Thirty One Days : Part 1

**** CHAPTER FOUR

I adjust my shirt to cover the collar and sit back down on the cot, thinking. The music is thumping away nonstop. The music is loud enough to mask any sound made in this room.

Why do they call this place the House of God?

I’ve got to find somebody and ask. The curious thing, again. I should have checked this place out a little more carefully on the internet.
I pick up the beer can, but it is empty. I don’t remember finishing it. I do the face check. My face is numb. It is time to explore.
Before I can get going, someone enters the room on the other side of me. The light switches on and is immediately toggled down. In the brief instant the light was on, I could see a similar set of holes set in the mirrored wall. Holes to my left, holes to my right.

Fabulous.

I can hear a bustling tight up against the wall, but can’t see anything. Somebody is doing something in there. I shouldn’t be staring, but I am. Something black is being pushed up against a three inch diameter hole, at crotch level.

I stare harder. Black pants. Somebody is dry humping the hole in the wall. Great. The freak show has begun. I can see a metal zipper. Pressing into the hole. A long finger caresses the zipper, finding the metal tab. Slowly, as if in a strip tease act, the finger begins to tug the zipper down. The zipper slides back up and the finger disappears. The black bulge remains at the hole.

Time for me to go. For sure, I am not ready for prime time. I stand up from the cot, ready to exit my room. As I approach the hole in the wall, my fingers run over the mirror surface. I try to stop, but my fingers keep going. Heading towards the three inch circle and the black bulge. My fingers arrive. Hesitate. Technically, the bulge is in my space, my room. I can do anything I want to it. Smash it, slice it, or kick it.

Ignore it.

Instead, I press my fingers against the bulge. A chill thrill runs though me. The material covering the bulge isn’t jeans, or cords. It is something else. Vinyl, or leather. With packed heat behind it. How wrong. This reminds me of stealing a pack of baseball cards from the corner store as a kid. You know you shouldn’t do it, but what the heck, you do it anyway. You don’t need the cards or want the cards; you do it for the thrill.

Will you get caught?

Or are you clever enough to pull it off?

I am clever enough to pull it off.

I remove my fingers.

Exit my room.

The door closes behind me, leaving some anonymous Romeo wanting.
I am trying to find my way back to the bar. I will start there. Or, walk right out the front door, get in the car and drive home. Certainly what I should do. I know I have problems, but can this be the answer?

I make a couple of wrong turns, this place is truly a maze. I run into a few dead ends. Single men are drifting around, aimlessly looking for, for what? Companionship?

Besides the thumping dance music assaulting my ears, I smell incense and marijuana and chemicals I can’t identify. I am a little wobbly on my feet. Physically, I feel somewhat drunk. Mentally, I don’t. Not at all. Because of what I have seen thus far. Old men. Men in towels. Men with tramp stamps. Leashes and collars. Zippers being pulled down. My mind is spinning as I digest the last three seconds of my life.

At the end of a main hallway, I find a wide set of stairs going up. A sign on the wall says ‘Bath Attire Only Beyond This Point’. Beside the sign is a cartoon picture of a naked dude wrapped in a bath towel. There is a similar set of stairs going down but it is roped off. An ‘Employees Only’ sign is hanging on the rope.

I will hit the bar first, before I try the second floor.

My head is down, especially when passing towel clad males coming towards me. I am still in fear of running into someone I know. Pretty lame, dude. Nobody I know would frequent this type of place. Nobody. I need to relax and go with the flow.

Finally, I find the bar.

I put a twenty on the flat surface and ask the tender how much vodka my note will buy. He holds up five fingers, which he turns into a fist, and then a silly upwards pumping motion. Whatever dude. Give me the damn juice. The bartender lays a paper circle on the counter in front of me. Sets down a large glass. Pumps five shots into the glass from the vodka bottle. Uses a metal scoop to drop in ice cubes. Holds up an orange juice carton. I nod; he pours the juice until the ice cubes are floating even with the rim of the glass. Drops in a straw, stirs and scoops up my twenty. He is standing there, as if the transaction is not quite finished.

I have not tipped the guy. Oops. I have money out in the car, but not another red cent in my pocket. If I leave now to retrieve the cash from my car, I will never come back. I will lose out on my twenty dollar drink, my twenty dollar entrance fee, and whatever else was coming my way.

I don’t give a crap if I tip the bartender or not. He isn’t my buddy and I don’t plan on being a repeat customer.

The guy is standing there. Waiting. Or thinking. Actually, to me it seems as if he is plotting.

What? Who knows? Is he somewhat pissed?

The bartender picks up a set of silver tongs and grasps a fresh orange slice. He dips the slice into a bowl of white powder he has brought up from under the bar. The powder looks to be sugar, or faux sugar. He drops the slice into the top of my drink, then uses the tongs to push it carefully below the ice cubes. The booze does not overflow the rim. I feel a little sheepish. The guy is obviously an excellent bartender.

