David Alan Dedin
The Little Drummer Boy, Part Two
Twenty-Eight
The Little Drummer Boy, Part Two
2016
Vegas
A thick cloud of grey hung in the air like a Phantom as Patrick ran from his bedroom to the apartment’s balcony, his T-shirt stretched over his mouth so he could breathe. Heath and Rudy were splayed in the living room bean bags, a still-smoking water bong on the floor between their legs. There were beer cans and peanut shells everywhere. The latest season of The Venture Bros was playing on TV, though the sound had been muted in leu of a Pink Floyd iTunes file. Like a planetarium laser show, The Dark Side of the Moon droned on in the candlelight, its soundtrack not even attempting to synchronize with Hank, Dean, and Thaddeus on their new adventure. The two men were too stoned to notice, of course –
Chuckling…they were almost too stoned to remember to breathe.
“Where have you been?” Patrick asked outside, his face glowing white in his iPhone’s screen. He leaned on the balcony’s banister and inhaled. Smoke wafted from the open slider behind, which he quickly closed for privacy. “I hate it when you up and disappear like that. I don’t care if you leave but please give me some notice next time.”
Taking a deep breath of warm night air, Patrick looked at Flamingo Boulevard’s neon in the distance. It was close to midnight in the desert, and the Strip was busy with gamers, hookers, and zealots passing out Chick tracts. He fluttered his T-shirt in an attempt to air out the fabric, asking again – “Where are you?”
His heart went bang when Stephanie finally told him.
* * * * *
Chicago
A red neon heart pulsed in time with the music, suspended over a leather pride flag graphic above the big bar in the Congress Hotel lobby. It was IML weekend – International Male Leather 38 – and the old hotel was packed with gay men, wearing every type of fetish wear. It was close to 1am, which meant that the building’s common areas were teeming with bare chests, boots & harnesses, and Dom’s & subs adhering to public protocol. The roar of the crowd, though deafening on its own, was underlined by Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk, blasting from the vestibule’s sound system – “Don’t say that you love me!”
“I’m in Chicago!” Stephanie shouted into her phone, holding a finger over one ear, so she could better hear Patrick. She was standing in the lobby, in the middle of the action, and her Windex-blue hair – now dyed shoe polish black – was glued to her scalp and hidden beneath a backwards leather baseball cap. “Hold on – I can barely hear you! Let me go outside.”
Her breasts taped down beneath an oversized Tom of Finland T-shirt, the young girl – disguised as a boy – pushed her way through the big foyer, and out to the covered sidewalk, where hundreds of leathermen were smoking. She was wearing men’s jeans and black Doc Martins. Her arms were adorned with leather bands from her own collection. If one looked closely she was obviously female, but at this time of night, where the average BAC was .15, no one gave her a second thought – “Hey – is that better? Can you hear me now?”
“What are you doing in Chicago?” Patrick asked, astonished. “Wait – are you at IML?”
“Two points for Patrick!” Steph said, shoving a cigarette into her mouth. “I’m not staying at the host hotel, though. I’ve got a room at the old Conrad Hilton down the street.”
“Why are you in Illinois?” Patrick asked.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Stephanie scoffed. “I’m looking for Alan. That little prick has got to come out of hiding sometime, and an event like this would be perfect. You should see it – this place looks like the mosh pit at a Judith Priest concert.”
“Steph, listen…I really don’t think that’s a good” –
“Hey – let’s Facetime,” she said, abruptly ending the call. Patrick waited 1,747 miles away for his phone to buzz again. A few moments later, Steph’s face appeared live on his iPhone’s screen. The background music pushed his speaker to its limit – “Tusk! Tusk! Tusk!”
“Greetings from fifty shades of fun!” Stephanie’s face said. “IML is so fuckin’ cool!”
“Stephanie, be careful,” he pleaded. “I wish you would have told me, so I could have at least come with you.”
“Nah, you’re too tall. You’d stand out like a basketball player.”
“Are you” – Patrick couldn’t help but smile slightly – “Undercover?”
“Incognito is a better word,” she said, taking a drag. “You could say that I’m hiding in plain sight.” She blew smoke at him.
“Any luck?”
