You know how it is: sometimes all you really want is a project. A big project, something you can really sink your teeth into, something that takes work, something big enough to give you that special kind of frustration, a puzzle to crack, a man to break. You can’t find someone like that in a leather bar–hell, you can’t find someone like that at any kind of gay bar. No, that’s too easy, when I get in one of those moods, when I start feeling restless, when every guy I bring home and keep around for a few days, perverting them further, just doesn’t do shit for me, not really. This is one of those times–so I figure, why not go on a hunt?
I can’t very well go out in my usual gear of course–the rubber tanks and leather chaps tend to scare off the prey, if they think they can smell a faggot. Still, getting dressed up for a hunt means considering what kind of prey I’m looking for, and also what’s in season. If it was summer, a bar by the beach would be ripe with muscle alphas ripe for the picking, but with the clouds rolling in and fall turning to winter, that wouldn’t be easy–or honestly, very desirable. No, I was feeling like something…something a bit rougher. Someone who might try and bite back. Flannel, I think. Yeah, but not a vest–don’t want my gut hanging out, as fun as that is. Flannel shirt, a bit worn and grungy, my biker vest over it. Jeans–not the best pair. They don’t fit quite right, and they’re still muddy from that night in the park a few days back with Rick. Still, if I’m straight acting they’re perfect. Finish the look with some boots, roll up the sleeves and show off my burly, hairy forearms, a ballcap, cigars of course, and I’m out the door into the early, already darkening evening. I’ll take the truck–play the part, and go for a drive.
I head out of town, through the suburbs and out onto the highway, skip a few exits and hop off when I spot a dive bar that seems busy. It’s a friday, the guys are all off work and celebrating–I slip in among the rowdy crowd like I know them, pick up a beer from the overwhelmed barkeep, and take a spot at the bar, where I can survey most of the room, and see how things develop. I nurse my first draft for a couple of hours, and start narrowing down the possibilities. It’s good, fertile. Any number of these guys would be great, but what I want is a challenge. Not necessarily the leader–if the leader disappears, people will ask questions after all. But the betas, the ones fighting for rank–those are who I watched, waiting for one of them to speak to me more than the others…and finally, it happened during the second fight of the night.
Two betas. One of them muscled, but short. He was intriguing, but just didn’t seem to give me much inspiration. The other, however, he was lovely. Tall, probably six foot two–not quite as tall as me, but close. Not muscled exactly, but more…toned. Not a gym toned–a work toned, a lower middle class hunger toned. He had this…lovely hair–long and curly, a dark blonde, which fell past his shoulders. I could see tattoos running up his arms, and the white tee he was wearing looked none to clean–the same with his jeans. He was also staggering drunk, which is really the only reason the short bearish one ended up winning, I think–yanked the guy down by the hair, got him off balance and with a sharp punch sent him tumbling into a table, overturning it. The crowd threw him out, but it was the tantrum he threw that sealed the deal for me–the rage, the anger, the pride. Just what I was looking for. I excused myself–no one even noticed that I’d been there, and followed him out into the parking lot, lighting a cigar as I did.
He was by one of the beat up trucks, trying to fit the key into the lock; I walked over and suggested that he not drive, as drunk as he was. That didn’t make him particularly happy, and he wheeled around, only to find himself facing me–he wasn’t too eager to lose a second fight, and he could tell he’d lose against me. Instead of throwing a punch he tried to insult me–I grabbed him by the long flowing hair and dragged him off, back away from the building, where a small stand of trees would give me some cover. He fought–but it was obvious he was proud of his hair–he didn’t dare risk ripping it out of his scalp enough to really fight me–at least until I threw him to the ground, got on top of him, and yanked down the back of his jeans.
Fuck, I needed this, so fucking bad. He fought, so I beat him to submission, breaking his nose and giving him a fat lip and two black eyes–then he gave in…kind of. He’d obviously never had someone in his back door. As soon as I forced my way in, he started hollering all over again–I had to ball up his shirt and shove it in his bloody mouth. I fucked him till I came, and then I slipped the popper bottle full of chloroform under his nose, and he was out like a light. The bar noticed nothing, as I backed my truck up to the trees, bound up my kill, threw him in the back, and headed home, ready to get to work.
Bracken's Corner 