CHAPTER FIVE

 

“Don’t go, Country. He sounds like an asshole.”

“I need the money. No one is hiring right now.”

They sat at a table at The Hole in One, a gay bar at the center of a lot of action in the gay scene. Beyond the windowless walls and blank metal door was a dim interior with a long wooden bar stretched across half the main room to the left. A few tables were arranged around the rest of the front part. Past the bar and tables stood an open room with a pool table, and beyond that an arched doorway lead to a dark room where men went to play anonymously. The interior was all bare brick and concrete, which made it marginally more tolerable than the muggy night outside. Disco music played low from a hidden sound system, but nobody ever danced. This was a place to talk, drink, play pool, and get it on.

Not that many people were. The bar was mostly empty, as were a lot of the nightlife places this summer. The heat wave seemed to suck out all the energy from people.

The place got its name from a 1920s color print of a golfer that hung behind the bar. The golfer was teeing up while wearing a cap and shirt from the period. He didn’t wear any pants, though, and had the handle of a golf club stuck up his ass. The club in his hands and the club in his ass created a perfect upside down V.

Richard had always liked this crude image. It showed that his community had a history, and that it was just as raunchy and irreverent back in the 20s as it was in the 70s. He wondered if there was a gay community a generation before in the Gilded Age of the 1880s, or even further back. Did Minutemen and Redcoats get it on when they weren’t fighting? Did the first explorers have a roll in the grass with studly Indian warriors? He’d never heard of anyone researching this stuff. Of course, the straight world would never do it. It would be nice if some gay historian would come out of the woodwork and write a history of their community.

Richard smiled at the thought. If some historian did document gay life in New York, he wondered if the guy would include a section on Richard’s epic fundraising effort in this very bar. He’d sucked off and swallowed some two hundred men here in order to raise money for the victims of the Everard Bathhouse fire. Tyrone and Richard were on the committee to distribute the funds. Luke, the owner of The Hole in One, was also on the committee and was just joining them at their table. He was a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and a gold hoop earring. Richard thought he looked like a pirate, although he doubted real pirates were big softies like Luke.

Luke brought a ledger in which they’d been keeping track of the money. Some of it had gone for medical bills, and some had gone to support the families of the nine people who had died in the fire. Richard’s giant cum fest had gathered almost 2,000 dollars and other fundraisers had brought in another $1,000. They’d done a lot of good with that money, although it couldn’t bring back those who had died.

Now they were down to their last 200 bucks and were deciding how to spend it.

Luke addressed that problem right away.

“I’ve found another victim of the fire. Heard about him through the grapevine.”

“Really? Who?”

“A guy named Paco Garcia. He’s Puerto Rican. Gaysweek just did a story on him. They dropped off their latest issue this afternoon.”

He placed a thin newspaper on the table and opened it up to the second page. Richard’s and Tyrone’s jaws dropped.

“It’s him!” they said in unison.

“Who?” Luke asked.

“The guy Tyrone pulled out of the fire,” Richard said. “They were getting it on way in the back of the Everard and the smoke had nearly killed them before they could get out. This guy fell unconscious and Tyrone pulled him out. He saved his life!”

Tyrone looked bashful. “Aw shit, Country. It wasn’t no thang.”

“Like hell it wasn’t. I was there. So much smoke was coming out of that hallway, it’s a miracle you got out alive. He’d be dead now if it weren’t for you.”

Luke smiled at Tyrone. “Gaysweek should do an article about you.”

Tyrone’s eyes went wide. “Hell no! If word got out in the hood, I’d be a dead man. When they go for some gay bashing in my neighborhood, they bring lead pipes and two-by-fours.”

Richard put a hand on his.

“They could just give your first name with no picture. You deserve it.”

“Naw, forget it. Let’s see what this article says.”

They all read it together. It turned out Paco Garcia was a community organizer among Latino gays and had made a lot of waves among the city’s Puerto Ricans for being openly homosexual. He’d lost his job at an insurance company when an anonymous letter was sent to his boss detailing his activities and he had to settle for a job as a short order cook. Now he had lost that job too because smoke inhalation had kept him off work ever since the fire.

Tyrone looked up at his companions.

