hakirsch
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"Rise of the Leatherwolf" pt 2 (M/M)
🕑 Added 2018-08-15 11:51:21 +0000 UTC I'm continuing serializing my next ebook project. In this one, Henry goes to a gay bar, a gay bar...You might think, "Gee, this snarky Steven guy seems familiar somehow." That's because I'm reinventing the characters from "A Subtle Symbiosis" as humans who eventually are turned into transgressive queerpunk beasties.
You might also think, this really seems similar to "The Hawk", the first Hawk story I ever published online back in 2003 or 2004. That's also correct, as I'm borrowing the Hawk and Alzarre folie-a-deux for this story. It was originally going to reinvent Hawk as a human who turns into a wolf.
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Henry set out to take Steven up on his offer of hanging out at “The Dawnrazor” by the longest route possible. First, he got terrifically stoned, guzzled an energy shot, and waited for it to perk him back up. Then, he put on something he felt would suit both a ride and a trip to some unknown club: tight black cowboy jeans, a leather tee-shirt, a leather harness, an armored leather riding jacket, carbon-fiber-knuckle SWAT gauntlets that covered his entire forearms, and the most unique piece: a pair of vintage black leather metal-shinned Alpinestars Hi-Point motocross boots.
Treetown had grown up surrounding a prestigious state university, and the infrastructure had stayed one step behind. The state built highways to funnel an increasing load of people in and out of downtown and residential areas, but the starry-eyed gentrified populace refused to let them build through the city, leaving it rimmed by highway.
Eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, the rush to get somewhere interesting had died down and drunks weren’t trying to get home yet. The highways were mostly empty, and Henry took excessive advantage. Ensconced in leather, denim, a full-enclosure helmet, and astride a snarling Yamaha V-Max, he rocketed around the entire city one way and then the other. Being stoned and wired made him feel fluid and disconnected from the world, like his body was merely a shell of aggressive clothing clinging to a hot machine.
He approached a highway exit and had a choice: head home, or meet Steven at the club. He made his choice by missing the exit going in the opposite direction towards home, cut off a car at 100 miles per hour, and wound down into the guts of town.
The Dawnrazor was tucked into a run-down part of town that was always either under construction or abandoned. The building had long ago been converted from a house into retail-and-apartments, and then taken over by its current owners. Unlike many of the homes in the urban residential neighborhoods, The Dawnrazor’s house was a concrete affair intended to be an apartment home, which made it age poorly versus the character-filled victorian homes within a few blocks. The front windows were roughly painted black, with rainbow and BDSM pride stickers plastered onto them. The sign was black with white rough-distressed script that simply read “DAWNRAZOR”.
There was no bouncer at the door, as it opened just feet away from the end of a bar counter that looked salvaged from trash day. Henry walked into the smell of beer, vape fog, and leather. Inside, the barroom was cramped and loaded with decorations: dungeon-worthy flails, headstocks, maces, and even an impressive but ratty black leather suit of armor. Artwork hung on the walls, running the gamut from Tom of Finland leather uniform fetish to renegade bikers to extreme heavy metal leather armor. The music was a dark, dated throb that belonged in a basement club somewhere in Shitty Industrial Town, England. The floor was creaky wood that was slightly uneven.
There were only give people present: Henry; a bartender in a leather vest and wrist-cuffs; two gruff leather-daddy types heavy on the ‘daddy’; and Steven. “Oh, you came! That’s the first time I’ve ever yelled that out around you, that’s for sure.”
Henry sidled up to the bar. “Jack. On the rocks. You got any of that green-label rye stuff? Do that.” He spoke to the bartender.
Steven joined him. “Seriously, I’m surprised you actually showed up. I’m surprised anyone showed up.”
“Man, don’t jinx it,” the barkeep huffed. “I thought you said you’d talked to everyone.”
Steven was dressed in as much leather as he could muster, which meant a leather tail-coat, lace-front leather pants, sharp-toe boots that buckled ankle to the top of the calf, a fluffy red poet’s shirt, and fingerless gloves. “I name-dropped this place to every punk boy, hard-pecked clone faggot, and sneaky kinkster-in-business-suit that came into the shop all fucking week. And what do I get? Two hell’s angels with dick piercings and THIS,” he gestured at Henry.
“Henry. You got a name?” He continued ignoring Steven.
“Billy. And don’t hit on the bartender,” Billy laughed. “I guess we tried.”
“So what the fuck is this place, I’ve never heard of it before. Not like I get out to these kinda places a lot, but I’ve really never heard of it before.” Henry finally turned to acknowledge Steven, who had departed to fuss with the electronic jukebox. It was the most modern thing in the bar, an internet-connected touch panel. Steven bopped his wrist against it, selected a song, then came back as another dated tune started to play. This one featured a strangely strangulated male singer and jangly guitars.
“This place is The Dawnrazor,” Billy cut in, before Steven could start speaking. “And that song is the name of the club, Dawnrazor, by Fields of the Nephilim. I wanted to cater to the goth and industrial crowd and also queer it up. That didn’t quite work so well, so I just tried to queer it up, and now I’m trying to get the leather crowd in. Really, any crowd. Anyone. Please,” he said, keeping his voice sardonic as he cruised behind the bar and tidied things.
