The Iron Door

The Iron Door

Author's Note:

This story departs from the style of my previous works.

While my earlier stories focused heavily on race-based domination, humiliation, and nonstop graphic sex, The Iron Door follows a slower, more literary arc. It is still deeply erotic, raw, and transgressive--but it's also a character-driven journey about power, survival, and transformation.

If you're looking for wall-to-wall pornography, this story may not scratch that itch.

If you're open to a different rhythm--where the sex serves the story rather than the other way around--then welcome to The Iron Door.

All the characters are over 18. Content includes explicit sex, forced feminization, prostitution, violence, and military draft trauma in 1968 America.

###

Initiation

The sun baked the highway in that unmistakable July heat of '68--when the world was in the turmoil of war, protest and cultural change, documented in detail every night on the News. My inner turmoil was just as extensive except, I was falling apart in silence. Heat rippled off the blacktop, making the edges of the highway shimmer. I'd been standing on the Gilroy, California on-ramp to U. S. 101 for an hour, maybe more, with nothing but my duffel bag and a dry mouth. My shirt clung wetly to my back. I'd shaved that morning in a gas station sink with a disposable razor so dull it left welts. I looked clean, though. Young, soft, and clean.

My eighteenth birthday had passed without notice--just a brusque signature from a juvenile intake officer and a bus voucher. I didn't use it. I needed to be in motion, but I didn't want to follow a schedule. North was all I knew. Toward San Francisco. Toward fog and noise and strangers.

Cars passed without even slowing. But then I heard it: the low, rolling thunder of motorcycles. Three of them, cruising along the frontage road before drifting lazily onto the on ramp like they owned it. They probably did.

The first one was a black Harley with blood-red stripes. The rider was massive, with arms like bridge cables and a leather vest stretched over a gut that didn't give a fuck. His head was covered with a black bandana which covered most of his hair except where a ponytail extended downward in the back. The second biker was wiry, sunburnt, and rode hunched like a vulture. The third looked young, with twitchy eyes and the carved-up arms of a lifer. I froze as they rolled past. I didn't turn my head. I just waited.

The lead bike braked hard. Skidded. Turned. My throat tightened.

He pulled up beside me and killed the engine. The other two idled just behind.

"You hitchin'?" he asked. His voice was gravel, low and dangerous.

"Yeah."

"Where to?"

"Oakland. Maybe San Francisco."

His eyes were pale and glassy behind scratched sunglasses. He looked me over slowly. I could feel it. His gaze didn't slide off me like most men's did. It stuck. Traced my arms, the curve of my jaw, the waistband of my jeans.

"You got a name?"

"Billy."

"That what your mama called you?"

"Yeah."

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That's Buzzard on the shovelhead. Skinny bastard with a nose for trouble. The twitchy one's Spider--don't stare at his arms unless you want a story."

I glanced quickly, then looked away. Spider grinned like he knew exactly what I'd seen.

"And I'm Gus," the big one said, tapping his chest. "The one who decides if you make it to Oakland in one piece."

He said nothing for a beat. Then he reached into a saddlebag and tossed me a red handkerchief. "Wipe your face. You look like you been crying."

I hadn't. But I did as I was told. The cloth was soaked in oil and sweat--his. I pressed it to my face anyway, and it made my skin tingle. I caught the scent of leather and stale tobacco and something underneath that reminded me of sex. My fingers trembled just a little.

He watched me.

"You always do what you're told, Billy?"

I nodded slowly.

He grinned, revealing a gold molar. "Good."

He reached back and patted the seat behind him. "Hop on."

I hesitated. He didn't move. Just sat there with his thick thighs spread wide, one hand resting on the gas tank like he was bored of waiting.

"You ever ride before?" he asked.

"No."

"You scared?"

"A little."

"That's fine. Hang on tight. If you fall off, I'm not stopping."

I slung my duffel over one shoulder and climbed on behind him, my crotch pressed against the curve of his ass. The leather was hot against my thighs. I wrapped one arm tentatively around his waist.

