Page 77 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 65

“Just the Holy Trinity,” Chuck said crossing himself like
a Catholic. “Pot and Acid and Beer.” He wanted to cheer
Den out of the change he saw. “Come join the Dionysian
rites.”
“Fucker,” Den half-smiled. “Where’d all these guys
come from?”
“Here. There. Everywhere. They rose out of a methedrine
mist.”
“MDA is here to stay,” Den’s M said.
“Shut-up,” Den said. “When my ass needs wiping, then
you open your mouth.”
Chuck spit off the porch. “They’re friends of mine who
were headed on a run out of Chicago this weekend. Two
thin dimes returned by a midnight telephone operator put-
ting through my collect call changed their previously uncol-
orful destination. Thank me for corrupting your country
innocence.”
“I oughta belt you,” Den threatened.
“For making you guest-of-honor at your very own spe-
cial coming-out orgy?” Chuck groped Den’s full crotch
and kissed him hard on the mouth. Their tongues crossed
back and forth over the white fences of teeth. Chuck broke
the clench. He had left spit inside Den’s mouth. “Come on
inside,” he said. Den swallowed. Chuck turned to the M
standing off by Den’s bike. “You too,” he said.
Inside the farmhouse the beer flowed. The riders in from
the storm were laid back from their ride. Three bikers sat in
the middle of the floor surrounded by the joints they were
rolling. Others rested in corners. Silent. Smoking. A few
leaned against the wall. Hungry eyes. Watching. Watching.
“Where’s the action?” Den’s M demanded. He saw the
possibilities. He goaded. He pushed. “Looks like the Local
Leather Ladies Side Saddle Society,” he said. “Would who-
ever owns the Honda 50 outside please move it from block-
ing the drive.”

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