Journal entry: July 5th, 1979
How has it come to this? I always thought I knew what I was capable of. And yet here I am planning this. Have I gone slightly mad and no one thought to tell me? Why have none of my friends clued me in? Freddie, Brian, Roger, John ... where were you guys when this insanity began to take hold of me? Why did not one of you tell me this was too crazy?
Putting down my pen, I swallowed the last bite of my pimento cheese sandwich and looked at the blue ink on the crisp white page. It was the first time I'd acknowledged to myself that what I was doing was nuts. But yet ... something had to be done! It cannot go on like this. I should be in a bed, my body sore, my mind content, emotionally happy and sexually sated, or almost. Curled up around some warm piece of male eye-candy, waiting for him to wake up and scratch the last itch I might have.
But no. No.
I was in this old building, putting high school woodshop skills to work designing furniture that hid secret hidden traps for holding a fully grown man against his will. Mantraps? I liked the sound of that. Mantraps to catch the whole damn lot of those cock teasing fucker!
"Oh, I'm not really gay; I just tell girls that I'm bi to be cool. It helps me get pussy. You understand right?"
Taking a deep breath, I wiped dried glue off my fingers and looked at my latest masterpiece. A very "chic" Queen Anne wingback chair, covered in a zebra print. With a smirk, I tripped the mechanism and watched the arms fold in like the jaws on a bear trap. Not as grisly as sharp metal teeth but much stronger. Powerful enough to hold even a strong man. Men like that collective group of lying bastards I'm going to have to make honest men out of. One by one.
I glanced over at the other completed pieces of furniture for my
Jungle Room.
The black leather sofa, that folds flat and has hidden straps to tie hands and feet to the legs. I can almost picture a man belly down on it, one of those lying bastards from the clubs, maybe his cock wedged in between the middle cushions as I mounted him. Took his man-cherry, despite protests. How wet with sex sweat that leather is going to get under him.
"Ummm..." I moaned, enjoying the slight erection that springs to life at the thought.
Folding up my journal, I tied the black leather thong on the cover and left it. I had so much work to get done. I still had to paint the room. Call the carpet men to come get the floor covered. Hang those wonderful leopard print velour drapes that will hide the rings and ropes mounted to the walls. So very much work to do. This "Man-trapping" wasn't an easy job.
I shifted my hard-on in my 501s. But then, the effort of the hunt, was always half the fun.
Journal entry: July 29th, 1979
The room is finished. All the "lovely" things are in place. The cost of this little project has gone way past what I thought to spend. The rent on the old apartment building alone was a shock, but then in the whole of the city is there a single place more tailor-made to my needs? My Realtor, that lovely fellow Kenny, he thought I was the one in need of a "mad room" before he finally found one for me.
The century old building had been renovated in the late '60s, or else this whole plan might have fallen to nothing but wet dream fantasies. The contractor he called asking for one knew a guy, who knew a guy that had worked on this building. Then, of course, when I asked the building's owner to pull off a piece of the cheap wood paneling so I could see it, he had nearly refused me. But in the end he did it, probably because the check book was in my hand ready to give him the first years rent on the spot. Yeah ... that had something to do with it I'm sure.
Six wonderfully thick inches of hundred year old cork wood. You could hold a Kiss concert in that room, complete with screaming, makeup-smeared fans and never hear a thing in the rest of the house. Perfect. Costly, yes. But simply perfect.
Scrunching my toes in the thick green shag carpets, I looked around the room with pride. Elvis would lounge happily in my "Jungle Room" feeling right at home. From the overuse of everything, to the incredible excess of appetite this one room was designed to draw in a man like no other before it. Comfort? Luxury? Sex? Oh, they seeped from the walls.
Now. Time for me to do the same.
I glanced over at the gold framed mirror, which covered most of one wall, and then approached it with my best "Hi there" walk. My "What you doing tonight?" smile. I slicked the dark brown mustache away from my overly full lips. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my sunglasses, those wonderful yellow-gold lensed, burnished-steel framed ones I had bought yesterday, with that hint of mirrored shine. Perfect. I frowned, in an unattractive way, at my hair though. I still missed my long dark locks. But then I didn't come up with this style, I just
own it
like no other ... clone ... out there. I tucked my crisp white "wife-beater" T-shirt in to my skin-tight, sky-blue 501s a bit more, making it show off my shoulders better.
"Not bad bait, there Hunter. Not bad at all." I licked my teeth feeling the recent cleaning still making them slick as precum. "Time to go put dinner 'meat' on the table."
Laughing at the level of insanity I was quickly falling into, I left the trap behind me, springs all set. Ready for the prize to walk in and take a seat. I ran my fingers across the cover of my journal, as I put it away from the night, on my way out the building. Oh, just how many fun entries I will be adding to this over the next few week? Months? Who knows, maybe even years? I had no delusion of course. I was going to probably end up in jail before this little crusade was over. But it would have a good long run before the cuffs went on.
The odds were all in my favor.
