The One-Way Voyage (Day Zero)

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. You'll like it, I told myself. It's all about attitude, am I right?

I was almost convinced, when I started at a touch on my shoulder.

"Hey," said a voice. An older guy circled around me. I looked up to see dark, blow-dried hair above striking black eyebrows and a neat beard that framed a cute smile. His purple shirt was unbuttoned even farther down than mine, revealing dark hair underneath. "Mind if I join you?"

"No," I said, then winced because it sounded wrong. "I mean, yes. I mean, sure, have a seat."

The guy sat in the only other chair at my small table and flagged down a server. "Hey, Dillon. I'll have one of what he's having. Get my friend another one, too."

"You got it." The server headed for the bar.

"I don't--" I began. "I mean, I can't..." I tapered off, unsure what to say.

"You don't have enough money for another one. No worries. Next round's on me."

I frowned. How could he tell?

He answered as if he'd heard my thought. "You've been nursing that beer for like half an hour." He gestured toward my glass. "I've been watching you." He leaned forward, plunking his elbows on the table, one hand clasped in the other, and said softly, "I bet you don't even have enough money for what you already drank."

I chuckled uneasily. "You got me."

He smiled again, and suddenly my situation didn't seem so hopeless. "Then the evening's on me." I started to protest, but the guy shook his head and said, "Forget it. No big deal."

His shirt looked like satin and probably cost more than all the money in my wallet and all the clothes on my back. Then I noticed the way he was looking at me and started to sweat.

If you don't like older men checking you out, then why did you come here?

Good question. Wish I knew the answer.

To disguise my discomfort, I took another sip of my beer and turned to watch the entertainment. Another patron, a middle-aged guy with a belly, had gotten up, stripped, and was now sticking his dick into the mouth of the guy in the sling, who was still working a dick in each hand and getting fucked in the ass.

That was an arrangement that hadn't occurred to me.

"You want to get in on the action? I will if you will."

"Me? No. I mean, I just came here--" I took another pull of my beer to hide my embarrassment.

"You're just here for the beer that you could have gotten at a bar down the street for half the price. Sure, if that's your story."

One of the guys getting a hand job moaned and came all over the smooth, freckled chest of the guy in the sling. There were scattered cheers from the audience.

My guy clapped in approval. "Ever get fucked?" he asked me.

"No! I mean, not like that."

"Not like that..." the man repeated, as if finding a different meaning in my words.

The beers arrived. He raised his glass. I clinked mine against it as he said, "Here's to getting fucked, the second best thing in the world."

We drank. "What's the best?" I asked.

The guy laughed. "Fucking someone else, of course."

I didn't know what to say to that. In the center of the room, the guy who came had left, and someone else had taken his place. The dude in the sling was still pleasuring four guys at once, which was pretty hot, now that I thought about it. I watched for a while, finished my beer, then a sudden realization struck me. "I have to pee."

The guy shrugged. "Go ahead."

"I don't know where it is."

"You see the table full of cowboys? Walk past them and make a right."

"Thanks." I made my way to the men's room, unsteadily. I was only three beers in, but IPAs are pretty strong. I found a urinal and started to pee.

There was one other guy in the bathroom, not much older than me. He stood next to me and glanced down. "Not bad."

I didn't know whether to say "Thanks!" or "Go away!" so I ignored him. He finished and left without washing his hands.

When I returned, the guy fucking the guy in the sling was getting fucked himself now, from behind. It was hard not to watch that instead of where I was going, and I stumbled. Someone caught me before I fell over. I looked up into the face of Dillon, the server. "Hey! You all right?"

"Guess I had a little too much."

"Guess you did."

Dillon helped me back to my table, where my new drinking buddy was waiting for me. I fell into my chair more that sat in it. "You feeling okay?"

"I'm okay. Just a little tired." I drained my glass. The beer tasted strange.

"You could come back to my place and lie on the sofa for a while. We could watch a movie or something. You got a place to stay?"

I was seeing two of everything. I blinked a couple of times to make the duplicate images go away, but they wouldn't. When had I become such a lightweight? "No."

"Then crash at my place. I think you'll like it there, although admittedly it takes some getting used to."

"I think--I think maybe--" I paused to puzzle out what I was trying to say.

"I think it's time to call it a night." He drew out his wallet and dropped two hundred dollar bills on the table. I saw more of them inside. "Can you call us a cab, Dillon? That should cover both our tabs. The rest is for your trouble." Dillon nodded, scooped up the bills, and hurried off. "Come on," the guy said to me as he helped me onto my feet and into my jacket. "We'll get a cab. You can come to my place, or I'll drop you off wherever you want to go."

"I don't have anyplace to go."

"Well, then, my place. You stick with me, and you'll have no worries. I'll take care of you. How does that sound?"

"Sounds great," I muttered.

He took my arm and led me outside, where we waited while Dillon hailed us a cab. When my legs got shaky, the guy put his arm around my waist and held me tight. He was warmth in the chill night.

A cab pulled up. The guy plunked me into the back seat, then squeezed in next to me. "Marina Boulevard," he told the driver.

As the cab pulled out into traffic, my head somehow fell onto the guy's shoulder. He put his arm around me again and rocked me gently. "Nice," I sighed.

"Your friend all right?" asked the driver.

"A little too much to drink, that's all. He'll be fine."

"You'd best take him home and put him to bed."

"My thought exactly."

"Hmm," I muttered into the guy's neck. I felt warm and safe for the first time since I left Iowa. He promised he'd take care of me, I thought, as I slid into unconsciousness.