“Looks like we know what to do with the rest of the money.”

“Makes sense. Let’s go visit him. Luke, can you get his contact info from Gaysweek?”

“Sure thing,” the bar owner said.

“I wish I had some more money to put into the pot,” Richard said. “He sounds like a great guy. Maybe this modeling gig will work out.”

“What time do you have to leave?” Tyrone asked.

“In about an hour. At least we’re meeting at night so the heat won’t be as bad on the commute.”

“There he is!” a high-pitched singsong voice came from the doorway. “Look everybody, it’s the world-famous model Dick Miller!”

Richard rolled his eyes and grinned. It could only be one person.

His friend Steve stood at the doorway, wearing a lavender velour shirt and matching slacks, and sneakers covered in rhinestones. He minced over to Richard and Tyrone and gave them air kisses next to each cheek.

Steve’s boyfriend, Adam, came in behind him. Both were in their 30s but they couldn’t be more different. While Steve was scrawny and petite, Adam had the solid body of a construction worker. He was an Italian-American with a swarthy face, dark eyes, and a thick mustache. Like Richard and Tyrone, Adam and Steve had an open relationship. Richard had gotten it on with the sexy Italian several times, but not Steve. While he adored Steve as a friend, the guy was just too effeminate for him. Turned out to have plenty of backbone when Richard needed some help with that cult, though.

“So when will your gorgeous young body grace the cover of Blueboy?” Steve asked.

Richard grimaced. “I didn’t get the gig.”

“Heathens! Barbarians! Infidels! Don’t they know beauty when they see it?”

Richard shrugged. “It’s OK. He said I could try out again some other time.”

He felt bitter at the lie, but his friends expected so much of him. This was the first group of people he could be himself with, and he wanted to look good in their eyes.

Adam put an arm around his shoulder. “Sorry to hear that, buddy. Any way I can make you feel better?”

Steve gave him a playful slap. “Stop flirting with him, you little hussy, and buy me a drink. Buy Richard a drink too.”

“What, the black man doesn’t get a drink?” Tyrone objected.

Steve expressed mock surprise and pretended to notice Tyrone for the first time. “Oh I’m sorry, it’s dark in here and you blended with the shadows.”

“Very funny, white boy. I’ll have a beer.”

“Nonsense! We’re having cocktails. It’s the only proper drink for a gay man. So which will it be, my African Adonis, the cock or the tail?”

Tyrone laughed. “How about a Cuba Libre? And because of all your trash talking, you can make it a double.”

“I’ll take one too,” Richard said. Some rum sounded good right now, and he could use the caffeine from the Coke. The photoshoot didn’t start until late.

Forgetting that he had told his boyfriend to order, Steve leaned against the bar, sticking his ass out for all to see and called out to the bartender, “Honey, we’ll have two Cuba Libres, doubles for these luscious lushes, a Blue Hawaiian for me, and the Italian stallion will take a Screwdriver, because that’s how he fucks.”

That earned him a loud slap on the behind from Adam.

Richard joined in the general laughter. It felt good to be among friends. It was strange, but he hardly even thought about the guys back home. He’d been picked on a lot in high school. The rumor had gone around that he was gay, and while he did his best to quash it, even going so far as to get a girlfriend, it stuck to him all through school. He’d still managed to have some friends, though. He appreciated their loyalty in the face of all of the snickering at school. Sadly, even with them he couldn’t be open. They were his friends because they had decided the rumors weren’t true. If they had found out he really was gay, they would have run off and never talked to him again. They would have probably become part of the bully crowd to compensate for having been friends with a “faggot” all that time.

But not these guys. He could be himself with them. Which was why he wanted them to think he was doing great in his career and everything was all right.

A dim corner of his mind noted the hypocrisy of that, but he ignored it.

Their drinks came, and they toasted his imminent success with Blueboy. They joked and laughed, and Steve was the center of attention as usual with his catty jokes and crazy stories.

One drink turned into three, or maybe four, and if it hadn’t been for Tyrone reminding him of the photoshoot he would have forgotten it entirely. He stumbled out into the street and hurried to the subway.

