Wing Hut on Monday night. Nine p.m. sharp. Danny was holding our favorite table. As I approached I could see his scorecard on the round table top. With three empty beer bottles. A fourth in his hand. Not good. I was expecting to see two names on Danny’s scorecard. There were none.

The four Amigos were using golf scorecards to record our game. From the Wisconsin Breeze Golf and Country Club. Two cards each, eighteen holes per card. For a total of thirty-six holes. Holes. How appropriate. How many holes could we plug? How many holes-in-one could we sink? There were thirty-one days in December. Therefore, two scorecards were required. We crossed out the last five holes on card number two. They would not be needed.

I filled my card out accordingly. Hole number one, Lisa. Hole number two, Jenna. I also gave the girls their attraction rating and their sexual fun rating. We agreed to be diligent in our documentation. One needed to be careful when chasing the record.

Hole number one read Lisa, six point five for body, face, and over all attraction, and a six for fun in the sack. Hole number two read Jenna, six and six point five. I tossed my scorecard on the table for Danny to peruse. He didn’t bother. I could see his depression along with the empty bottles.

I was shocked when he admitted his failure. Was he angry. At both himself and his ex.

What? Women couldn’t fuck while they were on the rags? Says who?

Danny dumped her the next day.

Danny was the guy who brought us this big sexcapade story from the internet, and he was having a tough time grasping the fact he was already out. Day one. Day one and done. Pathetic. Of course I called him a no-fuck loser, which didn’t help matters. I bought him his next two beers and a plate of wings.

He seemed to be calming down when his ex-girlfriend walked into the place. She was a looker all right. Twenty-four years old, short to medium height, long dark hair. Nice face, small ass and small tits. About a seven, perhaps seven and a half on the scale. She looked hot tonight. Angry hot. At Danny. She was already plastered, drowning her sorrows from the big breakup.

What sorrows?

They were together for two weeks. Actually, three times total, in those two weeks. Not exactly a lifetime commitment. Especially for one of the Four Amigos.

Too bad about the rag thing though. What a bummer. Women and their stupid problems.

Whatever, not my problem.

Susie blew past our table, calling Danny an ignorant jackass or something. Danny ignored her. He was thinking. About his failure, I suppose.

I was busy doing some thinking of my own. I did some research on this supposed California sex record. The criterion was one chick for each twenty-four hour calendar day. This meant my ‘two-for’ methodology was a sound and accepted principal. One before midnight, and one after midnight. I would be doing as many doubles as I could. Maybe some triples, for the fun of it. Perhaps, I would drive the thirty-one day total through the roof. Put it out of reach for the next stud.

“Why not her?” Danny slurred.

“Who’s her?” I responded, not sure what we were talking about.

Danny spit out the words.

“Little Miss No Fuck Susie,” he answered.

I nearly chicken wing choked.

“Susie? Your girl?”

“I’m done with the bitch. She’s already toast. Go ahead and do her. If you can. You have to get by the rag thing though.”

Yes. As does she.

Wait.

What?

I shook my head out. Danny’s girl? What?

“Are you serious dude?” I questioned.

“Yep. Go for it. Do her at her place. The bitch. You don’t want her mess all over your sheets.”

I was surprised as hell, but then I wasn’t. The Amigos rolled as a team. Bros before hoes and all.
I never did a raggedy doll before, but I knew there would many firsts during the big quest.

Actually, plenty of firsts. Fat chicks. Married chicks. Siblings. Kinky stuff. Sex in cars. Sex in bars. Something. Anything. Everything. The ‘thirty-one girl in a row quest’ was bound to open up some brand new territory.

I never did an ex-girlfriend raggedly doll before. This was definitely going to be a first. Danny finished his plate of wings and stood up to leave. I stood up as well.

“Stay,” Danny said. “Tell me how it goes. Good luck. I’m out of here.”

We shook hands, he left, and I sat back down. Not stunned. Yes stunned.

What other sacrifices would be made for the cause?

I looked around the Wing Hut. The cheap pitchers were going down fast. Loud laughter and shouting and good times and the hook up game being played at full speed. Loud music covered the sports chatter from the flat screens.

