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Gabe’s Roadhouse was a rural gay leather’s club northwest of Richmond, Virginia, where I and Vivian lived. It was located there, on Port Conway Road, because it was across the Rappahannock River from the extensive A. P. Hill army training base, where rigorous basic military training for the U.S. Army was conducted on a base named for a Confederate general. When a guy went through the toughening and isolated training at A. P. Hill, he came out with the body of a god and randy as hell, with competing urges to beat up someone and to fuck someone. That was why a sex club would be located nearby. That the appetites of some of these guys, isolated under intense conditions just with other guys, went toward other guys was the reason Gabe’s Roadhouse was there.
The base was far away from everywhere. When you got sent here for training, you were in the sticks. Gabe’s flourished because it was a rough place for the young army guys, pent up with vinegar from their training, to let loose. Guys willing to help them do that came from far and wide, many in leather and on motorcycles, to help the young, fit soldiers do that. That’s why I was here. Not just because I wanted to experience it, but I wanted to write about it too–to write about raw emotions and the results of having those.
It hadn’t been easy to find out about this place. They didn’t exactly want the army to know about it.
I sat in my rental car in the high-fence-enclosed parking area behind what had once been an old farmhouse for several minutes after arriving from Richmond and practiced my scowl in the rearview mirror. I knew I looked the part, although it was a disguise–a mask of my real self, which was more the jet-set sophistication of the entertainment industry, my part being on the literary end of it. I was nicely bulked up for this; I spent a lot of time in the gym and a lot of guys said I looked younger than my thirty-five years.
It had been an effort to pull my ensemble together, the hardest part was in finding the black leather chest harness, with silver studs, with four strap-down straps to hold up the really hard-to-find tight black-leather trousers, with a codpiece, which dipped so low at the waist that the suspender straps were necessary and the waistband tickled the root of my cock. I was wearing a billowy white cotton shirt, open to the navel and ready to be discarded on whim. Accessorizing all of this were calf-high black leather boots, a black-leather biker’s hat, a riding crop, and the swaggering scowl I was practicing in the car. All I lacked was the motorcycle.
I walked into Gabe’s like I owned the place. The club room was on the first floor of the building and was entered from behind, off the parking lot. I had to wade through motorcycles to get to the door, so I knew it was a good day at the club. It was a good day, indeed. The place was crowded, a band was wailing away, and the dance floor, tables, and bar were well filled, if not to capacity. I had no trouble separating the soldiers from the bikers. The bikers were all in leather and heavily tattooed. I had a few of those, but they were the “can be scrubbed off” variety. The soldiers couldn’t have come off base in leather, so they wore mainly jeans and T-shirts. Some were in their army fatigues. They also were mainly smaller and submissive looking, although still fit, because soldiers who knew about Gabe’s and came here were not generally dominants. They came to be used, not to use.
One reason a place like Gabe’s was a success near a remote military training base like this was that the rigorous training on the base conditioned the guys to focusing on taking discipline and pain. Many of those on these bases wanted something entirely different from the discipline they were getting every day when they were allowed off base. There were others, though, seeking a different release other than the joy of having the punishment and training to stop–those who wanted sexual release–who just wanted an extension of what they already were receiving on base. They wanted to be controlled, used, punished. Those men came to a place like Gabe’s. And those who wanted to provide this discipline and pain also heard of Gabe’s and came here to use others.
I was working on a project about both kinds of men. As with all my work, I wanted it to come across as being authentic.
I started to move into the area with tables, picking out a table with two soldiers sitting and looking around. There was a cloud of smoke over the room; the clinking of pool balls off in a section that had once been the house’s dining room competed with the sound of the band in the corner of the club room. When I saw that one had a book and was putting it back into his backpack, though, I veered off and went to the bar. I recognized the book as In the Silence, an adventure thriller by a midlist author, Miles Martins. I wasn’t ready to discuss that, which the two soldiers apparently had been doing before breaking off and looking around at the other tables, so I tried a different venue. The soldiers with the book was Cebeci Escort looking at me like he thought I’d come over to their table, but I just turned away.
