With the release of this story, I begin my countdown for the release of my third e-book, "Learning To Samba," which comes out 8/16. I hope you enjoy reading the story.
My hands trembled as I fumbled the car key. When I finally managed to slip the car key into the lock I opened the door, careful not to make any noise, then slipped behind the wheel of the rental.
I don’t know what I was scared of. I was an adult. Finally legal to drink. It’s not like I was going out to murder anyone. And yet, I glanced about the dimly lit parking lot as if I were afraid I’d get caught slinking around. It was as if I were broadcasting to the world where I was, where I was going, and what I was hoping to do.
It was Independence Day weekend, 1984. I’d taken a few days off to vacation in Fort Lauderdale. The Marlin Beach Hotel -- once a happening, straight bar/restaurant featured in “Where The Boys Are” -- was falling into disrepair from it’s 50s heyday; but it had a certain edgy appeal.
The seediness was titillating and I walked around with a partial hard-on from the moment I checked in two nights ago. It was as if I could sense all the sex that had ever been had there, like I was being haunted by the Ghost of Lust Past.
Despite the holiday weekend, there weren’t many guests. Of the men that were there, none appealed to me. Winter, I’d been told, was the time to come down. That’s when they were stuffed to the limit with naked men from all walks of life, cavorting in the sun and swimming in the pool, which could be observed from the Jules Verne room.
After wandering the deserted corridors of the infamous hotel, cruising Birch Street into the wee hours of morning, and observing the men that disappeared behind bushes on the beach, I was more than ready to get laid.
But I didn’t want regular sex.
I wanted something different. Something dark and sinister. I yearned for someone to grab hold of me and possess me with his desire. I longed to be taken, by force if necessary, and used until he, whomever he was, was sated.
Apparently, there was only one place for that.
Which is why I sat in the rental, dressed in my tightest pair of acid-washed jeans and black tank-top. I was showered, cleaned out, and shaking internally at what I might find. But I swallowed back my fear, rolled down the window, and cranked up the engine.
“Good luck!” A voice called out, startling me out of my focused determination. I jumped and looked up to see the clerk behind the desk smiling at me. I watched him stride up to his car, parked beside mine, secretly hoping he wouldn’t ask to join me. When hunting for cock it was usually best to do it alone.
I smiled, feeling embarrassed, and nodded awkwardly. A short while ago I'd asked him where a guy might find something a bit less…mainstream.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The man grinned as I slowly pulled out and waved goodbye.
I turned left onto Atlantic Boulevard, known by the locals as A1A, and drove north towards Sunrise Boulevard. From there, it was several miles to NE 3rd, then a quick right.
The bar was on a poorly lit street, in a particularly rough neighborhood. As I climbed out of the car, I wondered why it was that most gay bars I’d ever been to were in shitty areas. I pressed down on the lock, slammed the door shut and pocketed the key. Then I walked to the front entrance of the leather bar and stopped short.
“Scared, boy?” A deep, gravelly voice boomed in the night. I turned my head and drank in the sight of a huge, intimidating mountain of a black man as my eyes adjusted to the blue and black light.
I cleared my throat, noticing the way the bouncer sat on the bar stool, head cocked, scrutinizing me curiously. He wore a leather vest, a cap raked so low I couldn’t see his eyes, and a leather band around his left bicep. His arms were huge and his hands more like paws. Something impossibly long and unbelievably thick snaked down the inside of his left thigh.
Yes, I was afraid but I couldn’t let him know that.
“No!” I replied, my voice higher than I would have liked. To my own ears it sounded like a pitiful squeak.
The man laughed in a deep bass that rumbled in my chest.
“Don’t lie to me son. I can smell it on you.”
“Sh– should I be? Scared?”
The bouncer stood with a low grumble and leaned forward. I took a step back. But he only grabbed the handle and pulled the door open for me. The dull thump of dance music became a roar.
“Get your ass inside, son. This neighborhood isn’t safe for pretty white boys like you.”
I had to brush up against him in order to step inside and wondered if he’d positioned himself that way on purpose. But the moment I walked in and the door shut ominously behind me, the thought popped out of my head. I suddenly understood how Dorothy might have felt when she first stepped out of her freshly transported house. This was Oz, or at least a version of it, and there was no turning back.
I stood in the narrow vestibule, my senses assaulted by the loud music, the smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with sweat. But it was so much more than that.
I sniffed at the air.