I caught little Susie’s eyes across the bar. I gave her the sympathy look. She was eyeballing lonesome me, possibly wondering where Danny went. She was alone in her world. Despite her two female drinking buddies, she had lost her man and was in the vulnerable zone. I only met her once before, but I could offer her my condolences, or some such crap. Talk to her. Be there for her. Listen to her. The things a guy has to do to get laid. Later Susie, I will get back to you.

I wanted to scope the place for number four. Susie would be my Monday, my number three. I wanted to bag Tuesday as well. Right after midnight. Then get to bed. Tomorrow was another work day.

Low and behold, number four crossed through my field of vision. This waitress was new. Brand new. Shiny as a penny. She sure was. My cock sensor began to tingle. Here in our town, new was exciting. I pricked right up.

She moved in a mysterious way, the swaying, sensual walk.

Long, hard, bare legs. Nice to see in the dark, cold of winter.

Gorgeous ass.

Older than me, maybe twenty-nine or thirty. Immaculately maintained. Lots of aerobics and road work. Long blonde hair in corn rolls, beautiful face and smile. Tanned. I could watch her sling beer and wings all night. This chick was at least an eight, some might argue, an eight point five.

The age thing worked perfectly. If she was interested, she would make a quick decision and pull the trigger. I thought a little more about the older chicks, never an interest to me. The married chicks would fuck and then throw me out. To get back to their lives, their offspring and their obligations. Good for them. Good for my mission. Yes, a couple of ringed ladies would be a nice fit for me. The domestic set. There might be an attraction there, after all.

The new girl walked by my empty table. Stopped. Charlene was the name on her tag. Wow. She was good looking. The eight point five became a nine. The usual hellos and nice to meet you and chitchat and what time to you get off tonight ended with Charlene promising to drop by my place at midnight. I gave her brief directions on a napkin. As she walked away, her ass swayed a little extra for my benefit, and my head swayed with it. The nine rating turned into a ten. Yes it did.

A long, lean, rock solid ten.

It was time to move on Susie.

Susie was good and hammered; my offer to drive her home was met with such an appreciation for her wounded psyche. Nice of me, she kept repeating, ad nausea. Easy Susie, I’m not such a nice guy, as you will find out very soon. If you remember anything of this night. Which you probably won’t.

Susie was pretty when she was sober, not pretty when she was wasn’t. I will be generous and give her a seven. As the car ride began, she snuggled over beside me. Her seat belt off, the alarm beeping quietly, I simply turned the music up louder. A small hand found my thigh and began the comfort rub. Maybe she thought I was Danny. My sympathetic arm was around Susie’s shoulder, rubbing her neck, fondling her hair, showing her the way down. The zip of the zipper and the warm, wet mouth indicated Susie was already getting over her ex. Or pretending I was him.

Should have gone to hers, but back at my place, we got down to it. The rag thing made everything a lot more slippery. Her panties resembled a small diaper. Gross. Sick me for attempting this.

As I drove into her, the blood began to splatter. I didn’t mind the sensation, but the smell was overpowering. Nasty. A bleeding deer. Then the smell controlled itself, settling at a feral level. I got used to it quickly. The red on my white sheets was, different. Exotic. Dangerous.

Ten minutes later we were finished. Susie was in danger of passing out on my bed. No way, number three. Tick went the counter in my brain. You need to be stepping girl. I got her dressed, not fun; it was always better undressing them. Got her shoed up and jacketed and bundled back out to the car. I got Susie home in record time, despite her sniffling and clinging and ‘nobody loves me’ bull crap.

I needed to get back to my place for the cake. Charlene.

I checked the time. The new girl was on her way.

I blasted home, showered the raggedy girl off my crotch, stomach and legs.

Four minutes later, Charlene was at the door.

Did she ever look hot.

Her work outfit was on, except for the footwear. The work shoes were gone. Replaced with heeled ankle boots. The heel was enough to amplify every muscle and curve in her legs. My apartment once again screamed sex, bloody sex, and I cringed as I inhaled. Either she didn’t notice or she didn’t care. We didn’t make it out of the kitchen before it started. By the time we stumbled into the bedroom, she was naked, save her boots. Her boots were staying on.

I was about to shove her down onto the bed when I saw the dark stained mess from the raggedy girl. I should have listened to Danny. Taken her to her place.

The bloody sheet reminded me of a predatory kill. Me doing the killing.

