Handcuffs sound erotic, but try having them on for a while, they are not built for comfort and after a couple of hours tended to bite back and tighten more when I struggled against them.

 Austin’s police tactics became rougher still. He also became well, meaner, with every pump of his iron from the gym; bigger, stronger, and short-tempered.  He tried his sleeper hold, which of course cut off any circulation to my head. I passed out. He did this on a couple of occasions, always “accidentally,” then made it sound like it was my fault, I “should not have moved so much,” as though I “made” him do it?  I know lack of oxygen can heighten a sexual experience; I prefer to be conscious during the event. Besides how much movement can any person do?  While tied securely to an engine hoist or the garage’s support beam or stretched out on his larger motorcycle?

 Yes, by this time I should have packed my bags and left but I loved being seen with him and having his attentions, I was in need of attention and would try my best to please just to have some. Plus, the fact that I was really pissing off my ex, that mattered to me as well, yes purely shallow reason as it was. I made sure the news reports to friends at home were filled with plenty of good gossip and I knew the information would be expanded upon greatly.  Kink and me?  Simply unthinkable, with a tall muscular, incredibly hot guy (feel the burn Bob?) I know my revenge was very misplaced, but I didn’t enjoy hearing from him that he loved me in his own way?  Own way?  As if I were simply a selection from the dessert cart?  Well at the time it was important to me to let Bob know that I too, had found someone better, and had a far more exciting relationship than our relationship had been. 

There were less painful moments with Austin, too:  riding on the back of his big Kawasaki with my face buried into the back of his sweet smelling leather jacket. I could actually hold onto his waist in public while on the bike.  As well, for each measure of “good service” I was earning my own leathers, which weren’t only, limited to a jacket to protect my outer self from the elements. Good harness leather can be very warming, too, as can butt plugs in the right circumstances. (They certainly complemented the vibration from the bike).

I loved the way he kissed, very deeply with plenty of vacuum, although the base of my tongue could ache for days afterwards. I loved the way he fit me under his arm, like I belonged to him. (Which, in hindsight, I more or less did). We sometimes drove to a bar in L.A., 80 miles from home where there was very little chance of being recognized by anyone from his district—though with his paranoia, we didn’t go too often.

 I don’t know if he took me to the bar to show me off or just for a change of scene, it certainly was not like anything I’d experienced before. I couldn’t say I saw much, as I’d been trained to keep my eyes down, and stand or kneel by his side. Nobody was allowed to talk to me unless he gave his permission; I never had to worry about talking at all really. Not many came near me/us, though the ones who did were not interested in “talking” to me anyway. (Austin never shared any of his toys.)  He came up with a new toy, well rather a variation on an old one.  I had a slave harness with the strap between the butt cheeks and it held in place a good-sized dill.  The one he bought, black of course; had a provision for it to be attached to a small leather snap circle clip to the butt strap.  Austin replaced that with one his boot would fit onto, much like a stirrup.  I had to unlatch and slip that over his boot.  The way I was hunched in front squatting on the floor, he could quietly boot fuck me without too much problem for him.  I knelt in facing away from him, kept my head down; I was relaxed as much as possible from the ride down.  Just go with it and don’t make a sound, even if I came in the codpiece. DO NOT REACT or cause attention.  Yes I did have to clean up the codpiece orally before we left for the ride back.

Of course He wanted me to ride as well, it would be yet another opportunity to have his crotch in my ass. He wanted me to learn on his little dirt bike, but legally, I couldn’t have a learner’s permit, as I was now an illegal alien. He was a stickler for the law, or perhaps I would be too difficult to explain to other “authorities”.

 I’d have done anything he wanted me to and many times I did, against my better judgment I might add. Was it a relationship based on trust or me simply striving for his attention and would do anything to get? He experimented on me either out of curiosity or whether I could take it I was his personal chew toy/G.I. Joe doll.  I proved to be worthy as I never broke. Sometimes I was having my limits expanded, (I know my ass was at the very least) other times being broken in, just simply broken and giving in to his will. I had no trouble taking on this new identity, and enjoyed his attentions, protection and limited reserved affection. He was putting me through my paces and physically challenging me.  If I could take his dick I could take this plug, though slightly wider than I wished he would not let up until it was in place.