The name of the soldier at the bar was Roy, he told me when I let my fingers brush across one of his nipples under his thin T-shirt and he turned a smile on me. He was young, redheaded, and short. He had a somewhat bewildered look on his face, like this was his first visit to Gabe’s and he wanted something but didn’t know how to get there from here. I gave him what he wanted. I could tell that my mere touch of him intimately was like a jolt of electricity to him. I dropped my hand to his hip, which effective held him in place. I knew I looked good to him and that my having taken the initiative relieved him on how he was going to get started with this. He was mine for the taking–unless something spooked him and he bolted away.
His eyes went big when I angled in beside him at the bar. I obviously was the man of his dreams–the reason he came here, although he hadn’t known when he’d finally had the courage to enter Gabe’s whether or how to get across the barrier to his dream. I took him there.
“Has anyone offered you a drink yet?” I asked. He had a beer, but it was approaching empty. “Are you old enough to drink that?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, defensively, which told me that maybe he wasn’t. “I have a beer.” He lifted the glass to show me that he did.
“But you bought that yourself, right? No one’s bought you a drink. You haven’t been claimed yet, Right?”
He gave a little tug at the “haven’t been claimed yet” remark, knowing that we were into negotiations now.
“No, no one bought me this, and, sure, I’d like a drink. My name’s Roy.”
“Mike, here. I like the looks of you, Roy.” I signaled to the bartender for my first beer and Roy’s second. “You dance, Roy? You’ll dance with me?”
“Sure,” he said, as the drinks arrived.
“And more, Roy? You’ll do more for me? You’ll let me do more to you?” I had studied what lines I could use to test what I guy would do and what would arouse a guy who wanted what I was looking for–what I was researching. I’d already written the line in a novel in my head. I reached down and touched him on his basket. I sensed him shuddering. I was rushing him. He quite apparently was getting a charge out of that. My research was working with this one.
“What do you mean?” he asked. I think he knew exactly what I meant.
“They use you hard in military training over at A. P. Hill, do they, Roy?”
“Yes, it’s hard training.”
“And you came to Gabe’s because you like being used hard, right?” He didn’t answer because he was busy draining his second mug of beer.
“You let me buy you another beer and we’ll dance and then I’ll use you hard.”
Again, he didn’t answer that, but he accepted the third beer.
We danced for a while, close, touching each other, getting well acquainted. I whispered in his ear what I’d like us to be doing–what I’d like to be doing with and to him. I quizzed him on why he came to Gabe’s–what he was looking for. The stuttering answers to all of that drew us down to the basement of the building, where, inside insolating rock walls, a sexual torture gym was on offer. It was nearly as crowded down here as it had been upstairs. Men were wearing less down here than they were upstairs. Soldiers were getting what they came for; leathermen were giving what the soldiers wanted.
Roy was submissive to everything. His eyes lit up when he saw the unoccupied black leather sling in the corner. I laid him in that, on his back, legs spread and restrained to the corner chains at one end and arms the same at the other end, His head arched back toward the room. We took care of whether he’d take cock in his throat first.
My codpiece was flapping open, cock projecting, fully erect, a thickness and length I was proud of. I held Roy’s head cupped in my hands and fed my cock into his throat, moving the fingers of one hand to his throat to feel where I was penetrating. He gagged and groaned as I slowly face fucked him, but he held. This was what he’d come to Gabe’s for–for this and maybe more. We’d find out how much more.
Leaving him in that position, I moved behind him, using my riding crop, and warmed and redden his bare butt cheeks and fingered his hole with my other hand, while he grunted and vocalized the glory of what I was giving him. Other guys gathered around to watch and egg us on. Even more showed up when I mounted and penetrated him. They watched the fuck, stroking themselves and their neighbors. When I was finished, I gave him over to a line of leathermen who followed me. I positioned myself at his head, forcing him to take my cock in his mouth, while other guys moved, one after the other, below him, grasped his hips between their hands, and fed his ass their meat. He clearly was overwhelmed; he just as clearly was realizing the dream that had brought him to Gabe’s.
It was then, while I was standing Kolej Escort to the side, my still erect cock in hand rubbing his cheeks both outside and inside his mouth and watching others give Roy what he had come to Gabe’s to get, that all hell broke out. The room suddenly was swarming with cops–military police in khaki fatigues and boys in blue. A couple of civilians were there with flashing cameras as well.