I pushed Charlene into the mess and climbed on. Because I shot twenty-five minutes earlier, my cock was flushed and holding in the neutral zone. I was able to saw at Charlene for a quarter of an hour. I pulled off once to give her some tongue. Very sweet tasting. Something about matching pheromones. I could have eaten her all night, but she yanked me up by the hair. Once again the begging oozed out of a girl’s mouth.

‘Fuck me please’.

Sure babe, if you insist.

I grabbed her by the boots and folded her up. I scolded myself for not having a video system running. This Charlene was hot. Smoking hot. Fuck me senseless hot. I did. The poor girl thrashed and cried and screamed and of course, she saw god.

It was me after all. Woman’s conduit to God.

We collapsed in a heap when I blew, soaked and spent. Another cunt’s blood all over Charlene’s back. Awesome. The pussy slayer, in action.

Check.

Number four. Four up, four down.

Charlene, I could get used to. I was actually thinking of her as girlfriend material. I would love to parade her around my bar and buddy circuit. I don’t believe we scratched the surface of our mutual sexploration.

Sadly, duty would be calling me soon. There was a long way to go before taking her again. The long way being, twenty-seven more days.

Well, not necessarily.

I could get together with Charlene regardless of my quest.

She wouldn’t count any further on the scorecard, but she would always be my magic number four.



 
CHAPTER EIGHT


Two full weeks have passed since my infamous debut. The fag was right. I came back. I am in the parking lot across the street from the House of God. Slowly sipping a can of beer. I am not going to get hammered this time. I am not going to lose control of my bodily strength and functions. I am not going to be ‘servicing’ anybody tonight. I am here for redemption. For answers. To some exceedingly disturbing questions. About me. About what happened to me.

For two weeks, I have replayed in my mind, what went down on ‘the’ night. Okay. Bad choice of words. I mean, what went down, other than me. The four beers in the parking lot. The two beers I brought in. The twenty dollar, no-tip drink at the bar. Things got fuzzy then. A basketball game on a giant television screen. The Lakers and the Clippers. World Peace and Kobe Bryant. Talking to the leather pants fag in the bar. The ugly Pit Bull Man dragging the towel man with the stupid name away, at the end of a dog leash. Too unbelievable. Me, back in the small mirror room. Where the memory thing got fuzzy.

Me in the mirror room, with Stevie.

Was I actually kissing the guy? On the mouth?

Damn, he was such a girl. The lips, the face, the tongue, the shaggy hair. The ass. The leather girl ass. Suddenly, I was immobile, kneeling, and his cock was in my mouth. I was sucking on his long white cock as the sensation of separation took me away. Even now, I am separated from the ugly fact a cock was in my mouth. It wasn’t me doing it. Not the everyday me. It was the other me. The dumb-ass who was taking a walk on the wild side. This was the only way my brain could deal with it. Good thing I spent most of my life as the normal me.

Still not making sense, but making sense enough to survive this bad episode of my life. The sickest part is the domination. I recall him with fistfuls of my hair, shoving his cock down my throat. Pumping his leather ass, wearing those big black boots. I was choking, suffocating, trying to heave my guts out, trying to breathe, trying to stay alive. The salty, hot taste of his cum, staying with me for three days. What an idiot I was.

Why would I allow this?

The straight me? The sick me? Any me?

Why?

Right this second, and every single time I have thought about this over the past two weeks, my cock is stirring. It must be the domination thing, or the super submissive, punk-ass thing. I am not sure which. I know it’s not the fag thing or the gay thing. Not at all.

I have always loved chicks in tight leather pants. High boots. Lots of jewelry and bling. Wet painted lips. Big lips. Stevie had big lips. Soft, puffy lips. Girl lips. Stevie wore jewelry in his nipples.

What was with my nipples?

Never, did a nipple touch driven an erection. It certainly did two weeks ago. I jerked off twice in the last week from rubbing my own nipples. Standing in the shower. Hot water cascading down my back.

It can’t be a fag thing.

Sure.

What about the kissing?

I was kissing a fag. On the mouth. With my tongue. Moaning. Loudly. Exaggerated. The men in the hallway could hear us. With my near exploding cock. Then my cock did explode. In my pants. My cock exploded when Stevie shot into my throat. I think. I am not exactly sure, where in this scenario, my cock blew.

