Page 60 - Leather Blues

48 Jack Fritscher

say some night this weekend we cruise out together and pick
up a likely little M?”
“Not in this town,” Den said.
“Precisely this town,” Chuck said. “With the right
kind of come-on we can get everything from college boys
to young husbands just itching to have their asses spanked
while they’re tied up getting what they can’t get at home.”
“What kind of come-on?”
“Leather.” Chuck said the one word. He said it flat. So
matter of fact that Den knew everything he meant.
“Leather.” Den said the word too. All his life had been
bound to leather. It had protected him as a boy. He had
made first love to his fist wearing leather. Summers, he had
worked and sweated with gristled men. They wore leather
gloves, boots, tool belts. He had ridden and slept in greasy
Levi’s and black-leather bike jackets. When he was a hard
young boy, he had wrestled with Sam wearing leather. And
although he had never seen Sam again, the memory of his
sweaty chained outlaw leather came back to him.
Leather was the sign of the male. Leather was malehide.
Leather was cojones. Balls. Leather was cock. Leather was
stud. Leather was men sweating, primal, growing large and
hard on each other. Leather was a gag working on a chained
initiate. Pissing into the leather lining. Pouring motor oil
over the leather britches. Leather was sound, taste, smell.
Leather was pleasure. Leather was pain. Leather was tying
and being tied. Leather was whipping and being whipped.
His skin was leather. Chest-to-chest or back-to-belly, leather
moving against leather was the feel, the celebration of man-
sex. To become leather was to see that nothing else mat-
tered. To become leather a guy leaves everything else behind.
Den was hard leather, hard muscle, hard cock. Nothing else
would ever count as much. When a guy wears leather he
gives the finger to the world.
“Is the cruising a deal?” Chuck asked.

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