An hour later found him ringing the buzzer of a shabby apartment building in Yonkers. The ground floor was a Chinese restaurant, and the heavy heat and cloying smells wafting out the kitchen door permeated the entire block. The nameplate for the address Mitch had given him only read “M.S.,” which he took to stand for “Mitch Stone.” No “Liberty Publications” or “Leather Library,” just “M.S.”

Once again he felt unsettled about the whole thing. His nearly empty wallet made him wait for a response to his ring.

“Who is it?” Mitch’s crackly voice came over the speaker. The sound quality was so bad Richard could barely recognize him from the phone call.

“It’s me. Richard.”

The door clicked open.

“Get in here.”

“Some welcome,” Richard grumbled under his breath.

The stairway was narrow and dirty. He climbed it, each step creaking. As he got near the top, a door opened and a man appeared.

The first thing he noticed was that he was wearing a leather jacket and leather pants despite the heat. Just the sight of it almost made Richard pass out. How the hell could the guy stand it?

After getting over his initial shock, Richard took in other details. Mitch Stone was a bit short, about 5’6”, but powerfully built with muscular arms and a solid trunk that his tight-fitting leather jacket showed off admirably. This pleasant body was offset by a thick neck and a bullet-shaped head with a blond buzz cut and an arrogant, sneering face. Richard decided that he liked Mitch from the neck down. From the neck up he’d rather not meet him at all.

Mitch led him into a run-down apartment. A dilapidated couch and an old, black-and-white TV were the only furniture in the living room. They entered a grungy kitchen where flies buzzed around a bare bulb. Mitch pulled a bottle of vodka from the refrigerator.

“Drink?” he asked, holding the bottle up.

Richard didn’t really want another one, but he decided to be polite.

Mitch opened a cupboard and a couple of cockroaches scuttled out of the light. He pulled out a pair of chipped coffee mugs and filled them nearly to the brim.

They stood and drank for a minute, Mitch eyeing him up and down.

“You look a little worse for wear.”

“It’s the heat.”

“I don’t care.”

Richard couldn’t think of a reply to that so he took another sip. The vodka was cheap and burned his throat going down. The sore on his tongue from the Hooded One’s pre-cum burned painfully.

“So can I see some of your publications to get an idea of what you’re looking for?” Richard asked.

Mitch jerked his head in the direction of the doorway. He led Richard out and down a hallway, passing a bedroom with a beat-up bureau, a mattress on the floor, and dirty clothes cast here and there. When they went by the bathroom, Richard didn’t even dare look inside.

They came to a back room that set up like a photo studio. To his surprise, Richard saw a complete set of first-class photography equipment. A brand-new Pentax was hitched to a professional quality tripod, and theater lights had been set into brackets on the walls and ceiling. The camera faced one side of the room, which was completely bare except for a wooden sawhorse. The other side had an Army surplus footlocker and a low bookshelf. Mitch pulled out a couple of large hardcover volumes and handed them to him.

Richard looked at them. Leather Lashes and Real Men. The cover of the first showed a youth bent over a sawhorse getting spanked by a leather daddy wielding a belt. Richard recognized the sawhorse and room in the picture as the one in front of him. The cover of the other book was tamer, with two musclebound men all in leather, cocks hanging out of their open flies.

He flipped through Real Men. The contents weren’t as tame as the cover. There were pictures of guys rimming, gangbanging a youth, and fisting. Richard quickly flipped through Leather Lashes and felt his skin crawl. He was the last to deny that pleasure and pain were linked, but the stuff in this book just looked demeaning.

Richard reminded himself of the bills he needed to pay and his empty refrigerator. He was down to his last few bucks. He needed to make money and he needed to make it tonight. He didn’t want to ask Tyrone for a loan. His boyfriend would gladly help out, but Tyrone had his mother to support and it would be unfair to ask. Plus, Richard didn’t want to ask his other friends. That would look like failure.

Summoning his courage, he turned to Mitch and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Mitch looked him up and down.

“We’ll start with some nude shots and go from there. Strip.”

“OK.”

“OK, sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“From now on you call me sir.”

“Look man, I’m just here to make a few bucks. How much are you offering for the nude shots?”

Mitch turned red. “Address me properly!”