"No," he growled. "Like you mean it."

I obeyed--tightening my grip, pressing my cheek against the back of his vest. His sweat soaked through my shirt. His stomach was firm but soft, and I felt it move as he breathed. It made me feel small. That wasn't a complaint.

"This ain't the bus, sweetheart," he muttered. "You're ridin' with a man. Try not to piss yourself."

The engine roared to life, and the vibration buzzed up between my legs. We peeled onto the highway. I felt every gear shift in his body--his thighs flexing, his spine rolling forward, the weight of him in my hands. I kept my head down, eyes on the blur of asphalt below, and tried to breathe through the ache in my chest that I already knew wasn't fear.

I didn't know where he was taking me.

But I knew I would go.

The wind tore at my hair, dried the sweat on my neck, made my eyes sting. The roar of the Harley wasn't just noise, it was a vibration, a current that passed through my legs into my spine and settled low in my belly. Gus drove like a man who didn't care what happened next. He swerved between lanes, rode too close to bumpers, and shot past family station wagons with a flash of chrome and growl.

I clung tighter, my hands gripping the soft curve of his belly, fingers splayed to steady myself. That's when he reached down--without turning, without slowing--and took my right hand in his. He moved my hand deliberately, low and forward, until my fingers brushed the hard bulge straining beneath his jeans.

My stomach dropped.

I didn't pull away.

He pressed my hand firmly against it, trapping me there with his own. His cock was hard. Thick. Heavy. The denim over it was hot from the sun and friction. I felt the shape of it through the seams--curved to the left, full down the shaft, and straining at the metal teeth of his fly. I couldn't tell if he was hard from the ride, the danger, or me.

I barely breathed.

He didn't say a word, just left my hand there as his grip released and the throttle twisted wide. The bike surged forward like a shot, the engine screaming, and I felt it.

The power, channeled through the machine, through him, through the rigid pulse beneath my fingers, and into me. As he squeezed the throttle I responded by squeezing his cock in a dreamlike belief that stroking his cock was what fueled the machine. I was intoxicated with lust and desire.

It wasn't just arousal. It was surrender. I clenched my thighs harder around the seat, pressing in against his back, my breath caught in my throat. My own cock stirred, half-hard and aching in my jeans. I could feel myself swelling. Wanting.

Every vibration of the bike now passed through my hand, through his cock, up my arm and into my chest like an electric pulse. It wasn't just the ride, it was him. Gus was the machine, and I was strapped to it.

He let it build. Didn't say a word. Just rode fast and reckless down the 101 while my fingers twitched against his hardness, memorizing the heat and girth, silently begging not to be made to let go.

I was his now.

Even if I didn't know the terms of the deal.

###

Claimed

The closer we got to Oakland, the heavier the air felt--thick with exhaust, heat, and something darker I couldn't name. Gus rode fast through the city streets, weaving past traffic, never bothering to signal. I kept my hand where he left it, resting against the soft ridge of his cock, feeling the pulse of every pothole and turn.

When we finally slowed, it was with a sharp left down a trash-strewn boulevard flanked by warehouses, liquor stores, and garages with barred windows. We turned onto Foothill street. That's when I saw it.

The building looked like nothing. Cinderblock walls painted dull white, a rusted security door, barred windows sealed from the inside. The only hint was the symbol--that symbol--spray-painted in red on the metal door: the grinning skull with wings. The patch I'd seen on the back of Gus's vest.

He cut the engine in front of 4019 Foothill Boulevard. The other two bikes pulled in behind us, engines rumbling low before choking out. The street went dead quiet in their wake.

"Get off," Gus said without turning. I slid off the bike, legs rubbery, hand tingling from where it had rested. He turned and looked at me full-on for the first time since we left Gilroy.

"You keep your mouth shut in here. Don't look at anybody too long and whatever happens, don't run."

He said it flat, like it wasn't a warning--just a fact.

I nodded.

He stared a second longer, then his voice dropped.