“Not yet. But this place is huge. And it goes nonstop til’ Sunday.” She flipped her camera’s view so Patrick could see the surroundings. His phone screen filled with oiled arms and assless chaps, an image that panned like sleazy surveillance footage. The point of view went back to normal, and Steph’s face reappeared. “It smells like testosterone and cocoa butter.”
“Please be careful,” Patrick repeated.
“I’ve got a full pack of cigarettes, a bottle of water, and two protein bars. I’m good through the morning.” She noticed that Funyuns were offered in a nearby snack machine. “Very good, in fact.”
“Wait – you mean you’re staying out all night?”
“I have to. If Alan makes an appearance, it’s not going to be at a formal event during regular hours. It will happen at a time like now, when the common areas are busy, but no one’s paying attention to who’s coming and going. And I’m not staying out here; as soon as we hang up, I’m going back inside.”
“Watch yourself,” Patrick relented. “And text me frequently, so I know that you’re alright.”
Stephanie saluted yes Sir, ending the call. Patrick watched his iPhone go dark, before returning inside, where Heath and Rudy were close to passing out. The apartment air was so thick with smoke, it was hard to breathe. Covering his mouth again, Patrick grabbed one of Heath’s beers before heading back to his room.
He kept his iPhone close for the next 36 hours.
* * * * *
The vintage Drummer magazines lay fanned out on the table the next day, along with copies of Manifest Reader, Honcho, and two decades worth of Bound and Gagged back issues. The IML Market was one of the biggest draws to the convention, and vendors from across the country set up booths in one of three large, adjoining conference rooms. The place felt like a BDSM swap meet, with everything from high-end bondage gear & custom-fitted leatherwear, to cum-stained copies of old magazines & black rubber duckies with ball gags in their beaks.
Like the Checker’s alley on a Saturday night, the market was packed with people. Casual kinksters were milling about the booths with armfuls of swag, while the more serious leatherman – the ones who had rented rooms in the host hotel – were shelling out cash at the pricier vendors, getting fitted by professional craftsmen.
There was also no music playing; the echo of the crowd was music enough. All three halls had the fuzzy, steady, hollow roar of many voices talking at once. Stephanie, in a black Hun T-shirt today, took it all in as she ducked into the large Mr. S booth and pulled out her phone to text.
Five states away, Patrick’s iPhone chirped a message alert:
Stephanie – At the market. No sign of Alan yet.
Standing behind the Coffee House counter, Patrick finished making a mocha before texting back. His responses had been pretty standard since talking to Steph last night:
Patrick – Be careful.
Tucking her phone back into her pocket, Stephanie rejoined the crowd. She yawned as she walked; she had only gotten a few hours’ sleep and needed more coffee. As the midday market tended to have a soberer clientele, Steph, still in costume, received the occasional look from passerby – You’re not a boy. But in the post Christian Grey world, the mostly-gay market attracted straight BDSM enthusiasts as well, so Stephanie wasn’t the only woman to window-shop cock locks and prostate massagers.
She was, however, the only girl so focused on a mission.
Returning to her iPhone, Steph tapped the folder marked “Social.” It opened to reveal six hookup apps – Recon, Scruff, Grrr, DaddyHunt, GROWLr, and ManHunt – which Stephanie had created fake profiles for, in order to use their tracking features. She did a quick refresh on each, ensuring the data was the most up to date possible. Each app had a “Profiles Near Me” option, and while pretending to peruse the Carrara chastity devices, she scrolled through the many, many horny men who were running their own apps around her.
“Can I help you find something” – the Goethals salesman chose his next word carefully – “err, Sir?”
Stephanie smiled before answering, her eyes widening slightly and lingering on her cell phone screen. She looked up. “Actually, no…I just found what I was looking for.”
The salesman gave her a puzzled look before moving on to the next customer.
Steph immediately shot Patrick a one-word text:
Bingo!
* * * * *
High above the market, Alan stood in his room, which he’d paid for in cash. The hotel typically required credit cards for booking, but he’d explained while checking in that his accounts had been compromised, so he couldn’t use his Amex or Visa – though he did provide a pre-paid Visa gift card to guarantee incidentals. In the era of identity theft, the clerk at the desk had been very understanding.