Stop fooling myself. I know when I came. I think about it. I have thought about it for two weeks. I came while a guy fucked my throat. Why isn’t this simple true fact, a fag thing? Because of the separation. The wall between the two worlds. As long as the two worlds don’t crossover. I would have to make sure they didn’t.

I would have to make sure the fag thing never happens again.

The last chick I tried to nail was wearing latex pants. Over a year ago. Not leather, but latex. Something hotter than leather. The spread at her crotch was legendary. Wide and tight. Shiny and black and edible.

How did this play out for me?

Not good. She was the one who sent me down this path.

I shook my head. The bitch.

I paused.

Honest to god, two weeks ago? I thought in my brain, in my mind, in my soul, I was necking with a chick.

Those puffy lips, the smooth, curvy, tight leather ass.

Definitely, a chick.

Now, here I was, back at the House of God, the return visit. Across the street, sitting in my car, dark outside, late in the evening. Watching the perverts and the desperadoes and the old chicken hawks going in. It was much busier tonight at the club and on the street outside. More vehicular traffic and more foot traffic. The convenience store next door was open, bringing people very close to the front door of the House of God. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get past those junk food buyers, and slip in unnoticed. I best pop a second beer to up the bravery level.

A lot of time crawling on the net has opened my eyes. Curiosity might end up killing this cat. The House of God is a true S & M Club. Domination. Submission. Pain. Pleasure. No holds barred. Quite hard core in fact. The leash and chain were fully explained. Pretty frightening stuff. Pretty disgusting stuff. I was lucky to get out with a load in my belly. Much worse could have happened to me. Especially in the condition I was in.

This was a lifestyle choice for these freaks? Men offering themselves up as worthless little fuck toys? Men ascending to positions of domination? Collars for the weaklings? Leashes for the masters of the universe?

One master reigning above all?

Yes, God himself held the throne in this house. Some idiot who called himself God, anyway. He was legendary in the seedy gay underbelly. There was a blurry picture of the exalted one on the internet. It showed him sitting on some kind of throne. Clad head to toe in leather and studs, his face covered in a mask, his hair long, flowing and blonde. Rumors of his gifts and powers were the subject of much chatter on the web.

I watched the pedestrian flow. I didn’t notice the convenience store on New Year’s night. It must have been closed with lights out. Not now. The place was lit up, resembling a Christmas tree. Flashing lotto ticket signage. Cigarette logos. Beer logos. Potato chip logos. Soft drink logos. I observe the riff raff going in and out. Spending dollars and quarters on junk. Flabby, unhealthy purchases by weak people. I adjust my car radio up and pop a third beer. I might have to run a gauntlet to get into the club tonight.

Speaking of weak people, how did I dissolve into such a pathetic condition two weeks ago?

How did it happen?

Granted, I consumed an awful lot of booze, and I was previously off the bottle for a long, long time.

Did the booze shock drop me into such a feeble, submissive state?

Could have.

Whenever I have gone over the line on the booze, the result has been aggression, slapping some jackass or pounding some pussy, and then straight to dreamland. None of this weak-kneed, no muscle response, swooning, submission garbage. I researched the magic blue bottle Stevie stuck in my nose. Some type of nitrate, allowing complete relaxation by thinning your serum. Apparently popular in the fag culture. You could buy hundreds of brands, styles and flavors on the net. Or in any sex shop. The tag line on the bottle was to sniff and relax. Mostly relax your ass.

Bottom line was, what the hell came over me?

I have drank twenty-four beer in the past and not fallen apart. I have pounded back shooters and whiskeys until the cows came home, and not fallen apart.

So, what gave?

I don’t know. I am here to find out. I crack my fourth can of Bud.

The original plan for tonight was to stop at two beers and head in. The lingering folk and the cigarette buyers are preventing this from happening. I am into my fourth beer because I have to get in there tonight. I have to go back into the House of God and prove something to myself. Two weeks ago was definitely, a one of.

One of those impossible synergies of not drinking, then drinking too fast, seeking drastic answers to a giant problem, and whatever else happened to be running through the cosmos. All colliding in the crazy, multi-mirrored room. Perhaps the multiple mirrored surfaces refracted enough energy to create some kind of sick wormhole.

Perhaps.

