Chapter 30 Rocky Horror Handcuffs
Adam,
I get that you’re fragile right now, and I get that your counselor worries that you’ll get hurt. And your dad is a homophobe. So’s mine, by the way. (My dad, not my counselor. I don’t have one of those yet, but I’m going to need one soon if you don’t write me back…)
Adam,
He’s you—or you’re him, all legs and attitude. That’s how I see you, not as some fragile, breakable thing…
10/27/’95
Adam,
New Year’s Eve is 9 weeks and 2 days away. Will you be my date that night? Can you convince your jailors to give you one night of freedom? All I want is to hold you and maybe kiss you at midnight. I’d give anything to see you smile…
Saturday, October 28, 1995
Matt tried not to flinch as the man stuffed a dollar bill into the waistband of his gold boxer briefs.
The buck was a tip for the cocktail Matt had just handed him—as if the man needed another drink.
As if he couldn’t have fetched it himself.
The buck also provided the man an excuse to cop a feel—in this case of Matt’s ass, testing its firmness as if thumping melons at the market.
And, since the briefs were the only thing Matt wore—besides sneakers, he’d been thumped a lot already (ass, balls, cock, nipples), and the night was young.
He grinned and bore it. Had to. He was there for a good cause, this being the annual Halloween party sponsored by Nicholas and his partner, Bradley, both GM alumni. This party was a fundraiser for the GM.
Officially, the GM was there to serve food and drinks.
Unofficially, they provided eye candy for aging queens—which gave the party cachet and made its invitations a coveted commodity.
It was a win-win situation for everyone: Nicholas and Bradley got bragging rights as hosts of the hottest, most exclusive gay party in town; the GM raised enough cash to keep the lights on at the clubhouse; GM members earned much-needed spending money just in time for the Christmas season; and party guests got to blow their wads—figuratively and literally.
It was a formula that predated Samhain itself: older men with fading looks trading the contents of their wallets to indulge their fantasies with guys still in the bloom of youth but who had the empty pockets that went with it.
Think of it less as sex work and more as the Second Law of Thermodynamics—only with money. Nature abhorring a vacuum and all that.
And, just as All Hallow’s Eve was the one night of the year where the spirits of the dead roamed the earth, this party was the singular annual event when GM members exchanged their favors for mammon.
The theme of this year’s party was The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which explained the gold boxer briefs Matt and five other members wore—in tribute to the “Rocky” part of Rocky Horror. William, sporting a black corset and feather boa, was Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Harley was Riff Raff. Paul was Eddie.
Luke was away on security detail.
Matt had not heard of Rocky Horror until six weeks earlier when William had told them all about this party and its theme. Matt still hadn’t seen the movie—not really. Seeing and hearing background snippets as it looped perpetually on the big screen TV at Nicholas’s and Bradley’s house didn’t count.
The little bit Matt had seen was just weird. That “Time Warp” dance? Weird—especially when performed by inebriated middle-aged men acting like teenagers. And what was the deal with all the callouts? Janet was a slut. Brad was an asshole. Got it the first twenty times.
The Nicholas-Bradley house was in the Mesta Park neighborhood of Oklahoma City, which was like Pacific Avenue in the Monopoly game, expensive but not Boardwalk expensive. Boardwalk was the Heritage Hills mansions two streets to the south, which made Mesta Park look like servants’ quarters.
Mesta Park dated to the early 1900’s and boasted 2- and 3-story houses in a mishmash of Craftsman, Victorian, and Neo-classical architecture. How did Matt know all this? From Bradley, who was proud to have tossed a large portion of Nicholas’s earnings into the money pit that was their home.
The Nicholas-Bradley house was Craftsman.
It had a large front porch supported by thick, brick columns.
The exterior had shiplap siding and sported more gables than that hovel Hawthorne had written about.
The interior was all hardwood floors, oak beams and molding.
Windows everywhere—some leaded—even in the closets.
Yes, Matt had toured the closets. Come out of them as well.
Bradley was a consummate tour guide. They had chatted during a quiet lull before the guests arrived. Matt asked him how long he and Nicholas had been together.
Bradley had sighed. “Fifteen years. Two years in college. Then, right after we graduated, Nicholas lost his ever-loving mind and married a woman! It took him almost a year to come to his senses. We’ve been together the thirteen years since, but it still rankles me that I’ll always be the second wife and a year behind in the anniversary count. ”
Matt’s mind had glossed over the messy details and seen the silver lining: Nicholas and Bradley had been together almost as long as had his own parents—and without the legal sanction of marriage.