Alan had also requested a room off the beaten path. A small room is fine, he’d said. I’m traveling alone, so I don’t need a suite. If you’ve got something out of the way, maybe near the stairwell…
And Alan had gotten what he wanted –
I’m only staying Friday and Saturday nights…
His room was barely a shoebox.
Walking to the window, Alan moved the draperies aside and peered out into the dark Chicago night. The Congress was an old hotel, erected at the turn of the century overlooking Lake Michigan, south of the Loop. In its 130+ years, the storied building had hosted political conventions and presidents, as well as the very first IML convention, back in 1979. The hotel was a piece of history, not only for Michigan Avenue but for the city, itself.
I plan to be back on the road by Sunday afternoon.
Within the nation’s gay community, Chicago was one of three major cities with an established leather subculture – and the Congress Hotel was as important to the fetish world as the White House was to government. Ten floors down, the BDSM convention was in full swing, as it was 38 years ago – during the very first IML, at this very place. The hotel had been completely booked by kinksters from across the country, and International Male Leather – held every year on Memorial Day weekend – was their annual Mecca.
I’ll have a couple of drinks, put on my gear, then head downstairs. No one will recognize me. I can hide in plain sight.
Hot steam rose as Alan ironed his evening’s shirt – a crisp white oxford. Everyone had a “look,” and Alan preferred formality. With a burning cigarette in the ashtray, he blasted the shirt with several layers of starch. He liked the fabric to have sharp edges, with sleeves so stiff, he could cut himself on the creases.
SHHHHH, went the steam.
His burner phone sat on the bed, next to his tablet; his iPad – the Wi-Fi-only model – was glowing red, white, and black with the open Recon app. Recon was the “Facebook” for the worldwide gay leather scene, and its app functioned like “Tinder” for Dom’s & subs who were seeking a kink hookup. Alan maintained an extensive Recon profile, that included everything but a photo of himself.
SHHHHH!
I just want to meet one guy, tonight.
A guy I can tie up and hold captive until the morning, or...
Padded leather restraints had been carefully laid across the top of the dresser. They were next to coils of pre-cut rope, a group of small padlocks, and a leather hood and collar.
SHHHHH!
Steam rose around his face, reddening his cheeks. Alan could see his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. The room’s TV was muted and played episode 12 of American Horror Story season five, Hotel, appropriately titled, Be Our Guest. His shirt now finished, Alan folded the ironing board and gave his boots a quick coat of parade gloss.
And then –
* * * * *
SHHHHH, went the steam, in the shower.
With hot water pounding his back, Alan let his head hang between his shoulders while he pushed against the tile wall. He stayed that way for almost fifteen minutes, while the piercing jets drilled tiny holes in his back. By the time he looked up, the bathroom had completely vanished in steam. He turned towards the showerhead, then didn’t move again until his chest was as red as his back.
I want to kill myself.
His tears mixed with hot water as he lathered his genitals with soap.
SHHHHH!
He washed his balls first, before moving below, then up to his ass. He worked the soap upward, across his sagging belly and man-boobs, clenching his eyes when he brought the bar to scour his face. He coughed and he cried, and he washed himself again and again. The steam, like clouds, formed the faces of those only his mind’s eye could see.
SHHHHH!
They were people from his past whose friendships had been abandoned because Alan, himself, had given his love to more important things. They gathered around his face, but it wasn’t really a face at all. It was a thing in the shape of a man, cold muscle held together by skin, free for the moment from the façade of self-idealization.
SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…
And that face was alone, always alone, and it would stay that way growing older, fatter, lonelier, and never having the courage to face the monster within.
After his shower, Alan swallowed several mouthfuls of whiskey before drying himself off and assembling his evening’s costume. Once finished, he looked in the mirror – perfect.
Yes, his depression was dangerous, but it wouldn’t end him tonight.
Lighting another cigarette, Alan closed the hotel room door behind him.
* * * * *
One block away, as black hair dye swirled in the bathtub drain like Psycho, Stephanie finished her own emotional shower. She dried herself, put on the evening’s costume, then lit a cigarette as she locked her door behind.