The A. P. Hill brass had picked today to object to having Gabe’s Roadhouse on their doorstep and catering to their young soldiers.
The soldiers could be disciplined and brought to the wall for this. The other guys, like me, who were there to give them what they wanted–although I was there for another purpose altogether–were at limited legal risk. We faced a night in jail, if that’s what the local police wanted, until our lawyers showed up to nitpick what laws we were breaking under the careful preparations Gabe’s Roadhouse had established for the business it was providing.
But that’s what the flashing cameras were there for. The A. P. Hill brass and local authorities wanted to shut this down. They didn’t care all that much for carrying through prosecutions on the leathermen. They just wanted them to go away and not to come back. And for the “leathermen for a day,” like me, here for limited or other purposes, they wanted to embarrass us enough that we’d go away and not come back.
They zeroed in on men like me with their cameras, which would lead to a photo or two in the newspaper and online until or unless people like me could muster enough clout to close those down. Once up there, though, the damage was done. I bore the brunt of these raid, all thanks to a guy with a book in his backpack.
The guy I’d seen upstairs with the book wasn’t a seeking soldier from A. P. Hill Base at all. He was a plant, someone sent in by the authorities to help set the stage for the raid. Not long after the cops arrived and were separating out soldiers from leathermen–and helping a sheepish Roy, eyes glazed over from having been oversatisfied with his dream–the plant with the book came downstairs. He was flashing the book.
“This guy here. This one’s a writer. Look at the photo on the back of this book. I’m sure this guy’s Miles Martin.” He was waving around the copy of In the Silence, which, indeed, was one of my novels. Flashes flashed. I was now going to be a star for a day on the Internet.
I had been Mike here, with a leathermen’s mask. But, yes, in another life I wore a Miles Martin mask. At home, with Vivian, who wore other masks herself, the mask I wore was that of Marty Miller.
But, no doubt about it, I’d been made. It didn’t matter that this had all been a mask–a role I had taken on to research my next book–that it wasn’t the real me at all. But it wasn’t the real me that would be depicted in the salacious news. I was someone else altogether. That and four pennies wouldn’t get me a nickel, though.
* * * *
“Isn’t it just the cutest little house?”
“Yes, it’s something very special,” I said, nearly tripping over a young guy–a very nice-looking young guy–kneeling at the baseboard in the 980-square foot log cabin I’d bought near the center of the 1,500-people town of Martinsville nearly on Virginia’s border with North Carolina. The town was far, it seemed, from anywhere, which was rather the point for which I was relocating there. I was conversing with the real estate agent, another rather hunky guy named Ted Compton, who had sold me this place two months earlier just from photos on the Internet and exchanges of e-mails. I had bought it as a writing retreat and had done so without telling Vivian, my wife, but I hadn’t expected to be occupying it on the sort of retreat I now faced. I’d started negotiations on it before the A. P. Hill incident, intending to retreat there to write my next book that I’d been researching at the club near A. P. Hill.
I’d just spent the one night in the Bowling Green jail over the A. P. Hill gay club raid issue. The authorities had mainly been into closing the club down and disciplining the soldiers who went there. Roy, the soldier I’d worked over, had managed to disappear during the raid, so they didn’t have him to go into what I was doing at the club into detail, and no one else they picked up was willing to give them help on that. They, of course, were highly skeptical of my explanation that I was researching a book and that’s why I was in sex leathers–that it was just a role I was playing, a mask to enable my research. Yes, it sounded lame, but it was, in fact, the truth. I wasn’t the dungeon master type I was portraying. It was a role to help me write it. That didn’t mean I wasn’t actively gay, though. They had me there.
It also didn’t mean, I had found out about myself in Gabe’s Roadhouse, that I didn’t become aroused by taking on a BDSM role in sex. I had gotten hard when I was flogging Roy. I can’t deny that. I don’t think I wanted to do that again, but it showed me that I Yenimahalle Escort wasn’t shy about fetish possibilities.