Richard took a step back. “How much are you offering for the nude shots, sir?”

Richard couldn’t believe he’d just said that, but he was drunk and Mitch had caught him off guard. Plus, he needed the money.

“60 bucks. If I like what I see we can arrange some better stuff for more money.”

Richard blinked. 60 bucks just for nude shots? He’d never been offered so much. Not even Blueboy offered that much. It would be enough for that whopping electricity bill he was expecting plus an entire week’s worth of groceries.

Richard started to strip. Mitch watched him appreciatively.

“The price got you taking off your clothes quick enough,” he said with a mocking laugh.

Richard ignored him. Soon he was naked before the leather-clad photographer. The heat and stress and booze made him a bit woozy. Looking down at himself he saw he was flaccid, and the scratch marks on his thighs from that demon were still livid and red across his pale skin.

Mitch grinned. It was not a friendly grin. “Looks like New York has put you through the wringer. That’s just the look my readers want from a sub.”

Mitch’s camera snapped as he barked out orders.

“Slump over like you’re exhausted. Lie down on the floor like you’re unconscious. Get up and put your hands in front of yourself like you’re warding someone off. Bend over the sawhorse and spread your cheeks. Whoa! Someone’s opened you way up. We pay 150 bucks for fisting shots, by the way. I’d like to schedule you for a session with one of my best tops. Now lie on the floor again and don’t move.”

Mitch left the room for a minute and came back with a plastic squirt bottle.

“What’s that?” Richard asked. Even though the room was hot, he felt cold. The bare concrete floor sucked all the heat out of him.

Mitch glared down at him. “What?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Get it right next time,” Mitch squirted some red goo onto his hand. “This is fake blood. It’s made from corn syrup and red food coloring. Now lie still.”

Mitch began to squirt fake blood over Richard’s thighs.

“Spread your legs.”

“Um, sir, I’m not sure I’m into this.”

“Spread your legs!”

Richard did as he was told. Mitch squirted some of the liquid into his crack, then stepped back and started taking pictures.

Richard closed his eyes and followed Mitch’s instructions, striking various poses, all of which made it look like he’d just been the victim of some horrible assault. As the photography session continued, Richard found his mind detaching. He just got on with the job and tried not to think about how he’d look in the pictures.

“Now get up and lean against the sawhorse.”

Richard opened his eyes so he could get up. As soon as he did he let out a scream. The Hooded One stood right behind Mitch.

The leather daddy snapped a photo and gave Richard a wicked smile.

“That was great! You’re a good actor.”

“Who’s that?” Richard said, pointing a shaking finger. Then he paused and stared. The Hooded One had disappeared. Mitch turned and looked, and then turned back to Richard with a puzzled look on his face.

“What are you on?”

“Nothing. Um, sorry, sir. Acid flashback.”

I wish.

“Whatever. Go lean against the sawhorse.”

Richard got to his feet, his heart racing. The fake blood started running down his thighs. Mitch snapped some photos. “Hold on. That looks good. Now turn around. Can you get hard?”

“Look, sir, I’m a bit weirded out from that flashback. I think I’m done.”

Richard braced for an explosion, but to his surprise Mitch didn’t get angry, instead he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag.

“This will get you in the mood.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a tiny spoon heaped with white powder.

“Is that cocaine?” Richard asked, remembering at the last moment to add “sir.”

“Damn, you really are new here, aren’t you? Yeah, it’s coke. Come here.”

Richard had tried lots of drugs since he had gotten to the city—weed, hash, ludes, bennies, and especially acid—but he had never tried cocaine. It was too expensive.

Mitch held the little spoon up to his nostril. Richard leaned into it, closed the other nostril with his finger like he’d seen in the movies, and inhaled.

He winced as the irritating powder burned his nostril.

“Gah!”

Mitch laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Take another in the other nostril.”

The photographer dipped the spoon into the bag and offered him a second helping. Richard took it. His eyes teared up.

“Oh wait, that looks good.”

Mitch snapped a close-up of him with tears running down his cheeks.

“You’ve got a nice, young, vulnerable look. We can work with that.”

Richard looked away shyly. After all the barked orders and insults, even this little compliment made him feel good. He realized Mitch was manipulating him and he was falling for it.