"Normally, a bitch stays in the clubhouse, she gets shared. That's the rule."

My mouth went dry. I tried to look neutral, but my stomach twisted.

"You stay here one night. Just tonight. I'm not letting the others tear you up before you're useful."

"Useful?"

He smirked. "You'll see."

He took my chin in one hand. Not gentle. His thumb pressed into my jawline, tilting my head to look at him.

"Inside the Clubhouse, you're mine. That don't mean you're safe. It just means nobody else gets to break you without permission."

I didn't respond. I wasn't sure what would come out of my mouth if I tried.

He released me and slapped the metal door twice. A sliding bolt clanked open. Someone--big, shirtless, tattooed--looked us over and opened it.

"New meat?" the man asked, grinning.

"Business," Gus replied. "One night."

The door shut behind us with the finality of a cellblock gate.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, beer, sweat, and gasoline. Music thudded from a back room--something bluesy, distorted. The walls were plastered with flags, porn, and biker patches. Half a dozen men sat around a pool table, shirtless, beer bottles in hand, eyes narrowing as they clocked me behind Gus.

I dropped my gaze.

Gus walked me past them like I was invisible. He didn't introduce me. Didn't stop. Just pushed open a side door and shoved me inside.

A small room. Bed. Chair. No window. Smelled like sex and motor oil.

"This is yours. Tonight only."

I stood frozen. He stepped in behind me, crowded the doorway.

"Strip off those jeans. I want to see what I brought home."

I hesitated. He didn't raise his voice. Just watched.

"You want to sleep safe tonight, Billy?"

I nodded.

"Then let me look at what's mine."

I unbuttoned my jeans slowly, trying not to shake. Gus didn't touch me. He just leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching. I pushed the denim down over my hips, exposing my briefs--cheap cotton, slightly damp with sweat. My cock had softened, barely more than a suggestion. I kicked off my boots, stepped out of the jeans.

"Underwear too," he said.

I swallowed and obeyed.

The cotton clung as I pulled it down. My bare ass prickled with cold air and nerves. I felt exposed, like I was being photographed. My little cock bobbed out, thin and shriveled. Normally it is barely four inches hard. Gus didn't laugh. He just stepped forward and ran his hand down my side, resting it low on my hip. His fingers were warm and rough, and I startled when he pressed his palm against my lower belly.

"Soft," he said. "Clean. You ever been with a man?"

I nodded. "Boys, mostly but a few men."

He smirked. "That'll help."

He reached down and unzipped his jeans. No ceremony. No teasing. Just the metallic rasp of the zipper and the heavy sound of denim shifting. His cock flopped out, half-hard but thick and veined, resting against his thigh. Even not fully erect, it was bigger than anything I'd had in my mouth before.

"Kneel."

I sank to my knees on the concrete floor. It was cold against my shins.

He stepped forward and placed his cock gently against my lips. I opened, tentative, and took the tip in. It was warm and heavy. I sucked slowly, tasting sweat and skin and the salt of his arousal. My lips stretched, jaw aching already. He let me work like that for a minute--shallow bobbing, tongue lapping at the ridge of his crown--before his hand came down softly on the back of my head.

"Open wider. Breathe through your nose. Don't rush it."

I did as I was told. He guided me down farther, until the head slipped past my tongue and into my throat. I choked once and pulled back instinctively. His hand stayed steady.

"You'll get there," he said, stroking my hair. "You're doing fine."

He began a slow rhythm, using my mouth like it was his toy--his thrusts steady, unhurried. I held still and let him fuck my face, lips wrapped tight around the base of his shaft. I gagged again, tears pricking my eyes, but I didn't stop. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be "useful".

"That's it," he murmured. "You got a sweet little mouth, Billy. Made for this."

He groaned softly, hips rocking forward. The room was still, except for the wet sound of my lips and the soft slap of skin against skin. His cock was fully hard now--long, thick, curved slightly left--and I could feel it throb each time he pushed deeper. My own cock was achingly hard again, a small twig poking into the air.