Finally, the barkeep slides away and I can tell he is miffed. Cheap prick, he is probably thinking. Cheap rookie prick. Oh well. Move on with your life, bitch.

The drink tastes good. No, the drink tastes excellent. I pick up my glass and leave the bar. Probably better not to be in the ‘no tip’ bartender’s face. I grab a seat at an empty table beneath one of the flat screens. It is the Lakers. Awesome. Against the Clippers. More awesome. Bryant and World Peace and Gasol and Superman teaming up against the kid, Blake Griffin. This flat screen is amazing. I have never seen one this big. The players are life size. It would almost be worth coming here to simply watch the TV.

I take another sip of my super screwdriver. Wow. Powerful stuff. Fresh tasting, with the quality orange juice and the sugared up slice. I calculate in my mind. Five shots. Times one and a half ounces. Equals seven and a half ounces of alcohol. Plus six cans of beer. Makes an awful lot of alcohol for someone who hasn’t touched a drop in six months. It’s a good thing I booked a cheap motel eight blocks over. I am going to have to lay low tonight. No driving for this dude.

The third quarter of the game has ended. After four small sips I feel brave enough to look around. The numbing in my face is spreading to my brain. I am beginning to relax. There are at least twenty guys in the room. Busier than the first time I passed through. At least half of them are wearing towels. Only towels. Most of them are watching the game or shooting the shit. A couple of them look to be flirting. No, let’s be honest. They are fondling each other under the table.
For Christ sake.

Stupid towel men.

I find a clock on the wall. It is midnight. Wow, time is flying by. When you are having fun. Well, the game is good. In fact, the game is excellent. Especially on this magnificent giant screen. Especially when you are feeling this hammered. It almost seems as if I am seventeen again, back home at the Colony, watching the Brewers or Hawks on those small TV’s. This place appears to be a normal bar full of normal dudes doing normal dude stuff.

Except for the flirters and the fondlers.

In their towels.

I give my head a shake.

This bar is far from normal.

The chair beside me is whisked out and a guy sits down. I am startled. I didn’t see anyone coming. I didn’t want company. At least not yet. Not until the experiment started. If it ever would. There is not much chance this experiment will get off the ground. Much less chance than there was an hour ago, anyway. The chances were weakening by the moment; despite the fact the booze was doing its job. Because it was awfully disgusting, the truth of this place.

The newcomer is young. He is tall. Shit, it’s the guy who came out from between the buildings. He must be eighteen or nineteen. Perhaps another college kid. His appearance, his build, everything about him screams ‘fag’. What screams ‘fag’ the most are his thick girly lips and fine features. His lips were almost glittering.

Was he wearing some kind of gloss?

The kid is easily six four. He can’t weigh any more than a hundred and forty pounds. His legs look long, but the thick heels on his boots were amplifying things. The boots are Nazi storm trooper wear, the kind of boots skinheads stomp fags with. His hair is thick and shaggy, falling down over his face. He is wearing a dirty white tee shirt, making him appear skinnier, if possible. His tight leather pants also scream ‘faggot’. The pants look custom molded to the guy, as if he wore them every day and everywhere.

Wait a minute.

Was this the guy who was dry humping my wall? Leather pants Romeo?
I hope not.

“What’s the score?” he pipes up.

Girl’s voice. Kind of. Though he is very young.

Was he talking to me?

I guess he was. No one else was at the table.

“Clippers by six,” I answer. “Fourth quarter starting.”

There. I talked to one of them.

Now buzz off.

He didn’t budge. Didn’t appear as if he was going anywhere.

I thought, not so bad, was it?

Despite the fact he looked different and…never mind.

The guy was staring at my neck.

What was he looking at?

Shit.

My hand went to the collar I forgot I put on. What an idiot. A look of incredulity formed on the kid’s face. I felt it had something to do with the stupid collar. I adjusted my shirt to cover the damn thing and picked up my drink. I took a long pull.

“What’s your story?” the fag asks.

Christ. Is he talking to me again?

“What’s my story?” I respond. “What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s quite obvious you aren’t gay. My Straight-Dar is flashing, big time. Are you married and not getting laid? Or dating and not getting laid? Did you lose a bet? Do you think you can waltz into this kind of place and get an anonymous blowjob because your old lady is on the rags? Are you tired of jerking off solo? What’s your story?”

What was with the fifty questions in this place?

First at the door, now here.

“I’m having a drink. Taking it easy. Didn’t know it was against the law.”

The fag is eyeballing me.

Sizing me up?

The same look the bartender gave me.

“Well, be careful. I bet you don’t have a clue what goes on in this House.”

The fag pauses.

“And welcome.”

He sticks out his hand.

“I’m Stevie.”

