Small Town

She dipped two fingers into a jar of lubricant, worked it into him. She talked to him all the while, telling him he was her little Franny, her little girl, and she was going to fuck him. She got her other hand underneath him and held his cock while she probed him, and she felt it grow in her hands.

Then she let go of him and strapped on the harness. It was tricky, she’d had trouble when she tried it on the first time, but now she got it right, and attached the dildo. The smallest one, because she didn’t want to hurt him, not more than a little.

Just as she was about to enter him, a thought came: Wait, am I allowed to do this? She registered the thought and overrode it, slipping easily into him, and the thought went away.

She became the man, somehow, and he the woman, and the rubber dildo became her own stiffened flesh. Every thrust stimulated her clit and sent tremors through her whole pelvic area, but that was the least of it, really. It was the idea of it, the reality of it: he was helpless and she was fucking him, fucking him, fucking him like a girl.

Death row was going to be a problem.

He could see that right away. The bar was on Nineteenth Street near the Hudson, not far from the facility where he had his storage locker. It was a gay bar, too, but of a different sort from Cheek. A huge man stood at the entrance, his arms corded with muscle, his belly hanging over his belt. He was wearing black leather pants, a black tank top, and studded leather wristbands, and his head was shaved, with a large hoop earring hanging from his right earlobe. He was letting some people in and sending others away, and a pattern was not hard to discern: the ones permitted to enter were all wearing either denim or leather.

He didn’t own appropriate clothing. He could buy some, though not at this hour, but sensed that he wouldn’t pass muster no matter how he dressed.

Nor was there a window, blackened or clear. The ground-floor facade was whitewashed brick sporting spray-painted graffiti and, over the door, the name of the establishment. A drawing on the black door showed a skeleton, a ball and chain on one ankle, within a prison cell.

He positioned himself so that he could get a glimpse of the interior when the door opened, but all he saw were dangerous-looking men entering or leaving, with no indication where they got to once they entered, or where they were coming from before they left. He went around the corner and sat down in a doorway and thought things over.

When he returned, he walked up to the doorkeeper, who sized him up, called him Pops, and told him he couldn’t come in. “You’re not dressed right,” he said, and pointed to a sign that spelled out the dress code, in addition to banning weapons, hazardous materials, and illegal drugs. The dress code, he somehow knew, was more rigorously enforced than the other provisions.

He let his shoulders slump forward, heaved a sigh.

“Pops,” the fellow said gently, “do you know what kind of a place this is?”

“I think so.”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t feel at home here.”

“My son did.”

“Say what?”

He drew a breath, let it out. “My son used to come here. He was... he liked the company of men, he liked to dress in leather.”

“And you’re trying to find him?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He died of... that disease.”

“Yeah, well, lots of people did. I lost a lot of friends.”

It was interesting, he thought. The man looked so intimidating, with his big shaved head and his muscles and his dress, but underneath he was gentle.

“I just wanted to... to see some of the places he liked. That was a whole side of his life I couldn’t share with him, and I just...”

He let his voice trail off, waiting.

“I can’t take you downstairs,” the fellow said. He drew the door open, motioned for him to come over and look. Inside, a flight of stairs descended, lit by low-wattage bulbs. Downstairs, music played, almost drowned out by the sound of men talking and dancing.

“That’s the best I can do, Pops. I’ll tell you what you’d see downstairs. There’s a big room with stuff hanging on the walls, and a lot of men in leather and denim drinking and talking, maybe dancing a little. And there’s a back room, but we don’t need to get into that.”

And what were the hours?

“He said sometimes he would stay all night,” he said. “The sun would be up by the time he left.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we don’t always close when we’re supposed to. But we’re usually locked up by six, anyway.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. I’m sure my son would have liked you.”

“Maybe I knew him. What was his name?”

“Herbert,” he said. “Herbert Asbury.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” the fellow said, “but there’s a lot of guys I know by sight, that I never get their names. So maybe I did know him. One thing, I’ll bet he was a nice fellow.”

He was lying on his back, his arms at his sides. She had removed the hood and the restraints, and he’d been entirely passive during the process, neither helping nor resisting.

She asked him how he felt.