The place reeked so heavily of sex you could practically taste it. There was also an energy, thick with expectation, that permeated the air as surely as the scent of leather made my nostrils flare.
This was where I belonged, what I had been looking for. My pulse quickened and my cock twitched with arousal as I slowly moved forward.
The bar was to my right, just beyond the floor-to-ceiling beaded curtain. To my left was a leather shop. I decided to traipse through, like foreplay, and look at the contraptions and paraphernalia; some of which I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what they could be used for.
There were dildos, whips and paddles. Long, clear tubes of all sizes for your nipples, your cock. Tit clamps, cuffs and row upon row of tiny brown bottles. There were books, magazines and video tapes, racks of leather shorts, vests, caps. Cock rings, ball stretchers and several sizes of butt plugs.
There was a pounding in my head as I lost myself in the dark, seedy world of kink and fetish. Someone grabbed my ass and I spun around to see who’d groped me but there was no one there ready to stake his claim.
I crossed the hallway and stepped into the bar. It was even darker here than it was outside. I stood, in what I hoped was my best New York City stone-face, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Then, with hands in my pockets, I weaved through the crowd.
To my right was a throng of men surrounding the bar while to my left, another group watched two burly, hairy-chested men circling the pool table. I could see the glint of metal and knew quarters from the next challenger were already lined up.
I pressed on, pushing past a small group of men playing at the pig trough while others watched. The atmosphere in the room crackled with perverse anticipation.
I continued moving.
Out on the patio there was a small bar to my right and a built-in, one-person cage to my left. A crowd of beefy men stood in front of the bars. I struggled to get past them and saw one of them throw his head back and howl into the night while holding on to either side of the makeshift cell. I didn’t need to see what was happening to know he’d just come. Another man quickly took his place as the man who’d been drained emerged from the throng, working his cock back into his jeans and pulling up his zipper.
As I stood and observed the scene around me I realized that, aside from the leather, kink, and heavy sexual tension, it wasn’t much different from the other bars I’d been to. The men still talked, laughed, and flirted.
I began to relax, gradually becoming aware that no one would pounce on me unless I wanted them to.
I moved once again, heading to the door on the opposite side of the small bar. A small hallway led to private toilets the size of closets and just beyond, the space opened back into the main bar.
I sidled up to the counter and ordered a beer.
To my right, two men talked casually over the loud music while another was on his knees servicing them both. A handful of voyeurs stood around them like a protective barrier.
Above the bar, a smooth-skinned body builder lay in a sling suspended from the ceiling. He’d been blindfolded, wrists and ankles cuffed to the hanging chains. His massive legs were spread wide and, every so often, the bartenders would take turns working a large dildo in and out of the bodybuilders ass while patrons egged them on.
On a large bulky television, two bound hunks tag-teamed and wrestled a third down onto a mat. I watched as the two muscle gods tied-up the other with his own singlet then stripped and had their way with him using their fingers, their cocks, and toys that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
I was on sensory overload. As wild and crazy as New York could be, nothing like this ever happened in the clubs anymore. The viral spread of AIDS had seen to that, claiming practically an entire generation of gay men.
I was conflicted by the decimation I’d seen back home, and the carefree lust that surrounded me. What had been a sexually charged atmosphere, upon my arrival, now filled me with dread. I briefly wondered if I’d done the right thing by coming here.
How could I ever expect to meet anyone in a place this?
Then I saw him, across the bar, in the crowd of people. He stared at me intently while sucking down his beer. The rest of the world had fallen away as I forgot where I was. The only thing that existed was him, a dull thumping in my body that registered as music, and me.
I was transfixed as the big beefy man approached. He was totally cut and ripped, his dark eyes focused. Clad in leather pants and a harness, he wore a cod piece that set my imagination to wander and a metal band around his left bicep. A tribal tattoo went all the way around his right.
He looked into my eyes as he reached for something at his side and the next thing I knew I had a collar around my neck. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak. He gave me one of those smiles, the kind that said he knew exactly who I was, what I wanted and how I was going to get it.
“Let’s fuck!” His lips moved but there was no sound. At least, none that I heard.
And then I was in his arms. He held me in place with one hand at the back of my neck while pulling my hips towards his with the other hand. He held me tight and his amazingly wicked tongue penetrated my mouth, devouring me. I didn’t know his name but I’d never felt so aroused and so dirty all at the same time.
In that moment, I knew I’d be with him the rest of my life.
Learning To Samba will be available from Loose Id as of 8/16/2011. Collared has also appeared on my Author Page on Goodreads.