But I couldn’t go back. I tried to reach for the door handle, but my arm refused to work. I couldn’t go back in after my idiotic dramatic exit.
So I drove around for a while, trying to figure out what to do—whether or not to go back to the bar, or to go home and tell Brad what had happened—try to get him to talk about what was wrong between us—or just get so fucking drunk I wouldn’t care about anything.
I decided to go home. Right now, the important thing wasn’t the bar or my job, or even my frustration—the important thing was us, the two of us, our relationship—whatever the hell that was. The trouble was, there were no definitions. Neither one of us really knew what to expect of the other. We weren’t husband and wife—but what were we?
The lights were out in the apartment. There were no notes to indicate where Brad had gone, or when he expected to be back.
I sat for a long time in the dark kitchen, drinking several beers as I imagined all sorts of things he could be doing: cruising the parks, sucking cocks through those “glory holes,” fucking some new lover. He wasn’t expecting me to be home until three o’clock, so he could be almost anywhere, doing almost anything.
I decided I was only making things worse by sitting in the dark, brooding. There was a possibility that Brad had gone to the market for something and had met one of our neighbors, or an old friend. They could have gone into the Shoo-Fly, a neighborhood gay bar right around the corner. I decided to check it out.
The bartender looked up and grinned. “Back so soon?”
“What?”
He leaned across the bar confidentially. “What happened? Didn’t he dig getting tied up?”
“What? What are you talking about?” But, as soon as I’d said it, I knew what he was talking about: he thought I was Brad.
“Oh, come on, honey, don’t give me that innocent shit. He was hot.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think you were watching that closely.”
“Honey, I’ve got eyes in the back of my head. What’ll it be, beer or booze?”
“Well, neither, actually. You just gave me what I came in for.”
“My goodness. I must be good. I didn’t even notice.”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, that’s a fact.”
“Then you must be his twin brother, honey.”
“No, I’m his lover. And, thanks to you, I know where he is—or at least what he’s doing. Thanks a lot—honey.”
For just a moment, he looked contrite—almost ready to apologize. Then he started to laugh. “Oh, shit. It’s you, isn’t it? You’re them. Oh, this is just too delicious for words. Was he cheating on you? Yes, he was, wasn’t he? We had heard rumors—ugly, ugly rumors. But, I mean, you have reason to be upset, don’t you?” He laughed triumphantly. “My dear—you have my condolences. Not all of them, mind you, but a great big gob of them.” The phone started ringing and he walked away laughing, to answer it. “Shoo Fly. We’re open for business. Cum and get it. Who is this? Mom? No, really, who is this?”
I went home and gave myself a deep enema, then showered and put on my tightest pair of Levi’s, thinking, It’s sauce for the gander time.
As I drove along Folsom, a car pulled out of a parking space in front of Leather Country. Without even thinking, I made a U-turn and parked. For a minute, I sat staring at the doorway to the bar, trying to decide whether or not I really wanted to go in. There was a tap on the window, and I turned to see a guy standing there in full leather-biker regalia, looking at me with a shitty grin. I rolled down the window. “Yeah, what’s your problem?”
His smile vanished. “Actually, sir, it’s your problem.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a black leather pass-case, which he flipped open to reveal a silver shield—from the San Francisco Police Department. It looked real. “Would you step out of the truck, please? Lean on the hood with your hands where I can see them, and spread your legs… please.”
I did as he said, my heart pounding insanely. “What did I do?”
Without answering, he ran both hands over my back and down my sides, then up the insides of my legs. There was no doubt that his hand paused a little too long when it moved over my ass, then my cock and balls. The sonofabitch was copping a feel.
“May I see your driver’s license?”
I stood up and fumbled for my wallet. My hands were shaking as I withdrew the license and handed it to him. “Could you tell me what it is you think I did wrong?” I asked.
“Did you know that U-turns are illegal here?”
“U-turns? You’re kidding. This is about a U-turn?”
“U-turns are extremely dangerous in areas like this.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just saw the parking space and there weren’t any cars coming.”
“Kind of anxious to get inside, were you?” He nodded toward the bar.
I was beginning to suspect that this was some kind of elaborate pickup routine. “Not really.”
“I’ll have to give you a ticket,” he said.
I watched him walk to where his bike was parked and take a clipboard from a saddlebag. Something else was wrong. That wasn’t a police motorcycle. As he came back toward me, I couldn’t help but notice a large bulge in his tight leather pants.
“Your bike isn’t quite regulation, is it?” I asked. “Or your uniform.”
“No,” he said quickly. “It’s my own bike, not the city’s. I’m off duty. But that won’t stop me from giving you a ticket. Sign here, please.”
“What would stop you?” I asked—and my heart started pounding again. I knew I was doing something incredibly stupid and dangerous, but I was drunk and very angry with the world.
He lowered the clipboard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I stared at his crotch very pointedly and said, “I don’t know. I just wondered.”
“You see something down there that interests you?” he asked coldly.
I looked up—into cool green eyes—then back at his crotch, at the bulge, which had grown slightly. “Well,” I said, “yes. As a matter of fact.”
“You know I could arrest you for that?”
“For what?” I asked innocently. “What did I do?”
He chuckled. “You’re a gutsy one, aren’t you?
I shrugged, still staring at his crotch. He adjusted his stance so I could see it even better in the light from the streetlight. There was no doubt that he had a very large cock—and it was very hard.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“My prick,” he hissed.
“It’s very big,” I said.
“You got that right,” he said. “Do you want it?”
“Not if you’re going to arrest me… or give me a ticket.”
He studied me carefully, up and down several times. “Do you have someplace to go?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you want to take me there?”
“Yes.”
He took my driver’s license from under the clip and started to give it back—then he slipped it into his jacket pocket and zipped it up. “I think I’ll keep this until we get where we’re going. Okay?”
“Anything you say, sir,” I said, feeling giddy.
“That’s right, friend. You’ve got the idea. Anything I say.” He patted my arm. “I’ll follow you home.”
As he lowered himself onto the seat of his bike, he adjusted his hard cock so he could sit comfortably—then looked up at me with a shitty grin and squeezed it with both hands. “Okay.” he called. “Let’s haul ass.”