DAY ZERO
The worst day of my life.
It was my inability to do math that became my undoing.
I had thirty-six dollars in my pocket. IPAs at The Dungeon were thirteen bucks apiece, so I had enough for, like, three, right? It sounded right. It was only as I began sipping the third that it dawned on me that I'd miscalculated. I was three dollars short.
Pinpricks of anxiety needled my scalp and neck. What should I do?
Drink slowly,
I told myself.
Stay calm. Think.
This trip to San Francisco was not working out.
It had been a last-minute thing; I'd left home in a rush. No time to pack more than a few clothes into my backpack, which was now sitting in a locker at the bus station, because I had nowhere else to stash it.
I knew only one person in San Francisco, but Matt and I had parted early this morning, and not on the best of terms. Would he be willing to rescue me from the bind I'd put myself in? My hand went to my pants pocket and traced the familiar hard outline of my phone.
Twenty years old and alone in a strange city, a failed life behind me and the new life I'd sought had already blown up in my face. I thought back to the argument we'd had that morning, when Matt kicked me out of his apartment. I'd found refuge in a McDonald's and ordered breakfast, breaking my last twenty to pay for it and leaving me thirty-six dollars in a collection of small bills. I counted it again to make sure.
The Dungeon was the sleaziest gay club in San Francisco, and that was saying something. I'd waited till dark to track it down in a squalid back alley, where I spotted its black sign rimmed in purple rope lights. On the sign was a castle gate, with a dropped portcullis. Behind its iron bars, a muscular man in a loincloth clutched them, eyes wide with fear.
Friend, I know the feeling.
I shook my head and looked around. Patrons sat at dimly lit tables around the edge of the main floor. In the center of the space under bright lights stood two tables of another kind, padded in black and red leather, equipped with straps and handcuffs. Between them, a sling hung on four chains suspended from the ceiling.
The Dungeon invited anyone brave enough--or drunk enough--to shed their clothes and try out the equipment, for their own entertainment and that of the other patrons. Word was that the club would spot a customer his tab if he put on a good show.
I eyed the guy lying in the sling, a slender naked redhead with freckles everywhere across his pale, hairless skin. His ankles were strapped securely to two of the chains, holding his feet up high and legs spread wide. Another guy, also naked but much bigger and hairier, stood between those legs, fucking him with sharp, rapid strokes that rattled the chains and elicited yelps. Two other guys, pants around their ankles, stood on either side of the sling, receiving hand jobs from the redhead. Nearby, another naked guy lay on a table, face down, as a second began to mount him.
If I couldn't pay my tab, this was an option. Most of the guys in the club were bigger and older than me, which made me nervous. Once one of those big, hairy guys started with me, there would be no turning back.
Even if I decided to go for it, how would I begin? I tried to picture myself, undressed and striding to the center of the room, head held high, the bright lights putting a gleam on my long blond hair, because confidence is sexy.
Was I capable of that? I wasn't sure. If I were, these older guys here would go for it, no doubt. But then what? The guy on the table was already getting fucked. The guy in the sling didn't have a free hand. What should I do? Lie down on the floor and wait for someone to step up and fuck me?
Maybe someone would. Maybe I'd like it, even. Maybe it would cover my three IPAs.
Or maybe I'd lie there alone, plain to see under those bright lights, looking like what I was, a desperate loser, with a body no one wanted, while the older guys sat watching me from the darkness, looking me over with a mixture of contempt and pity.
Which would it be? I didn't have the nerve to find out. My heart pounded and my palms grew moist just thinking about it.
I took a deep breath. Maybe I'd try it as a last resort, but I'd rather one of these guys come on to me, maybe buy me dinner, pay my tab, and take me back to his place. Then at least I could sleep in a bed, rather than on a plastic seat in the bus station.
Naturally, I'd have to let him fuck me in exchange, but right now that seemed a small price to pay, and at least it would be private.
As I drank my first beer, I'd tried my best to look sexy and available. Nothing. During the second beer, I unbuttoned my blue polo shirt. Still nothing.
Maybe I just wasn't hot enough.
What would the staff of The Dungeon do when they found out I couldn't pay? Call the cops? Would they take me to jail? What then? Would I get raped? That would be quite the irony, if I went to jail because I wouldn't let a stranger bang me for money, then got banged by a stranger anyway and got nothing for it.
I tried to persuade myself that lying naked on one of those tables and being ogled by older men wasn't so bad.