And on that note, it didn’t really matter all that much that they’d ended up letting me go without filing charges. I was the most public fish they’d landed in the raid. They had gleefully plastered me all over the Internet and press with the story of the raid to give it a higher profile. And, so, although most of my friends in Richmond knew I was gay–and even my wife, known to the world as the film actress Vivian Royal, knew–the whole world hadn’t known before that the younger novelist husband of the international movie actress Vivian Royal was gay and had been caught in a raid on a gay club in Virginia–and not just any gay bar, a leather bar.
The story was still reverberating around the state and entertainment and book industries two weeks after the fact, and that’s when I decided the small house in the countryside I’d bought to retreat to to write was going to have to be my “disappearance” hideout. I couldn’t face Vivian, who I knew as Maggie Pearson. She was still on movie location in Egypt. Who knows what damage I’d done to her reputation? And for all I knew they’d release her from her contract for this bad publicity that was in no way her fault.
So, I just disappeared and came on down, leaving our luxurious 6,000-square foot Georgian mansion on the James River in the exclusive Westover Hills section of Richmond, Virginia, for this two-bedroom, one bath log cabin I’d bought for a mere $75,000. I’d probably have to put that much more into it to make it fully livable, but the charm of the house with a price tag that was closer to a car Vivian would buy than a house had intrigued and sold me.
“Yes, yes it’s very quaint I said,” giving the Realtor, Ted Compton, a smile. The look he gave back indicated an interest I was well aware of, but surely he hadn’t seen the news reports on the roadhouse raid and connected it with me. I’d picked Martinsville because it seemed like it was at the end of the world while still being only a couple of hours’ drive from Richmond. Surely he wasn’t giving me that smile because he’d seen me in the news.
I had met Compton for the first time that day. I hadn’t known that he wasn’t any older than I was–thirty-five–or so good looking. I hadn’t picked this town for opportunities to have trysts away from Richmond. Just the opposite. I thought of Martinsville as a hick town with no knowledge of anything but missionary hetero sex. I could freely be me among Vivian and my literary and entertainment set in Richmond, but that wouldn’t work here. She and I got along quite well and were comfortable in our set of friends. She wasn’t as interested in men as her public mask portrayed her to be and I was happy to have her conversation, money, and access to interesting people. But we had a much more conventional marriage mask on for the world at large beyond Richmond to see.
I had wanted the isolated retreat to have to get away to. That Compton might be a prospect for something more than just my Realtor hadn’t been foreseen. Our initial interaction had been quite formal, but from the time we’ve spent together going to closing on the house, inspecting it with the plumber and electrician Compton brought in and were now waiting for a small moving van from Richmond to arrive with the few things I was bring from home to augment the furniture that had been left in the cottage, we’d progressed to something bordering on friendship–and maybe, now that we were meeting face to face, intimacy.
“We can be very discreet here in Martinsville, Mr. Miller–or may I call you Martin? We are quite informal here.”
“You can call me Marty… Ted,” I said. Martin Miller wasn’t just another mask, although I guess I could say it was the one I’d be wearing here in Martinsville. That was my legal name.
“Yes, well, Marty, as I was saying, I think we can manage to make you very happy here without a lot of fuss. We’re a small town, but there’s a lot on offer here. I hope you’ll feel you can call on me to help you settle in and get what you want here. We’re not a gossipy sort of town. We can be discreet.”
“Thank you,” I said, going to the front door of the cottage with him. I almost felt that there was some subtext in what he was saying that I was supposed to understand. But it had been a taxing day. I’d think on that later. I continued to have the nagging feeling that perhaps Compton had seen the coverage of the roadhouse raid in the press and the photographs and specific mention of me. He had given me “that” look, or so I thought. Perhaps it was my imagination or my thinking of him in those terms. He was quite a hunk, although a bit on the obviously submissive side. Seeing that, though, had me imagining him naked, in a sling, and a whip in my hand. I wrote that up to thinking about my new book and getting into the mood of that.
I carried the box of my Miles Martin books and my research material for my next book over to the desk in the living room and started to unpack. Looking down, I saw the young electrician working on the wiring nearby. He was looking up and giving me a shy smile. He was a hunk too. I suppressed a laugh. What was a joke about plumbers apparently carried over to electricians as well, although in this guy’s case, being able to see the butt crack was more sensual than gross.
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