* * * * *
“Words like violence, break the silence, and come crashing in, into my little world…”
Depeche Mode’s Enjoy the Silence blasted from the front bar’s sound system as the elevator doors opened, and Alan stepped into the lobby. The Congress was packed tonight. Alan joined the crowd wearing a starched white shirt, red tie, black leather vest, pants, boots with heels, and gloves … and a black leather Brando hat, with a chain across its brim.
“Painful to me, pierce right through me…”
The crowd went every direction. The host hotel at 11pm Saturday was at its absolute busiest, and the common areas were wall-to-wall leathermen.
“Can’t you understand, oh, my little girl…”
Alan joined the flow of the crowd, stopping at a bar for a CC & Coke. Drink in hand, he milled about the first-floor corridors; Alan was searching for the evening’s partner, and like he’d often done in his twenties, scoping IML was like cold-cruising a bar.
“All I ever wanted, all I ever needed –
“Is here, in my arms…”
So many men. So many possibilities.
And so many people who might finally answer –
* * * * *
Her world reduced to two holes in a pup-mask, Stephanie entered the Congress, a dog in search of its Master. Her eyes move like a camera. Every turn of her head gave the viewer a different shot. She moved with intent, through the men, through the crowd, searching, methodically, for the owner who had lost her – and for the only person who could finally make her whole –
The pup didn’t have to search for long.
* * * * *
As Depeche Mode sang from all around, Alan scanned the crowd, looking for his captive. His vision rolled in waves of whiskey, but as everyone around him was in the same predicament, his eyes met different takers – men who saw his look and were attracted to what it entailed.
His eyes narrowed on what appeared to be a lost pup.
His attention focused.
* * * * *
The Sir and pup moved in circles around each other, their eyes interlocked, and their intentions clear. The noise of the crowd became human static in their ears, as they approached each other, coming together, coming closer…
“Enjoy the Silence” morphed into The Pet Shop Boys You Were Always on My Mind while Alan approached Stephanie, his dick growing hard in his pants. The crowd around them reveled. The pup fell to its knees and opened its paws to its owner. Alan took point, extending his arms as though waiting for a bear-hug. The pup leaped into Alan’s torso, and the two went round and round as an unseen camera recorded everything to memory.
The leathermen cheered as Alan hoisted the pup into the air, like Baby from Dirty Dancing. The harsh white fluorescents of the exterior awning caught Stephanie in the air, making her look like something divine. Dust fell like snowflakes. Spotlights caught the two in white and followed Alan as he lowered the pup to the ground, into his arms.
The two embraced tenderly –
And Alan couldn’t bring the boy up to his room fast enough.
* * * * *
As the elevators were busy, Alan & Stephanie ducked into one of the stairwells. The pup scampered upwards towards the floors above, while Alan followed behind – his attention on Stephanie’s tail. The two went round and round, and the stairs circled UP, a spiral to the sky. Once they reached the floor of Alan’s room, the pup bolted through the door – with Alan closely behind.
* * * * *
SLAM!
Alan threw Stephanie so hard, she hit the fuckin’ wall.
“YOU,” Alan hissed, after peeling off her pup-mask. Doing a somersault over his bed, Alan found his footing, then focused his attention onto the young girl. “What are you fucking doing here!?”
“I came to find YOU,” Stephanie shouted, quickly regaining composure. She stood from the wall and shook her hair like a mane. Her long, black locks almost reached her shoulders, and her face was wet with sweat, from the humidity of breathing through a mask.
She approached him –
“Where have you fucking been?” she demanded. “Where have you been for the past ten goddamn years?!”
“None of your fuckin’ business!” Alan yelled, standing his ground. “You’re not part of my life anymore, and I resent you intruding…right here, right now!”
“But Patrick needs you!” Stephanie cried. “And I need you, too! The three of us need to be together!”
A glass ashtray exploded on the wall just over her shoulder.
Stephanie whirled around in time to see Alan reloading – he was holding the room service menu in his hand; it was a heavy vinyl thing, brown, with gold-tipped corners – whoosh!
Thunk!
The menu nailed Stephanie in the temple.
