DAVID 185
It’s funny how you can remember one thing…one minute in your life that becomes indelibly branded in your memory. When I think of minutes like that, it seems that I recall forces of nature or moments that change the world, or at least your view of the world: Where were you during the earthquake? Who was with you? Where were you when you heard that somebody in particular had died? When and where did you meet the love of your life?
There was one minute that was astounding on several levels. I saw what amounted to a force of nature, and I saw the shadowy caste system we live in crystallize and separate, and in my own awe, I felt separate from it all for a moment, and knew that I’d always remember the catalyst and the result.
I remember I had just ordered another beer. The Eagle is the premier leather bar in this city, and on this hot, sultry night, it was packed with bare-chested men. As usual, there was a kind of cloudy separation. Most of the men were the ones that wanted to be taken home that night, although they dressed more like butch tops. Some wore only boots and jeans, and others had the leather gear piled on: chains, cuffs, armbands, keys, harnesses, and hats. These were usually the men who were trying too hard to be butch, and sure enough, inevitably one would open his mouth and speak, and a boy’s voice would come squeaking out, and the whole body would move with the loose, languid moves of a fourteen year old girl. And then there were the few predators. These were the prize catches, or more accurately…the prize catchers. They were butch, handsome, built, and they knew it. They took their time to scan the crowd, to choose who they would talk to, to choose from whom advances would be allowed, to choose who they wanted to take home. Their decisions could be dispensed with the simplest of movements after eye contact was made. A slight sneer, a scoff, or turning away to speak to the man next to you and then laughing meant you had no chance. A steady gaze or a subtle touching of the crotch meant that you could approach. They were a loud bunch, these kings of the bar, because they were in control, and the others were quiet as they tried to be seen, sucking in their guts, flexing slightly, thrusting hips forward or butts backwards. But the favored ones, the men who had been born beautiful, or had made themselves beautiful via the gym, they had power. The bar was where they were the top of the pyramid. They were their own little fraternity that looked down on the rest of the world, dangled their masculinity in front of the others like a carrot in front of a donkey, and laughed at what others would do to spend a night with them, or to be one of them.
I sipped my beer, There were a lot of hot numbers tonight. The heat brings them out. It’s an excuse to lose your shirt, and pretend that you had to walk around naked from the waist up because of the heat. There were a couple that I found myself staring at because, god they were studs! I felt fortunate in that there were more than a few guys staring at me, but these were of the lowest caste, ones that knew they had no chance with the kings, but found me attractive enough for their flirtatious energies.
I ignored them.
Because that’s what you do. It’s all a game. It’s all a wait, to see who leaves with the stud, not who you settle for, but how far up the social ladder you score. And that was the first moment I sensed that something was coming. Amid all that raucous laughter and noise, I heard a heavy boot descend with a controlled force and yet a huge stomp on the top of the stairs. It was followed by another stomp, and then two seconds later, another. Either someone was slamming their foot down on every step as they descended into the bar, or something gigantic was slowly coming down the stairs. I surmised that I would soon shake my head or drop my jaw. And when I saw the size of the boot that came down on the highest step visible to me, I dropped my jaw. This was the biggest boot I’d ever seen. And then, stomp….another one on the step below it. Heads in the bar began to turn, yet the noise of the crowd did not abate.
Stomp.
The slow and steady gait was of someone in absolutely no hurry, and yet the deliberate slowness was in itself a dramatic entrance. More heads turned. More mouths stopped. Necks craned, elbows nudged, hands went up to silence conversations in mid-sentence. Because…well…it was just mind-numbing to see him appear. It’s hard to describe. I think once we saw the size of his thighs, and just how tall his legs were, we braced ourselves for what was to follow. And so he descended to the bottom of the stairs, but he paused before he put his foot down. He held it in the air, standing deftly on one foot, quickly scanned the crowd with a baleful glare, and then finally…
STOMP
He stood there. The bar was nearly silent. Everyone could hear several people whisper, and they all said the same thing. “Oh my god.”
This guy was HUGE!
He must have been at least six foot six, and just so, so much bigger than any of the football players I’ve seen close up. Defensive linemen that weighed two hundred eighty pounds would be dwarfed by him. His arms were bigger than legs. His thighs were like waists. He was muscle undreamed of. He must have weighed three fifty…at least. He was just the biggest man I’ve ever seen, and it was all packed into an outrageous tower of distilled masculinity that struck you down like a freight train. There was absolutely, positively nothing subtle about him. He wore gigantic black boots that undoubtedly were made just for him because the size of his feet and the girth of his calves were unheard of. I’d never seen feet that big or calves like those. He wore tight, black leather chaps, again undoubtedly custom made because they molded to his thighs. He wore nothing beneath them. His ass was bare except for the strap the nestled deep between his high, twin globes of muscle. That thong strap was the back of a leather codpiece that failed to cover his pubes and was suspended from the belt of his chaps by two pieces of chain. The codpiece protruded a good six inches in front of him and was bigger than two fists. The very size of it, and the way it sort of preceded him, made the mind reel as you tried to imagine what could require all that space, what was so heavy that it could be suspended from chains and not seem ridiculous. His waist was a small column of muscle. His abs looked like armor plating. His back flared out shockingly His shoulders were unbelievable in their breadth. His biceps looked positively deadly. His chest took your breath away; it was huge, hairy, defined, thick, and like the guys who pretended to be necessarily shirtless, his nipples pretended not to be beacons of moan-producing, hip-thrusting, fiery animal sex.
He had a three day growth of beard on the squarest jaw you could ever want, and it was topped off by a perfect, stalwart, clefted chin. That he had chiseled features goes without saying, but they were chiseled in granite. Ink-black hair peeked out from beneath his leather hat which he wore low over his eyes, and all that muscle and hair and outrageous, in-your-face butchness was juxtaposed against delicate, sky blue eyes that seemed to glow with an unnatural sparkle. And all this, in a face that glowered at the silent crowd. And then he broke his gaze and stomped over to the bar. The crowd parted. Watching him move was a religious experience. He walked slowly, as though he owned the place, because you see, for all practical purposes, he did. His ass cheeks shifted up and down as he walked. He had that thighs-spread, elbows-out, chest high strut of a bodybuilder, which many of the guys in the bar had perfected, but did not need. HE…couldn’t walk any other way. He strode up to the bar, and looked at Pete as though he was going to bash his head in. Pete backed away, but smiled. And then I heard Pete say, “H-hi Dave.”
Dave took off his hat and threw it on the bar. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead
“What’ll you have?” Pete asked.
Dave looked sideways at some of the guys standing against the wall. He sneered, as if to say, “Not any of those.” Then he scanned the bottles against the back of the bar, looked at Pete, and growled, “My usual.”
Pete nodded and began mixing a drink. The crowd craned their necks to see what Pete was mixing. Dave shot them a glance that just screamed, “Back off.” Dave could have ordered milk…in a dirty glass…and it would have seemed the ultimate in butch.
Then came the moment, one minute from the first stomp, when the social order cleaved and I saw a fascinating separation. Dave turned toward the crowd and spread his legs wide. And then he slowly, slowly raised those titanic arms and smoothed down the back of his hair, a motion that was so slick, so slow, so suave, so sure…so contrived, so calculated, so devastating in its ability to show off his body, it caused one collective gasp from the whole crowd. And in that moment, all the kings cowered. All the kings pouted. All the kings hated him, and their only way to save face was to be the one he took home. And the rest of the crowd stood up straight, sucked in their guts, touched their crotches. No one had the nerve though, to flex their muscles.
2004