He held me in place and began to thrust harder, each movement more urgent.

"You're gonna swallow," he said. "You understand me?"

I nodded, his cock still deep in my throat.

"You don't spit. You don't pull off. You take it all. That's what a good bitch does."

He groaned again, shuddering, and I felt the twitch before it happened. He pulsed once, then again, and hot cum flooded my mouth--thick, salty, and endless. I choked slightly but swallowed fast, again and again, trying not to spill a drop. His hand was heavy on my head, holding me in place.

"That's it," he sighed. "Don't waste it. Good boy."

I kept sucking even after he finished, gentle now, nursing the softening length as it slid from my lips. My mouth was raw, my throat sore, but I didn't stop. I licked him clean, slow and careful, tongue tracing the underside of the shaft, then up to the tip, savoring the last drops of his cum.

He watched me, expression unreadable.

When I looked up, he reached down and stroked my hair, tender this time, almost gentle.

"You're not staying here for long," he said. "Clubhouse isn't safe for a mouth like that."

I didn't speak. Just nodded, kneeling in front of him with my lips still sticky and my chest rising fast.

"I got a place for you," he continued. "One of the girls. Gladys. She's older. Knows how to keep quiet."

"She your--?"

"Sometimes." He smirked. "She won't touch you unless I say so."

He tucked himself away, zipped his jeans. I remained on my knees until he turned and opened the door.

"Get some rest. You're working tomorrow."

Then he was gone.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, crawled up onto the bed, and curled into the scent of leather, sweat, and cum.

I slept fitfully, waking with my throat dry and my jaw aching. The air was sour with cigarette smoke and mildew. The music from the main room had changed, slower now, but louder. Laughter echoed down the hallway, hard-edged and mean.

I stayed curled on the mattress until the pressure in my bladder forced me up. The hallway was dim, the floor sticky under my bare feet. I crept to the bathroom, head low, hoping no one would see me. I pissed, washed my face, rinsed my mouth, and turned to slip back.

But the second I stepped into the hallway, I saw them.

Two men by the pool table--leather vests, beer bottles, and the vacant stare of men already too drunk to feel the floor beneath them. One had a potbelly and a long, greasy braid down his back. The other had no shirt, just a thick neck and a sunburned chest covered in faded tattoos.

"Hey!" one of them barked. "There's Gus's little bitch."

I froze.

"Didn't know he was sharin' already," said the shirtless one, rising unsteadily. "Kinda rude not to tell the boys."

"Guess we'll help ourselves."

I turned, tried to walk away, but the bigger one moved fast for a drunk. He grabbed my arm and yanked me backward.

"You in the house, you're fair game."

"Gus said--" I started.

He slapped me across the face. Hard. My head snapped to the side, the sting blooming into pain.

"Gus ain't here, faggot."

The second one came up from behind and shoved me. I stumbled into the wall, hitting my shoulder.

"Let's see what he's training," one of them growled. "Get on your knees."

"No," I said, voice cracking.

They didn't care. One grabbed the back of my neck and forced me down. My knees hit the rough, filthy hallway floor. I reached out to steady myself, but the other one grabbed my wrists and pulled them behind me.

"You think we're asking?"

I struggled. One of them spat in my face. The warm phlegm dripped from my chin as I blinked it out of my eye, too stunned to react.

"Hold his head," the braided one said.

"No--please--"

A hand grabbed my hair, twisting hard. The other unzipped his jeans, and before I could scream, he pulled out his cock.

It was uncut. Dark, sweaty, thick with grime and piss-stained at the tip. He waved it in front of my face.

"Open up, slut."

I clenched my mouth shut. He slapped me again.

"I said open."

Fingers dug into my jaw, prying my mouth open.

The taste hit me before I could even react--sour, unwashed flesh pressed against my lips. He rubbed the head of his cock across my face, smearing it over my cheeks, under my nose, the musky stench choking me.

"You're gonna get a taste. One way or another."

They laughed. I gagged, shuddering.

Then a voice cut through the hallway like a blade.