Then the cocaine hit.

A hot flush went through his body, followed by a spike of energy and euphoria.

“Holy shit! This is fucking awesome!”

“I only buy the best, in both drugs and boys,” Mitch said with a grin. “Now get over to that sawhorse.”

Richard hurried to do as he was told, his cock already swelling. He leaned back on the sawhorse and spread his legs, cock fully erect now and displayed for the camera. Mitch snapped several pictures in rapid succession, then hurriedly changed the film.

“I’ll give you an extra twenty if you fist yourself.”

“I thought you said that fisting was 150, sir.”

“That’s if I get a hard-hitting brute of a leather daddy to do it to you and make you howl with pain. Doing it to yourself is easy.”

“Make it forty and I’ll do it, sir.”

Mitch snarled and stalked towards him. Richard’s heart, already pounding thanks to the coke, beat a little faster.

Mitch pulled out a fat roll of twenty dollar bills from the pocket of his leather jacket and peeled off five of them.

“Here, for the nude shots and the fisting.”

Mitch shoved them in Richard’s mouth.

Richard spat them out. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What the hell are you doing, sir. Treating you as you deserve, now bend over.”

The bills fluttered to the floor. One stuck to his bloodstained thigh. Richard peeled it off. It was covered in fake blood.

“Drop it at your feet with the rest of them,” Mitch ordered. “That will look good.”

Richard did as he was told, then turned around to lean on the sawhorse.

“Wait, you need some lube,” Mitch said.

“Oh, I don’t need any lube, sir,” Richard laughed, his head buzzing from the drug and the excitement. “A couple of nights ago I got opened up by the biggest lover of my life.”

“I bet I could get together a group of guys who would make that lover of yours look like a limp-dicked senior citizen.”

Well, he is several thousand years old, Richard thought.

“I think that’s a tall order, sir.”

Mitch looked over the top of his camera. “Is that a challenge, bitch?”

Richard looked at him coyly. “Maybe it is.”

What am I saying? It’s the coke talking.

Mitch hurried over to his equipment and came back with the squirt bottle of fake blood.

“I want you to use this. It’s a bit sticky at first but your body heat will liquefy it. It makes for a good lube and looks great on camera. Like you’re gushing blood.”

Mitch poured it all over Richard’s hand and put some more on his ass.

“This calls for a little extra,” Mitch said, and retrieved the cocaine again. He gave Richard another snort in each nostril.

The drug hit quicker this time. Richard almost fell over from the impact on his nervous system.

“Now you’re nice and slutty,” Mitch said from behind his camera. “Get to work.”

Richard hitched one leg up on the sawhorse and pressed his fingers against his hole. As he expected, the pounding he’d taken from the two demons meant he was still loose. With little effort, all four fingers slid inside up to the third knuckle. He started working his thumb in as well.

“Nice, keep it up. Now get the rest of your hand inside and then ball your fingers into a fist.”

“I’ve never done this before, sir,” Richard gasped and he pushed his hand further inside. Now it began to hurt.

“You’re doing great.”

“Thank you, sir,” Richard said, looking over his shoulder.

As he did, he caught a flickering image of a hooded figure standing behind Mitch. His breath caught. When he looked directly at it, the figure disappeared.

“I like that look of fear. Keep doing that,” Mitch said, his camera snapping. “Yeah, fear and a hard cock. A winning combination.”

Richard’s eyes roved around the room. Where had the Hooded One got to? Was it really just an acid flashback or had the demon truly been standing there?

But he couldn’t manifest in the real world. So how could he be here?

“Keep working that hand.”

Richard hiked his leg up a bit higher on the sawhorse and pushed his hand inside up to the wrist. He groaned, sweat beading on his brow as the pain became acute. He could barely hear the shutter click over the beating of his heart.

He looked over his shoulder again, and once more at the border his vision he saw the demon to whom he had offered his virginity. The image vanished when he looked more directly, and so he kept it at the blurry edge of his sight.

“You’re stalking me,” Richard gasped. “I don’t know how you’re doing it but you’re stalking me. Was the cum you shot inside me enough for you to partially manifest? Are you really here or is this just an illusion?”