Another thread was running through all of this. The black leather pants. The bulge in the black leather pants. The touch and feel of those pants on my fingers. Mysterious. Hot. Erotic.

In fact. Look at what I am wearing tonight.

My own pair of black leather pants. Beautiful. Tailor made for my shape. The smell of them. The crackling of the skin when I pulled on the pants in the sex shop change room. The instant hard-on. The power I felt surging through me. I fully understand why Stevie the fag was so cocky. A bulge in the front of a pair of leather pants is the same as a nice, tight spread on a chick. It fans the hunger of anybody who possesses a sexual bone in their body. Same sex or opposite sex, I don’t think it matters.

Did I say that?

I did. Because leather is feral. Feral is sex. Raw, passionate, aggressive, dominating sex. One creature over another. One creature eating another. The way it has always been. The food chain, exemplified.

These magical leather pants are why I am having a tough time strapping it on and walking across the street, through the malingering junk food buyers, and pulling open the door to the House of God S & M club. This is a tough neighbourhood. I don’t need to be singled out or high-lighted as a fag. Because I am not a fag.

Remember, two Decembers ago, I nailed thirty-one chicks in thirty-one days. For sure some kind of American stud record. Probably a world record. Nothing has shown up on the net or anywhere since to eclipse my accomplishment. I know I am not a fag. No fag could achieve such a task. Ever.

Things then went off the rails.

Badly.

Barren. Nothing. Empty. Dead. Faded. Gun-less.

I am not a fag. I am not a sick, disgusting, worthless piece of twisted garbage. I am confused. I am working my way back.

By starting at a more primitive level?

I don’t know. I know things aren’t right. Haven’t been right. Haven’t been right since the last day of last year. Something is going on here, something I have to see through.

Nevertheless, strange things are not for me. Two weeks ago was an aberration. A sick aberration. I am going into this place tonight. I am going to watch the hungry creatures as they wittingly or unwittingly lose their inhibitions and succumb to the magnetic pull of my new leather hide. Then, because I am not a fag, I will leave them all hanging and walk out uns**thed, to show myself the truth. The aberration known as my last visit, will never happen again. I will not go untouched on tonight’s journey, because I know the fingers and hands will be glomming to my crotch and ass. They will not be able to help themselves. They will be sick with desire. Desire for me. I will smile, probably laugh at them, and leave.

I put the fourth beer can down. It is empty. There are two cans left from the six pack. Two shiny silver cans with clear plastic nooses around their necks. The parking lot is chock full of cars. The pleasure seekers have parked on both sides of the street in front of the club. In fact, as I crane my neck up and down the street, there are no parking spots left. The House of God is full of worshipers tonight. This reminds me, if faggot Stevie is in, first thing I am going to do is tell him to go fuck himself. Whatever was going on with me two weeks ago, he sure took advantage.
I am thinking, he owes me one.

Yes. He owes me a blow job.

To even the score.

How does this work?

It just does.

How else do you even the score when you have sucked somebody’s cock?

The answer?

He has to blow you. Simple. There is no other way. Because ‘sorry’ doesn’t work. ‘Let’s forget it happened’ doesn’t work. Beating the crap out of him doesn’t work. No, Stevie needs to blow me to erase this thing from my life. It has nothing to do with me being a fag. It simply levels the playing field. I blew him. He blows me. Negative one, plus one, equals zero. And therefore, it never happened. The math was sound.

He doesn’t need to be cruising through life with a big one-up on the straight guy. Telling his fag buddies a straight guy blew him. Building his reputation on my stupidity. Even though he is a fag, he is a guy. Guys love to brag about their conquests. And a straight guy as good looking as me, as physically imposing as me, would be an incredible, once in a lifetime conquest for a fag like Stevie. I sure didn’t need a dirty little secret in my closet. Spilling out into the world, should asshole Stevie ever walk into my life again. He didn’t need a ‘one-up’ on me.

Once he was done swallowing the meat and sucking back my juice, we would be even. Then he would tell me all about this god character. I was somewhat intrigued by this mystery. God was, after all, one of my fellow leather gang members. A legend with legendary powers.

The damn curiosity thing was running rampant within me.

To put a nice hetero punctuation on this entire situation, I might beat Stevie to near death.

Show him who the dominant one is.

Good plan.