“Prime 1980’s goth. They dress like post-apocalyptic cowboys even though they’re from England. It was my idea.”
“Here he goes again…” Billy laughed.
Henry stood and leaned against the bar, crossed his boots at the ankles, and let the jabbing fly in front of him. Thanks to the liquor, the THC already fogging his brain overpowered the caffeine that let him pilot a motorcycle. Two more men walked in, one of them in bleach-spotted tight jeans and oxblood Ranger boots, a harness and a mohawk; the other was a sturdy bearish man with a round gut, leather suspenders, and a ruddy beard. They looked ‘together’.
“Ahh, well, two more, very good,” Steven chuffed.
“This place is a shithole,” Henry said, in between sips of whiskey to put on some air and possibly hide his mouth. “I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s got the right vibe, who wants to have leather sex in a fucking hipster bar, and that leather shit there is cool-” He gestured to the leather fetish suit of armor- “But I mean, this is a dive.”
The bartender came back over after serving the two newcomers a pair of metal-bottled beers. “If you didn’t look baked off your ass I’d punt you outta here for that,” he laughed. “It’s tough. It’s real tough, honestly. What’s that saying, most small businesses fail? This sure as hell isn’t a big business.”
Henry shrugged. “I’d like to sound all haughty about my job, I’m an engineer. But you know what? It sucks. I sit in a cube all day, although I face a window. I run simulations on shit designed by someone who gets paid a lot more than me, which means I sit on my ass and poke at a computer like a monkey writing Shakespeare. And I live in a shitty apartment house like a college kid because I have huge student loans. You, you’re serving beer to freaks like us.”
“Oh very good of you to include yourself, Hank!” Steven said.
Henry now felt the effects of a stiff drink, store-brand energy shot, and a tall glass of water to quell his cottonmouth before leaving the apartment. “I’ll go contribute to your bathroom now, so pardon me,” he said, set the glass down, and stomped off towards the back of the barroom. There was an actual back room, although it was deserted and painfully dim, and a bathroom hall at one end. The bathroom was functional, but completely mismatched inside, and dubiously up to code. There was both a trough urinal and a wall urinal, along with a stalled toilet and a double sink. It smelled of warmth and urine.
He looked between the bathtub trough and the wall urinal, then stood at the trough and hauled his cock out. He bristled a little at the touch of his own gloved fingers, as the SWAT gauntlets were meant to grip and protect and bludgeon. They weren’t meant to touch dicks.
The door burst open and someone strode in. Henry broke into a cold sweat but didn’t back down. He started hosing the porcelain, stunned by the intensity of pushing hot piss through a stoned prostate.
“You’re really something, you know that? This, this whole thing. You’ve come to my fucking store for years. I’ve known you since we were both in college. And you show up like this.”
Henry looked over. Steven leaned on the stall and looked smug. “It’s leather night. So I’m wearing leather.”
“You are wearing ass-hugging cowboy jeans with a fucking horse cock stuffed into the front, boots that would break someone’s leg if you shinned it with them, and those gloves! You could fist someone to death.” Steven opened the stall door and swung himself into the stall with a clunk of the latch. He proceeded to piss just as heartily.
“Yeah, these gloves are great. I’m also wearing a harness, but I’m not gonna show you because you’re a prancing twat. What are you, a victorian pirate or something?”
“You stared at me when you came in!” As Steven fussed with his pants, something fell to the floor with a soft thwap and rolled a few inches out of the stall. “Oh, son of a bitch!”
“What the fuck is that?”
Steven swiped his boot toe out and nudged the object back under the stall. It looked like a beige cock and balls, but nothing tumescent like a dildo. Soft and merely average. “That’s my packer, and you need to learn to take compliments better. Or are you always going to be a gigantic grump, dumping your whiny life story to a bartender?” Steven resumed pissing.
“That’s what you do,” Henry said, shaking his cock off and tucking it back into his jeans. A little piss dribble made a darker splotch at the end of the curve. “You cry on a bartender’s shoulder.”
“Hmf,” was all the response Steven gave him.
Now empty, Henry went back out to the bar and found it exactly as full as when he’d walked in at first. The two newcomers had taken the place of the more grizzled leather-daddies who had given him the eye. He shrugged and headed for the door.
Steven caught up with him out on the sidewalk. “Wait a minute, is that it?”
“I’m tired.” Henry kept walking towards his motorcycle.
“You’re high.”
“I am real fucking high, and I had a whiskey, and all your talk about my dick has me wanting to go fuck my fleshlight in half.” Henry felt less like he was high and more like he was a leather shell possessed by a spirit and moving through a three-dimensional soup of Generic American City video-game assets. “And there was no one there.”
“Yes, of course there was, that was why I invited you! Because you’re someone, and if I invite lots of someones, then there will be people there!”
Henry scoffed and straddled onto his motorcycle, then started it with a rumble. “I’m nobody.” He revved the engine and the go-fast trumpet intakes opened up with a bark. “Maybe I’ll come by again when I feel like somebody.” He then tore off fast enough to pop the front tire off the ground for thirty feet.