 I believed all he said, that I was pleasing him and his heavy-handed attempt at building his perfect slave meat, fuck toy.  I was craving attention so no matter the form I’d do it; I loved what he was doing to me.  I loved the power and the feel; it was in his body, his movements, and his abilities and of course his motorbikes, all big, all-powerful all revving with horses all with a hint of the forbidden or danger.  Nobody is brought up to enjoy and endure physical pain and discomfort for the pleasure it brings to themselves and their  owner?  I was learning.

Though one day, only for something to do besides listen to “The Mighty 690” on the radio dial or go for another read through Guns and Ammo magazine.  I did go out for a ride and I stopped at the beach, just to look around nothing else, it was simply a rest stop on my ride around town.  A police car slowed, siren went for two, one-second intervals and I knew I was busted.  Hell this was not even in his jurisdiction.  He later asked me when he came off duty.  “If I enjoyed showing my crotch off for the locals?  He told me to strip and he tied me hands up to the engine hoist.  I was expecting to be lashed, I always saw that whip but I never considered it being used upon me.  He didn’t.  Instead he went to his shelf of paints and came back with a tin, dipped the wide paint brush into the greenish goo and slapped my balls with it 4 times front back and side to side.  Telling me this was going to hurt him more than me.  He emphasized the point by dotting each nipple.  It was cold, wet and dripping, though that was only the first 10 seconds, then it became warm then stinging hot, then screaming stinging hot!  His words like the glop stung.  “If you want to hang your faggot little balls out down there again it will not be anytime soon!”  “Be here! Stay here!  Stay away from the beach, CLEAR!” I stammered, a Yes, Yes Sir! Please Sir, Please stop Sir!” Please Sir!  He turned I was afraid he was going to leave me like this, he sprayed me off with a cold mist of the garden hose, slowly from in my face to finally cooling off my nipples, my balls and dick.  He gave me a look of “See what you made me do?”  I soaked myself in the cold water of the bathtub I was “allowed” to use in the main house.  My crotch and nipples burnt and sensitive to any breeze, I could not stand to wear anything to cover them.  I stayed pretty much naked from the waist down and covered in fresh aloe Vera jelly for five weeks.  My skin and several of its layers had been burnt away with the aircraft grade paint stripper.  I never once complained or mentioned it to him.  I was in no position to be leaving, as my pants were not a place to be in.  I had to even sleep with my legs tied and spread apart so as to not put any pressure on my sensitive skin.

Weeks later, It was a very hot day, over 100^o, (Blame it on brush fires and the Santa Anna Winds) and it was after 7pm. I knew Austin would be jogging home from the station house. I thought it was far too hot for that and there was too much of a chance of dehydration or sunstroke (I had unfortunately learned this the hard way several years before). Even though the sun had started to go down the heat was unbearable. I caught up to him about 5 blocks from the station (and 3 miles from home).

 He said nothing on the return until we were back inside his kitchen. Then he went berserk. “How dare I jeopardize his job by picking him up at work? He could have been seen with me, what would he had said? What the fuck was I thinking?”

He picked me up by the throat, shook me and threw me into the wall. I hit hard with my head and right shoulder and slid down to the floor. He stood over me yelling, “I can’t be seen with a faggot, what does that make me look like?”

I wasn’t about to take that lying down, though physically that may have been an oxymoron. “You tie up a skinny blond boy and fuck him, what does that make you?” I muttered.

 I got an answer that really surprised me: “I ain’t no fucking fag, I’ve never taken it up the ass or sucked a cock in my life!”

 “I didn’t know that that was a defining line for what makes a you gay,” I was surprised I could speak at all yet alone coherently with such a brazen tone.

 Austin grabbed me by the shirt collar and pushed me into the utility closet slammed the door closed and locked it.

I did not hear another sound from him. I didn’t know if he was still in the house or yard. I didn’t hear anything till the next morning when he let me out.

He was dressed for work, in his uniform. “Plenty of people disappear in the mountains each year and are never seen again,” he said to me when I emerged. “You could be one of them.” Then he turned and walked out the door.

 I knew he would be at work for the rest of the day. I showered and looked in the mirror. I had red blotches all over my face, bloodshot eyes, and bruises in the shape of fingertips on my throat and all I could do to speak was croak.  My head ached like hell

 I packed my bags and left within the hour, circling around the neighborhood several times before taking the back roads out of town. I drove well off the main roads, through Ojai and back up to Running Springs for the night. Two days later, I arrived back home. I crawled out of my car.

