"Yea, I know Ben, he looks fucking hot, but I tell you, he's a real prick. Any time I see him out at the Manatee or Charlie's or the Quest, he's dancing around like he thinks he's God's gift to lonely faggots. He says he an artist, which means he wasted three years getting a diploma at the College of Art and lives in a loft on Daddy's dime. He's pissed off everyone at the dance bars, so he gets himself a brand-new set of leathers on Mummy and Daddy's credit card and come to bother us here."
I grinned and said, "Now, why don't you tell me how you really feel about him?"
My friend Jimmy looked at me and laughed. We'd been staring at a hot twenty-something, a wet dream in boots, leather pants and form-fitting leather shirt stretched over a big muscled chest, with handcuffs clipped to his left hip. If he hadn't been so pissed off at him, Jimmy would have been licking his lips at the sight of a new young top walking into the bar, along with most of the guys there that night.
This was the fall of 1977 and we were at our regular Friday night haunt, "18 East", the hottest leather bar in Toronto, wearing boots and 501 jeans, leather chaps and skin-tight black t-shirts. We were in our mid-twenties then, both around six-foot tall, both slim and pretty much hairless, other than the dirty blond hair on his head and my dark brown hair and Freddie Mercury mustache. All in all, a pair of eager leather bottom boys out on the town.
Other weekend nights might be for dancing, or parties or bar hopping or the bathhouse, but Friday night was set aside for the search for guys who knew how to manhandle us.
For the sake of our continuing friendship, it was just as well that we were attracted to totally different kinds of guys. Jimmy preferred men close to our own age and was forever going gaga over one twenty-something blond muscle boy after another, whereas I preferred stern older men, interested in dominating a needy young pig like me. Of course, we'd happily accept nearly any substitute as long as we ended up sucking cock and getting fucked, maybe with a bonus of bondage or a good slapping.
The night Jim and I saw " rich boy prick" (as he called him) we were following our usual routine at the busy, hot and smoky bar; get a beer and stand in our favourite corner to watch the passing parade of hot men, looking out for one of our "type".
Now and then we'd split up and cruise around the bar on our own (after all guys might not cruise us back if they thought we were a couple!), but if nothing came of our wanderings, we'd end up back together, gossiping about guys we'd gone home with in the past or hot-looking new possibilities.
On the night of this story, I'd pointed out the "artist" to Jimmy, since he was exactly his type. He was dressed in black leather from head to toe, a couple of inches taller than the two of us, well-muscled, with classic good looks, stunningly bright blue eyes and a head of white-blond hair. Blondes have never done that much for me, but I know they're the pinnacle of attractiveness for many men. If you were into hot blondes and Jimmy certainly was, this guy totally fitted the bill.
However, as I'd just heard, Jimmy was absolutely not interested.
"Fucking shame, a blond god on the outside and an arsehole inside."
Meanwhile, a good example of my kind of stud was leaning against the bar talking to a couple of regulars. He looked to be in his early forties, with a tall, rangy body, a thick dark beard and wearing full leathers; exactly my type! I stared longingly at him, hoping to be noticed and got super excited when he seemed to grin knowingly in my direction while continuing to chat with his friends.
Getting me excited was easy to do that night. A combination of extra long hours at work and two weekends taken up with family events and a visit to a straight couple's lake cottage, meant I hadn't been with anyone other than Miss Palm for three whole weeks; much too long a wait for a over-sexed bottom boy in a big leather town like Toronto. I was hot to trot that night, determined to find someone and make him drag me home with him!
As I stared across the bar at the man who I hoped would be the one, I felt Jimmy nudge me to point out some interesting "bar theatre". Our "blond god" had zeroed in on another young blue-eyed, blonde muscle boy. The new guy was shorter than him, but even more heavily muscled, with a big chest and big arms bursting out of a skin-tight t-shirt. The two of them together were a jerk off session for blond-lovers!
The first stud's hands roamed all over the new boy's body, and the latter seemed to be nodding his head in agreement with whatever the taller man said. It looked as if the two of them would be leaving together very shortly, getting Jimmy even more pissed off at the rich boy artist.
"The hottest new blond here in weeks and that asshole walks in and grabs him before anyone else has a chance. It's enough to make you want to cry."
That was the final straw for Jim. With a serious date lined up for Saturday night, he didn't need to hang around looking for a Friday night quickie. He kissed me goodnight and went to catch the streetcar home, leaving me alone to find a bed mate for the night. I stayed where I was for the time being, wondering if the leather guy at the bar was serious or just playing me along. He did look in my direction now and then, but I decided to hedge my bets and go do some serious cruising.
But I had a problem; "18 East" was Toronto's headquarters for the leather and BDSM crowd and I'd been such a regular at the bar for so long that when I looked around I had to scratch half the guys off my list immediately; I'd either played with them already, or I knew they were bottoms like me or they'd told me previously I wasn't their type or I'd told them I wasn't interested.
Looking around for fresh meat, I did catch the eye of one attractive older guy and got cruised in return. But as I started to edge my way across the bar towards him, another eager bottom cut in ahead of me. I moved to another corner, cruised around without getting much interest from any of the guys I liked the look of. I was mumbling to myself about my bad luck, when I turned a corner and barged into Bill, an older man I'd played with in the past and was now an old and trusted friend.
He gave me a hug, asked about Jimmy and another mutual friend, then started talking about some guy named Paul, a new young friend he'd brought to the bar for the first time. Before long, I realised he was talking about Jimmy's "rich young prick", the tall muscle boy in the shiny new leather outfit, who Bill had met when he'd taught a class on the advertising business class at the College of Art.
They'd kept in touch since and when the blond had shown some interest in the leather scene, Bill had suggested they come to 18 East on its busiest night, to see what he'd like and who he'd attract.
