Revery

Without really understanding why, I stopped in at a local bar that I rarely frequented these days.  I could say I was thirsty, but who ‘really’ goes to a bar just to slake their thirst?  I suppose, if you expand your definition of thirst, it might be closer to the truth. 

Hadn’t been out in what felt like years, though really was only a couple of months.  Bar’s in the city, I’m in the ‘burbs.  It tends to cater to a clientele affecting an intentionally hyper-masculine demeanor.  What can I say, the smell of leather can be an heady scent.

Up front, I will admit that I dabble more than embrace the leather lifestyle.  I attribute it to the ‘moth/flame’ mentality – the intensity of leather sex is incredibly sexy to me.  I’m both titillated and terrified.  That smell – of warm leather – took me back to an experience I had years ago.  Let me be clear here – I don’t not judge those into leather, in a way I envy them that they've found a place in the universe in which they fit.

I lived in NYC for about 5 years.  It was during my tenure there that I was first introduced to a leather bar.  I found my first visit there very intimidating.  I’m  not sure what I expected to happen, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred.  Other than a difference in attire, it was just another bar.  That encouraged me to go back  Over my time in NY, I visited a number of bars with some regularity – and those bars were varied, in terms of clientele.  On any given Friday evening, I’d make a circuit which started at Splash, moved on to Uncle Charlie’s (just admitting that dates me), Eighty Eight’s and then the Lure.  Alternatively, I’d end my evening at the Eagle or Spike sometimes, for variety.  Fear of connecting meant I often times went home alone. 

Over the years, I’d occasionally kept the company of professionals.  Those who, for a few dollars, would provide an educational or social experience.  Euphemism, don’cha love it?

One such professional advertised in a publication called HX (aka, the homo extra).  I don't recall, now, the exact wording but I do recall the photo that accompanied the ad.  Well tailored, well worn leather chaps.  I can recall the amount of courage I had to summon just to call and make an appointment.  Yes, we called people – before the day of ubiquitous email.  I remember the trip to his apartment, I was sweating bullets, and slightly short of breath.  I recall that I wore jeans, that the guy I met was dark haired, well built, approximately my age.  He was of Hispanic descent with that black hair that falls in waves.  He spoke to me in a low, conversational manner.  I found that, more than anything, slightly unnerving.  I had never used – hell never needed – a safe word before.  He was entirely non-judgmental.  At the same time, I wasn’t there to be coddled and he didn’t do me the disservice of treating me too gently. 

Quietly, he bound my hands behind my back.  Hand cuffs.  Tight enough that I wasn’t going to move around, loose enough that I wasn’t going to lose circulation.  He had me kneel and, leaning forward, had me begin by licking his leather boots.  I never thought that I’d be ‘into’ that activity, but as I knelt there in nothing but a pair of briefs, and handcuffs, my dick was hard and drooling. 

I can vaguely recall the smell, the taste of his leather.  What I will never forget was the feel of those chaps against my cheek.  Leaning down to lick his boot, and the start licking up the leg of his chaps, the soft, supple leather against my cheek felt… warm, and safe. 

As I completed my assigned task of cleaning his leather with my tongue, he’d ask me – after each section – ‘Do you think that’s good enough, boy?’

‘Yes Sir?’ I’d answer uncertainly – wanting to give the right answer, wanting to please a man I’d only just met.

‘Do you?’

‘No Sir.’

‘That’s right, keep at it.’

Occasionally during these question/answer sessions, he’s swat my ass with his hand.  Invariably, I’d gasp and my dick would jump.

Occasionally, he’d twist my nipples.  Another gasp, another jump. 

Slowly, I made my way up to the point where hip joins crotch.  As I got closer to his crotch, he started twisting my nipples in earnest.  After close to an hour of submission, never once touching my own dick, the intensity got to be too much.  I recall using the safe word, hoping to buy a reprieve, a chance to breath.  Naïve as I was, I didn’t realize it would end the experience entirely for that session. 

It took a while to process what I had experienced, what I had felt.  In the end, I never even touched his dick, though it was hard inside a leather codpiece.  I hoped that it meant that I didn’t disappoint.  In spite of the fact that neither of us came, it was an amazing experience for me, and I wouldn’t change it.