Since I am well on my way to drunken land, I stick out my hand. It’s a bar after all.

“Der…David,” I correct myself.

Fuck sakes.

No need to spit out my real name in this place.

We shake hands.

“Nice to meet you, David.”

The fag is smiling. He can see through my charade.

“Don’t worry. Nobody uses their real name in this place. Because this place is not real. If you stick around long enough, you will find out. Shit, be careful though.”

Unexpectedly, a third member joins our party.

What is this, the social table?

It is the guy who pulled into the parking lot beside me. The scurrier. He plops down into a chair. I look at him. He is wearing two things. A towel around his waist, and a collar around his neck. The third guy at our table with a collar on. Because Stevie, or whatever his name is, is also wearing a collar.

The collar gang.

The new guy looks totally messed up. Drug messed up. He wasn’t messed up when he walked across the street. When he scurried across the street.

“Who’s the newbie?” he slurs to Stevie Leather Pants.

“This is Dave. Dave, this is Mentor.”

What was this idiot’s name? Mentor?

I didn’t want to shake hands with the towel man, but not to be rude, I did. Mentor. What a stupid name. Since it was a fake name, why not go for it? I was already thinking of changing my fake name to something else. Mentor sounded better than Dave.

Or Stevie.

Stevie Nicks?

Why not?

He was almost a girl, with the fine features and thick hair and tight pants and heeled boots.

I looked hard at this Mentor dude. He had the bobble head thing going on. His pupils were dilated. He was stoned on something good. Or something bad. The night ahead would tell for Mentor Man.

I sipped some more of my drink. Thinking.

“What did you mean by me being careful?” I ask Leather Pants Stevie Nicks.

I saw his eyes perk up, spying something behind me.

“You watch.”

Suddenly, the huge, tattooed pit bull man from the room next to mine blustered into the bar area. He was heading straight for our table. A man on a mission. His heavy feet fell as he stepped smartly. He stopped behind Mentor’s chair and snapped a leash around the stoned one’s neck. Yanked the idiot to his feet. Pit Bull growled something incomprehensible into Mentor’s ear, and began dragging him back towards the hallway maze.

WTF was that all about!

Nobody else in the room batted an eye. Only me. The rookie.

Did…? Was I seeing…?

Nobody cared?

I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. No, I sure as hell wasn’t.

“The little collar you are wearing around your neck,” Stevie said. “It means you are available to be leashed.”

What did he mean? Leashed?

“If you get leashed in this place, you’re at the mercy of your master. Not a position you want to be in as a rookie.”

Stevie seemed to be thinking.

“Actually, not a position you want to be in, regardless of your experience. Some of the nut jobs who come in here are pretty sick.”

Jesus. No kidding.

The Pit Bull was easily yanking the Mentor Man, rag-dolling him.

Shit.

Were there bigger Leash Men around than Pit Bull?

What was going to happen to Mentor Man, back there in the maze?

Was he on his way to see God?

I look at my drink. It is empty, save the ice cubes and the orange slice. Using the straw, I twirl the orange slice around in my glass.

“Are you going to eat your slice?” Leather Pants Stevie asks.

Yes, I think I will. Since I paid for it. With no tip, of course. I fish the orange slice out and suck back the meaty fruit. I drop the perfect circle of cleaned peel back into the glass. Immediately, my tongue feels numb. Novocain numb.

The game is over on the big screen. The lights in the bar have dimmed. I didn’t notice it happening. I look around the room. It’s mostly empty. The guys have headed back into the maze. They are ready to shed their ‘normal sports guys’ skins, for something entirely different. The smart ones are heading for the highway, knowing the Pit Bull is on the prowl.

There are two guys necking on the big screen. They are life size, as were the basketball players. I got it. The game is over, it is late, and it is time for porn. Both guys on the screen are young and strapping, and shirtless. Bad actors. Disgusting behavior. My face is an open book.

Stevie has been watching my reaction to the porn.

“I don’t think you belong here,” he interrupts.

I look at him. He is looking at his watch. As if timing something. Or letting time pass for something to happen.

“Why don’t you head back to your room. I will meet you there and help you with the collar. You need a key to remove it. The thing will beep if you try to wear it out of here, and then you will really be the center of attention.”

Made sense to me. I stand up to go. I am shaky on my feet. Six cans of beer and seven point five ounces of vodka. After a six month layoff. My tongue, my lips and my throat are tingling as well. From the orange slice.

“By the way,” I ask, “What is this House of God all about?”

Stevie the fag is looking at me, contemplating the question.

“You know what? If you ever decide to come back to this place, I will tell you all about it. For now, it’s starting to heat up in here. You should get the hell out while you can. You’re in room one two niner, right? See you there in ten minutes.”

[to be continued…………]

[join the author on FaceBook, RONAN JACKSON JEFFERSON]