Mitch chuckled. “Holy crap. What the fuck are you talking about? You’re crazy. I like crazy. Makes for better pictures. Now make a fist.”

“I-I’m not sure I can, sir.”

“Make a fist! I’m paying for it, aren’t I?”

Richard’s whole body trembled. He gripped the sawhorse hard with his free hand to keep from falling. He focused on the hooded figure at the edge of his vision.

“For you I will,” Richard whispered, knowing the demon would hear and the photographer wouldn’t. “But I’ll never let you fill me with cum. I can’t. I’ll give you everything but that.”

With a force of will, Richard clenched his fist in one powerful motion.

He arched his head and screamed from the agony, his cock spurting cum that soaked the sawhorse and the back wall. Mitch’s camera clicked again and again.

An hour later, Richard sat slumped on Mitch’s couch. The photo session was over and he was fully washed and dressed. The coke high was tapering off, leaving him edgy. Mitch gave him a cup of vodka to ease the downer. The photographer stood in the middle of the room, sipping his own vodka and staring at Richard.

“That was a hell of a photoshoot, you’re a real pro.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Who trained you?”

“Randy Goat Publishing, sir.”

Mitch nodded. “I’ve heard of it Hardcore stuff for the specialty market, just like me.”

Richard perked up. “Do you know Anton Black, sir? Do you know what happened to him? He disappeared a while back.”

Mitch shook his head. “I only know him by reputation. Damn good photographer but he doesn’t do leather or the kind of S&M that I do. Didn’t even know he’d blown town.”

“I’m not sure he has, sir.”

“Probably got in trouble with the vice squad and is laying low. A lot of photographers dabble in stuff that ain’t too legal. Don’t worry, if you remain an obedient little pet you’ll get plenty of work from me.”

“I don’t know …”

Mitch chuckled.

“You got an appointment here next Tuesday. 10 p.m. sharp. By then the other models will be nice and liquored up and ready to go.”

“Other models, sir?”

“A group of hardcore tops who will put you through your paces like you’ve never experienced before. Don’t worry, you won’t take all the punishment. There’s another sweet bottom who will be getting it right alongside you. Real tender newbie. Can’t believe he fell in my lap.”

“What will the tops do, sir?”

“Whatever the fuck they want. You’ll get 300 bucks to give them the green light for a couple of hours in front of the camera.”

“I’ve never done porn, sir. I don’t think I want to.”

Mitch laughed. “Oh, look at little Miss Goody Two-Shoes! You think you’re too prim and proper to get fucked on camera? Get real. You do it for free at the tubs, don’t you?”

Richard paused. “Yes, sir.”

“So what’s the difference?”

“That’s what Anton Black said, sir.”

“Exactly. And I pay better. You’ll get 300 and plenty more of this.”

Mitch tossed the bag of coke onto Richard’s lap. He felt the grainy powder through the plastic. There was enough for a few snorts.

“Now get out,” Mitch ordered. “I got a long night in the dark room ahead of me. Feel free to come drunk and fucked like you did tonight. It helps loosen you up.”

“I didn’t say I’d come, sir.”

Mitch nodded confidently. “You will.”

Richard hurried down the dark stairway as the door to Mitch’s apartment slammed shut behind him. He didn’t know if the photographer was right or not. He turned the question over and over in his mind all the way home and couldn’t come up with an answer.

The next morning the blare of his telephone woke him up.

“Ugh,” he grumbled through a cottony mouth as his temples throbbed. “This is getting to be a bad habit. Why can’t people call in the afternoon?”

Nevertheless, he answered it, hoping it was Blueboy or another decent mag calling him back. Mitch could go fuck himself.

“Hello, Richard?”

“Um, yeah,” Richard replied, confused. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

“It’s Brian.”

“Brian?” Richard’s sleep-fogged mind tried to sort out his memories. Was this someone he had given his number to at a bar? His thoughts wouldn’t clear. The hangover and the terrible headache he was suffering didn’t help.

“You know, Brian Jay? I’m in New York!”

That woke him up instantly. Brian Jay was a kid from his high school.

Richard had built a new life for himself here, and now his old life had just come to visit.