Steel-Toed Boots
by Richard Thomas

I tuck my long hair back up under the Caterpillar baseball hat. They don’t like long hairs around here. I run my hands down my chest, buttoning up one more ivory disc on the red and tan flannel. Anything to help me blend in. Swinging my work boots out the driver’s side of the dingy red Ford F-150, I lean down to tighten one lace. The Levi’s complete the outfit, I mean what else could I wear?

It took me awhile to find this place. Up and down these back roads, these dirty trails took me on endless nights of bruises and deceit. I wasn't that big, but I could hold my liquor. Up to a point. I was able to avoid the fights by averting eye contact. And I was pretty generous with the beers. Most of the time it was pool, darts, and whatever game was on the tv. The blow jobs in the bathroom were just a bonus for me. They thought they were doing something awful, taboo. And while nobody really spoke up about Buddy’s at the I-Hop or Denny’s at three in the morning, scarfing down waffles and over-easy eggs, running with liquid gold over the toast and bacon, we all knew what went on here.

He never even looked at me. Maybe I wasn’t man enough for him. I think he was what you call a bearchaser, he liked his men hairy, like a bear. It made sense. He didn’t come here every night, he made his rounds to the sports bars and country shacks most of the time. But the urge would come over him, couple times a month, and I’d find him here at Buddy’s. I wasn’t going to hurt him. That wasn’t what this was all about. I just wanted to understand.

Greeted by cigarette smoke, stale beer, and a hint of urine, I entered Buddy’s for the third time in two months. I wasn’t a regular yet, but the bartender was starting to know me.

“Hey Chris,” he said, tossing the dirty hand towel over his shoulder, his own version of flannel rolled up at the sleeves, stretched taught across his ever expanding belly.

“What’s up Randy,” I said. “Beer me, bro.”

“Bud?”

“Sure. Jack chaser, please.” Please, I always said please, what the fuck was wrong with me. I can be such a pussy sometimes.

“Here you go, five bucks.”

I grab the shot and down it, followed quickly by the beer. I place a twenty on the bar a bit louder then intended and turn to scan the room. For a gay bar it certainly hadn’t been what I expected. What that was, I don’t know. Disco ball and day-glo paint? Half naked leather clad bikers and effeminate boys? After Brokeback I should’ve known better. They come in all shapes and sizes. Look at me, tall and skinny, porcelain hands and flawless skin. I had to stomp my hat in the dirt for hours, the same with the jeans. Perception, you know.

He was playing pool. Didn’t even see me, the same way it was at home. I’d blown a couple guys here, on the nights he didn’t show up. There was this thing in the men’s room, in the stalls. A glory hole they called it. Worked ok for me, and all I had to do was go in there and sit down. Didn’t take long. Lots of horny guys in here, but none of them wanted to face the daylight of their hidden agenda.

Swallowing the beer, I needed a fresh round to steel my courage.

“Again Randy.” I said, no please this time. I was learning.

He served them up and took his change out of the bills that were left. Down went the Jack, and I was off to the bathroom. Wood paneling held up scenic landscapes, and stuffed fish mingled with neon. Nothing much to speak of. But it had been home to me for awhile. It was the only time I got to really see my husband for who he was.

Sitting down in the second stall, beer in hand, tears trailing down my face, I waited for him. Maybe it would be tonight. Maybe he had finally noticed me.

It didn’t take long for the hard cock to poke its timid head through, and I stifled a grin as I went to work. It never took long. Part of my appeal was that I swallowed. But tonight I forgot to lock the door, and it would be my undoing.

He burst in with teeth bared, face flush with anger at his own weak actions. His fists were on my fragile cheekbones before I could say a word, the Budweiser shattering on the ground as he pummeled me into submission.

“Faggot, goddamn fucking queer,” he grunted through his clenched yellow mouth. As I slumped to the ground his steel-toe boots connected with my stomach, over and over again.

“NO,” I wheezed. “It isn’t...”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up. I’m not gay.”

I tried to protect myself, but he was too strong, my slender fingers too weak. The baby had been kicking on the way in tonight, excited to see his daddy maybe. But as I went under for the last time, my hat falling off, long blonde hair cascading from under it, our son stopped moving. Too drunk to notice the little details, too full of crimson rage to notice the bra strap that was exposed, my husband stomped out of his gay bar hate crime, leaving us in a broken pile, blood seeping through my jeans, expanding at the crotch.

Two men entered the bar. Only one of us would leave it.