She collapsed into a sea of stars, while Alan threw his gear into a suitcase, as well as his clothes. Thump, thump…whoosh, whoosh – Alan’s movements were little more than blurs. The hotel room door slammed open, and he was gone in a flash of black.
It took ten minutes for Stephanie to stop sobbing.
Once she did, she texted Patrick in Nevada:
Found Alan, met him…but it didn’t go as hoped.
* * * * *
Vegas
“Stephanie, my God…are you okay?”
The young woman’s face was black and blue, when she exited her Southwest flight and entered the gate in Vegas’s McCarran Airport. She looked at Patrick, a little disillusioned – “I’m fine, but I want to go home.”
“What happened?” Patrick asked, taking her carry-on.
“I’m not ready to talk about it,” Steph admitted. “Let me get home, grab a shower, then ask me after that.”
“Are you okay?”
“No – but, I have a much better understanding of what’s going on.”
Patrick looked at Stephanie. Her left eye was swollen, and her demeanor was that of a person who hadn’t slept in days. But she still looked triumphant – “I found him, and I know how to find him again.”
“Okayyyy,” Patrick said, following her through the concourse. “But I still don’t understand why this is so important to you – and why you’d take such a risk, for someone who hasn’t been in our lives for decades.”
Stopping cold, Stephanie grabbed Patrick’s shoulders – “Are you fucking kidding?”
“No, but” –
“Patrick, seriously… don’t you want to find Alan again?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve moved on.”
“But he’s part of us!”
“What does that matter?”
“Because I don’t feel complete without him!”
“Steph, seriously, Alan’s been gone a decade…I’ve learned to live without him, so why can’t you?”
“Because I can’t!” Stephanie insisted, her eyes suddenly glassy. “And I don’t understand how you can just leave him behind, with a wave of a hand, like you were swatting a fly.”
“Steph, that’s not fair…”
“It sure the fuck is!”
“Steph, please” –
“Fuck please!”
“Steph, I” –
“Listen, you piece of shit!” Steph shouted, causing passerby to look up. “I don’t know what your relationship with Alan is – or, was – or why you two stopped talking to each other – but I want to talk to him! I need to talk to him! Patrick, can’t you understand that my life can’t go on until I see him again? Talk to him again? Look him in the eye and ask…” her words trailed off.
Patrick took the young woman in his arms, within the busy airport.
“I can’t,” Stephanie choked, her voice coming in short bursts. “Patrick, I can’t…go on…without Alan…I just can’t…I need him here, with me…with us.”
She burst into tears, in Patrick’s shoulders. He brought her close. Deplaning passengers shot them worried looks as they passed. Patrick stroked her hair and pulled her cheek close to his neck.
“Stephanie, it’s okay, it really is…”
* * * * *
Later that day, after Patrick had put Stephanie to bed in her Schoolhouse Rock apartment, he stood on the roof and puffed a cigarette, as the sun slowly set on the Las Vegas valley. He was deep in his head – Why is finding Alan so important? Why can’t Stephanie leave well enough alone?
He exhaled a lungful of smoke into the air.
And why is Stephanie so hell-bent on reconnecting with Alan? I mean, we’re doing well together, just the two of us…why does she insist on reuniting the Trio?
Smoke rose after Patrick inhaled –
And he took a swig of wine – which he had taken from Darryl’s box – and gazed upon the sun setting over the horizon, the Strip coming to life in the twilight.
Patrick puffed…
There are some things that are best left unsaid, and some things that belong in the past…
He watched the sun setting, over the Luxor, Mirage, and Tropicana.
And some things that must never be discussed, even if they make us the people we are today…and cause our decisions, or fuel our addictions…
Inhaling a drag, Patrick took another swig of wine.
There are some things that are best left in the past, buried – but acknowledged – and playing on the surface within our lives today…
The sun was now a half-moon wafer, glowing a brilliant red as it set slowly in the west.
Those are the things that make us stronger, especially when we don’t use them as excuses…like snowflake millennials, who demand accommodations…
More smoke, more sun, more brilliant, blazing red…
Downing his wine, Patrick flicked his cigarette over the roof.
And I will never give in, never complain, never apologize…not now, not ever.
I am who I am…and you will never take that away from me.
Never…