It gave Matt hope that he could similarly find someone and have a semblance of a normal life. He said as much to Bradley.
Bradley had paused a beat, studied Matt’s eyes, then fidgeted nervously. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your parents went to MCU, didn’t they? You’re named after your dad? Your mom is Nora?”
Matt had nodded, mildly surprised, expecting the usual fawning about his being third-generation legacy.
“Thought so.” Bradley had frowned. “I knew them both back in the day...”
“And?” Matt had asked.
“Honestly?” Bradley had sighed. “I avoided your dad. There was an angry edge to the guy, like his sprockets were wound too tight. I think we all hoped that your mom would have a calming effect on him. I hope for your sake that she did.”
Matt had broken eye contact, studied the grain of the hardwood floor. He did not want to explain that his dad’s waterwheel was still powered by a steady stream of anger. Matt was glad when he heard the doorbell ring, heard voices from downstairs.
Bradley had patted Matt’s shoulder. “We should probably go greet the guests. Thanks for letting me show you the house! If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m a good listener.”
The man who had pawed Matt’s ass was Garland Stone-Dancer, 33, the youngest guest at the party (one of 4 GM alumni in attendance) and by far the best looking.
Not that the bar was that high with these guys.
Having a full head of hair and a flat stomach moved Garland into the top five.
His deep-set, coal-black eyes and square jaw did the rest.
Garland led Matt to the front parlor, took a seat in a leather club chair. He sipped the Manhattan Matt had just served him.
“Have a seat.” Garland motioned to the other club chair. “I enjoy talking with pretty boys. Your name’s Matt, right?”
Matt nodded, sat down.
An antique grandfather clock propped up one wall, ticking slowly.
Garland made no effort at speech, inhabited the silence instead. He studied Matt’s body as though it were on display at a gallery, and he was weighing whether to add it to his collection.
Garland was dressed as one of the party guests from Rocky Horror: tight fitting, slim-cut tuxedo pants that ended above his ankles. White dress socks. Black dance shoes. Tuxedo coat with tails. Purple, sequined cummerbund, and a severe pompadour.
He also wore a pair of handcuffs as a sort of bracelet, both cuffs clasped loosely around his right wrist. The small connecting bit of chain jangled each time he sipped his drink. Was that accessory vintage to the movie? Or something unique to Garland? Matt’s inquiring mind wanted to know.
Garland broke the silence. “You don’t crack under pressure. I like that too.”
Matt smiled, asked Garland about his surname: Stone-Dancer.
Garland explained that it was of Cherokee origin. His ancestors had been force-marched to Oklahoma Territory in the “Trail of Tears.”
Matt’s kin had come to Oklahoma about forty years later, for the Land Run of 1889, where settlers got to claim land originally given to the Cherokee. That wasn’t exactly something to brag about to a Cherokee. Matt let it drop.
Garland took a slow sip of his drink. His handcuffs rattled. He eyed Matt over the rim of his glass.
Matt sensed a proposition brewing, tried stalling by asking when Garland had graduated from MCU.
Turned out he hadn’t graduated—from MCU, that is. Had only lasted two years there before transferring to OU. Then law school. Fast forward to his new Porsche. Did Matt want to see it? Same piercing stare.
Matt demurred. He was too nervous to see Garland’s stick shift.
Who wouldn’t be intimidated knowing that Garland and each of the eleven other guests had already ponied up a FIVE-HUNDRED DOLLAR cover charge?
These were men of means who meant to do more than just ogle the eye candy, sip their cocktails, and nibble at the hors d’oeuvres.
The cover charge got them in the door. Anything beyond gratuitous groping would cost them extra.
Matt worried whether he would be able to keep up his end of the bargain when the time came.
The parlor wherein they sat was an intimate formal space immediately left of the front hall.
It had pocket doors that were thankfully open, and which offered Matt a view of the living room where the rest of his fellow GM members doted on the other guests.
Laughed at their jokes. Fetched their drinks. Submitted to being petted and pinched.
Paul, the only other freshman, seemed as nervous as Matt—if not more so.
When William had told the two of them how the fundraising worked, Paul had not been happy.