 My back ached for more than a week, either from the drive or from hitting the wall. My eyes cleared up quickly and I wore a several turtlenecks to cover the yellow-green bruising. I never told anyone the details.  I cut my hair and dyed it dark brown punk and spiky, yep pretty freaky in a small town. 

 I got a couple of letters from Austin saying how sorry he was, stating he was under too much stress at work and he’d never ever do that to me again, that he needed me now more than ever…that he’d do anything… “Please phone, call collect!”

 I did not respond.

 The letters that followed were targets from practice, with plenty of holes through the heart and a note saying “Thinking of you.” I started sending   the letters back, unopened: “Return to Sender.”

 A good-sized package arrived at my parent’s house a couple of years later, from his sister in Albuquerque, with a letter explaining that he had died accidentally “while cleaning a gun.”  I knew damn well he was far too careful to be doing that.

 “This parcel, addressed to you, was ready to mail before this all happened,” she wrote. She did not disclose what the contents were. The box came with a customs form that read “Personal Items” and it had been cleared without being inspected.

 I’ve read his handwriting on the old, brown wrapping many times in my visits back to my parents. To this day I’ve still never opened it

 A part of me is shut up in that box and though I try to deny its existence and what it represents, it is an essential part of whom I am. With each passing year, the tape holding it all together is drying up and it is coming loose in places, just like me. There is something in there, and it is simply a matter of time until it gets out.

“Can’t seem to get my mind off of you

Back here at home there’s nothin’ to do

Now that I’m away


I wish I’d stayed


Tomorrow’s a day of mine that you won’t be in

When you looked at me I should’ve run


But I thought it was just for fun


I see I was wrong


And I’m not so strong


I should’ve known all along that time would tell

A week without you


Thought I’d forget


Two weeks without you

And I Still haven’t gotten over you yet

 


Vacation All I ever wanted


Vacation Had to get away


Vacation
Meant to be spent alone”

 *The Go-Go’s 1982’s album  “Vacation”

     Ever notice how things come back to haunt you, I was deep in the midst of auto parts when I heard that song today.  It was the perfect melding of those 2 not so recent X-es.  One I left town over, as I could not stand seeing him with someone else.  No, not because I was so jealous, rather it was a very limited selection of guys and it was sort of incestuous as everyone was dating someone else’s X boyfriend. 

Officer Evans, yes “you looked at me I should have run.”  Time told me everything. Stupid stupid, stupid! Hell, what steroids can do to a personality.  Did I notice his balls were shrinking? His zero to 100 in 1/2000 of a second mood swings? 

     What is that saying “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.”  (That you my boy for the bible quote.)  It is funny a “little someone” told me I put others before myself.  I try too hard to please everyone, except myself.  It takes this kid to tell me something like that?  I was looking for answers and I had to wait 30 years before I get a simple truth.  “Stand up, and in some cases stand up for those who cannot.”  I’m Irish (& Métis),  act like it.  You can be glad it was not you, (You may enjoy the fact it was me if you wish to enjoy the schadenfreude.) You believe any of this, though I can let your fingers trace the fracture that is on the top right side of my skull it runs down 1 side to just in front of my right ear the trail in the other direction bisects my forehead and then disappears just above the bridge of my nose.  Sorry you missed the seizures (You might have found it entertaining.) that developed afterwards, that wiring has self repaired or been re-routed. I don’t know how, it just happened.  I did give up a few things; I lost my music and mathematics down a 1 way neurological rabbit hole or dead zone, whatever you wish to call it.  I hid out for quite sometime for a lot longer I stopped embracing my kinks, though the funny thing is my first BF was a complete bondage freak.  Though I pay for my pleasures, not in the monetary sense mind you, unless you count gear.  I try not to bring him up, though he was so much fun.  Another time perhaps.

 Yes, that box, it remains as it has for decades set off high at the back, still at my parents, OK my Dad’s.  I am not afraid to look inside, it isn’t like his hand is gong to shoot out from it like the in the movie “Carrie” and I get dragged down to hell.  No I’d already been there, I will share that later.  Am I fucked up?  Hell we all are in some ways are we not?  This isn’t written as a “Poor me” or to follow up on  ”Oh HE has issues”.  Life happens, even when you are not paying attention.