Page 52 - Leather Blues

40 Jack Fritscher

Chuck started his cycle. “A week or so ago I was in Chi-
cago. Before that Milwaukee. Did some time in California.”
“Where you headed?”
“East. Toledo, probably. Detroit. Windsor. Who knows.
I hear they got some wild lifeguards at Point Pelee Park.”
Den had heard the same from a guy who had blown and
sucked his way all around the Ontario beaches.
“Follow me,” Chuck said. He pulled slow out of the
lot. Denny single-filed after him. He felt he was following
himself. Chuck gunned his bike. It burped once, loud, then
shot off down the street. Den popped his clutch, lifted his
front wheel off the pavement, and followed in hot pursuit.
Chuck led him out of town on the old business route. They
bumped down a double-rut path about a hundred yards to
an old farmhouse. It was hardly more than a cabin. Both
bikes roared together in contest, then died as the two riders
quieted them.
“Some place, huh?”
“New to me,” Den said.
“Nobody’s been here for years except for a vanload or
two of hipsters.” Chuck lit the last cigarette in his pack. “I
found it when I was out trailing. Searched for the dude who
owned it and conned him into letting me bunk out for a few
days. My leather scared the good citizen so he was afraid to
say no. The whole time I talked to him he never took his
eyes off me. Had ’em glued right there all the time.” Chuck
thumped Den’s crotch a good one.
“No tricks,” Den said.
“Come on in.” The two men walked up the steps of the
small porch. Anybody watching would have thought them a
perfectly matched pair of hard young bodies.
“S and M,” Den said. “Some guys must go both ways?”
“Man, you are new.”
“Fuck it,” Den said.
“Don’t get riled, man.” Chuck popped two beers he

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