The thing with Nance doesn't last.
How can it? She's not going to drag her fingers over your lips til they tingle and tell you what cocksucking lips you have, how they were just made for taking it. She’s not going to palm your ass and tell you what a good boy you are and then light you up from head to toe, and she’s not going to kiss you with ecstasy on her tongue and drag you down, down, down, until your head and the room are both spinning and everything is hot salt sweat freedom all narrowed down to the point of a huge meaty taste in your throat and strong firm fingers at the back of your head.
She’s not going to tie you up whether you like it or not (you do).
So you tell her that it’s not her, it’s you, she smacks your face and says, “you fucker, don’t you think I already knew that?” and kicks you out of her apartment. “Don’t forget your creepy S&M gear,” she says, and throws your leather jacket and cap after you.
You take both and you leave, and you go straight to the park. A few hours in, you’re feeling fine.
The detective thing doesn’t last, either.
Not after Edelson (Edelstein) does some investigation. And some talking to the neighbors. Tells you that Ted’s pretty boyfriend Gregory is on the hook for his boyfriend’s murder, but swears it was all his hothead neighbor Steve. Steve who was in love with Ted, according to Gregory. Steve who nearly broke Gregory’s ribs when Gregory suggested this to him.
And Edelson is sure they’re gonna finger that asshole fag one day, but he’s also sure maybe you need a nice vacation. Maybe he should have listened when you told him the job was affecting you.
Maybe you just need to take a break from police action for a while. Clear your head.
And by the way, Steve--the prints on that musician kid you fingered came up clean. Don’t match the prints on the quarter, and he’s still insisting you attacked him first.
Plus, your cover’s totally blown so you’re no good on that assignment anymore--but maybe that’s for the best, right?
Listen, Steve. Police department’s no place for people who need to dump their problems all over their co-workers--that’s not what Edelson’s saying--but if you have anything, any extra evidence, you’d like the detectives to go over, well. You just let them know.
Yeah. Yeah, you’ll let them know.
So you find Gregory and you slide off his dancer leg-warmers and you lift his slender hips and you give it to him--you give it to him good, the smug bastard, just like you gave it to Ted.
And you find Skip, you tell him you just want to apologize for the way the department treated him, but then you get him on his back underneath you, and you tell him how you're gonna make it so nobody ever hurts him again. and you talk so long he begs you--pleads. please, please. please.
You didn’t even have to tie him up. Which was a shame, because maybe you wanted to try that with him first--
(what are you doing, what is this, you dirty fucking manwhore, if your mother could see you now, your father, if they could see you among all these filthy sluts, among all this flesh and blood and sex and sweat and leather, dancing, groping, being groped, being taken and trussed and gagged and made to beg, made to whimper for it, what would they say? what would they say if they knew that even now, weeks after the job ending, you had that grey overshirt tucked in your back right pocket for a reason? Just a jacket, like fuck, it’s a handkerchief, plain and simple--grey because you’re into bondage, because you’re into ropes and leather and harnesses and ball gags and pain and sometimes even those little pipettes that go where nothing should ever go, and they wouldn’t know anything about that because they think you’re a good boy, oh, but they don’t know just what a good boy you can be, do they? they don’t know that it goes in your right pocket because you want to take it, you want to be the one being tied up, being ordered to bend over, be spanked, be petted, be used, be whipped, be prodded, poked, fucked, spunked, until you can’t think, til you can’t breathe without a cock down your throat, can’t move without a thick, heavy dick stroking you good, putting it right where you need it.
oh, god, they don’t know, they can’t know, because none of this is real, none of it, none of it means anything; and if sometimes you want them to go even further, to hurt you past oblivion, if sometimes you want to do the hurting--if sometimes you do get a little carried away, like you did with Ted, Ted, so innocent, so sweet and trusting and filthy little faggot, all hips and lips and danger, he deserved what he got, they all did, they all did it to you just like you’re gonna do it to them)--
So you go deeper.
Sure, your cover’s blown, but it’s surprising how quickly people forget. Just switch that jacket from the right pocket to the left and people look at you like you’re a whole new person. And you’re down there among the meatpackers and the wharfs and the warehouses, packing your own meat, all right, night after night after night, and you get better, and better, and if you help a few other men, lost, lonely, like yourself, to disappear too every now and again--well, no one really cares.
And a few years later, when the real killer returns to the bathhouses and is met with laughter and incredulity instead of panic, shock, and outrage; when he strikes without giving anyone a chance to fight back; when they start wasting away in their leather jackets, rumors here and there at first, and then dropping like flies, til the panic spreads from Fire Island to San Francisco, and the clubs start to get locked down with vague health inspection warnings that no one really understands--
--well. You tell yourself it was only a matter of time before someone recognized you there in the middle of all that black leather, that teeming mass of semen-and-sweat-covered bodies. Even if the someone is Death himself.
You settle back to watch.
You watch them fall.
You wait your turn.