10/01/2022 - the night I rose from the dead. Where are you, boy?
I’ve been searching for you for years.
I’ve looked for you in every leather bar I’ve encountered, in the front bars, in the back rooms, and in the eyes of every dude I’ve tied down like a predator. I’ve even looked for you in the clubs’ darkest places, in the sex rooms’ unlit corners, in the shadows between the red lights.
I know you’re out there somewhere.
I know that you can hear me.
And I know that I can never be complete until you feel my gloved hand on your shoulder ...
Again, where are you, boy?
I remember the night I first saw you. It was late, near closing time. We were at opposite ends of the bar. I don’t know who saw the other first, but I remember you were tall & lean, and leaning on the counter. You weren't watching me, but … "observing" me. Fuck, you were HOT. And I was totally wasted. Just seeing you made my heart go bang, and I remember slamming my drink as you walked over, and how I sucked in my gut while attempting to look as cool as possible. The sound system was playing “Runaway” by Real McCoy, as you paused before introducing yourself in the most perfect way possible – “Hey.”
I remember drinking with you until last call, then asking to grab a bite at a nearby Greek restaurant. I was too drunk to remember the conversation we had, but I do recall giving you my number on the only piece of paper I could find in my car. You laughed in my face when you realized I had used the back of a psychiatrist’s receipt.
In the week that followed, I remember watching my corded phone, hoping you would call. When you finally did, I remember pouring a stiff drink so I had the courage to talk to you. I tried to sound clever, but I’m sure that you saw right through that. In hindsight I realize that you knew a lot more than you let on, only you chose to keep your observations to yourself to protect my insecurities. I remember how carefully you chose your words, pausing when you talked, controlling every sentence. You were always so guarded…
Where are you, boy?
Over the course of the next month, I remember going to dinner a few times. We always seemed to hit Italian restaurants, first the Olive Garden, then Leona’s. I remember the first time I walked into your house, and saw all the things you’d chosen to surround you. Your ugly-assed couch was huge to accommodate your height. There were dogs in the kitchen, in a cage that smelled like feet. Your houseplants were thriving. Your place was cluttered but organized somehow, like everything had its spot. You let me pour myself a drink to relax, and then said something like, “That’s so strong, I could just pour it back into the bottle.” I also remember your black leather biker’s jacket, haphazardly draped over a kitchen chair…
I think that was the night I realized I was in love with you.
Again, where are you, boy?
I remember the evening we were at Leona’s again; you took me there because I told you I liked their cheese sticks. I remember I’d just ordered another glass of wine, when you leaned in close and told me you had HIV. I remember cocking my head and looking at you in confusion. The world went silent. I watched your lips move, but there wasn’t any sound. I remember whispering “…(what)...?”, causing you to repeat yourself. I remember that was the very first time you ever had to tell me something twice.
I kinda’ remember the talk that we had later that night, at your place, in the dark. I was completely drunk at that point, but I can still recall you telling me how scared that you were. That you might not see your family again. That you’d have to use all your money for medical bills. You showed absolutely no outward emotion, but your hot, shiny eyes told me your story. You were so … intense. Rigid. Controlled. And I so wanted to hug you – I really, really did – but, I just … couldn’t. And it wasn’t because I was afraid of the virus, I was afraid of losing -
You.
My Sir.
Christ, how I wish I could have seen that …
I have absolutely no idea how I got home that night.
And I would eventually write my first book for You.
(Softer – where are you, boy?)
In the weeks that followed, my alcoholism hit me hard & heavy, and my emotions burned as hot as fire. I remember stalking you in the bars, calling you incessantly, and getting so completely shit-faced, I forced you into a situation where you had no choice but to take me to your home. I remember laying naked beside you, pulling your chest up close against my stomach, feeling the heat of your breath on my neck before I passed out cold. I remember that DAYS went by with absolutely no contact from you. AND, when you finally did call me, you told me firmly to leave you the fuck alone.
I held it together after hanging up the phone, but I completely lost my shit when I took a shower the next evening; I was sobbing so violently, it looked like I was fucking. I remember wiping the steam in the mirror and staring at my angry, bloodshot eyes. And then I went … away. I was gone. Just gone. I vaguely remember watching someone comb my hair and pull on my boots. And then that person went out for the night, walked into Touche, slammed a couple shots, then headed directly for the back room.
But then, the memories stop.
And twenty-seven years disappeared.
(Silence.)
(Where…are…you…boy?)
(Whisper: "Oh God, how I need to find you now!")
And then…
And then…
And then I saw him again -
And then I stood in my playroom tonight, looking at the collection of leather restraints. I have all the requirements – the gear, attire, the assortment of biker jackets & boots. And I also have the “look” expected: shaved head, sharp flattop, greying goatee that’s both long & tidy. And I definitely have the experience – 15 years as Bondage Top, 12 years as Leather Dom.
But it’s only just now, that at the tender age of 53, I’ve finally overcome the shame of my past, the embarrassment of my mistakes, and the accepting of who I really am inside. I feel like Louie acknowledging Lestat, as it takes a SIR to make a SIR – especially in creating one with humility. I honor SIR by emulating SIR, and mirroring his guarded presence.
And his memory will always be three steps in front of me, invisible to others, forever in my broken heart…
- Sir Dave