Page 87 - Leather Blues

Leather Blues 75

tight around each other.
“You fucking sonuvabitch,” the man was sobbing. “You
fucking sonuvabitch. Whoever you are, man, I’ve waited a
long time for you.” Denny held him in the lamplight while
the crowd slipped away into the darkness. Minutes passed
between them. “What a fucking thrill,” the guy said. He
wiped his ass with his towel. “I want to give you my number.”
“I got your number already,” Denny said.
“So you have,” the man said. “So you have.” He leaned in
close to Denny’s ear. “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it.” And he
walked off to another part of the farmhouse wiping his face,
unbelieving, dazed, like a man recalling almost forgotten
wishes from a long-ago night of shooting stars.
“You do okay for the new kid in town.” Doc walked up
to Denny. “That was quite a show.”
“Is that what it was?” Denny asked. Then he apologized.
He was feeling the cocktail coming on. “Sorry,” he said.
“I guess I like exhibition sex. The big blond’s a showboat.
World-class. He got off on it. That’s what counts.”
“What do you get off on?” Doc asked. “That counts for
more.”
“I got off getting him off,” Denny said. He reached his
hand out to shake Doc’s paw. “Chuck says you’re the man to
watch when it comes to learning what a real top is all about.”
“I have a good time,” Doc said. “That’s what counts. Not
reputation. Only thing reputation gets you is a bad-news fan
club of would-be starfuckers. My advice to you, my boy, is:
In your life, keep a low profile.” He led Denny off to the big
old kitchen. “Let me show you something,” he said. “Special-
order sex.”
A wood-burning cookstove warmed the room against
the August chill of the Michigan night. Solid hand-hewn
beams crossed the high ceiling. Chuck had tied a rope to a
beam by a pulley. Denny watched his buddy adjusting the
hangman’s noose. The big knot was classic true west.

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