"The fuck are you doing?"

Gus.

The grip on my hair loosened. I collapsed sideways onto the carpet, coughing, my face wet with spit and cock-sweat.

Gus didn't shout. He didn't need to. The calm in his voice was worse.

"Did you touch him?"

"He was out in the hall," the shirtless one said, raising his hands. "We thought--"

"You thought you'd rape my property?"

"He didn't say no, he--"

Gus moved before he finished. His fist landed in the man's gut, folding him in half. Then he slammed his elbow into the back of the other's head, sending him crumpling against the wall.

I watched from the floor, heart pounding, vision blurred.

Gus grabbed the braided one by the collar and shoved him hard into the wall. "You ever go near him again; I'll cut your dick off and feed it to the fucking dog. You hear me?"

The man nodded, wheezing.

Gus dropped him and turned to me.

I flinched.

He crouched beside me, looked at the mess on my face.

"You okay?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I was shaking.

He wiped my cheek roughly with his bandana. Then softer. His thumb grazed my lips.

"You're done here."

He stood, grabbed my jeans off the floor, and threw them at me. "Get dressed. We're leaving."

###

Training

The van smelled like old cigarettes and vinyl seats soaked with sweat. Gus drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the window frame. His knuckles were scraped. I sat in the passenger seat, hands in my lap, eyes down.

He didn't say anything at first. Just drove.

Outside, Oakland passed in flickers: warehouses, barbed wire, broken streetlights. The farther we went, the more it looked like the city had given up. We stopped at a light. A woman pushed a shopping cart across the intersection, barefoot.

"You want a smoke?" Gus asked.

I shook my head.

He lit one for himself and took a long drag before speaking.

"You got a choice now."

I looked at him, surprised.

"I can take you to the Greyhound station. Give you ten bucks. That's what you earned last night."

"For--" I stopped.

Gus looked over. "You swallowed. That counts."

I looked out the window.

"Ten bucks'll get you a bus out of town. Not far. Maybe Fresno. Maybe a cheap room and a sandwich."

"And the other option?"

He took another drag.

"You come stay with Gladys. You work at the Iron Door."

I didn't say anything.

"It's a private club," he continued. "No license, no cops, no bullshit. Just booze, movies, and pussy. Or queers, depending on who walks in."

"Illegal," I muttered.

"Everything worth doing is," he replied.

He turned down a side street, the tires thumping over cracked pavement.

"We cater mostly to the military boys. Sailors from Treasure Island. Marines from Moffett. Soldiers and Airmen passing through."

"They're not gay."

"Don't need to be," he said. "Most of 'em been through Saigon or Bangkok. Had a taste of shemales, queers, or whatever moved. They're young, horny, and shipping out again in a week. They pay. They keep quiet."

"And I'd be--what--on the menu?"

He looked over. "You're not dumb. You know what you are. They'll line up for you."

I swallowed. My throat still hurt.

"You'll work weekends. Friday and Saturday nights. Sometimes Thursdays if there's a wave of ships in. You'll dress how we say. Smile when they come in. Let them touch. You'll get fucked when I say you're ready."

I didn't answer.

"You keep fifty percent of what they pay. Cash. No questions. I get the rest. Gladys gets a cut for the room."

"How much do they pay?"

"Depends. Twenty for a blowjob. Forty to fuck. More if you're good. If you're clean. If you know how to sell it."

My mouth was dry again.

"Some nights you'll see four guys. Maybe six. Most won't want your name. Some'll want to talk. Some'll cry. Some will treat you like a girl. Some'll want you to act like one."

I looked at him. "And if I say no?"

He shrugged.

"I drive you to the station. You get your ten. You go. I won't stop you."

"Right."

"But if you stay--

Gus reached behind the seat and pulled out a battered shoebox. The lid was held closed with a rubber band, the cardboard stained and worn like it had been used a dozen times before.

He set it on my lap.

"Open it."

I slipped off the band and lifted the lid.

Inside were 5 silicone butt plugs of increasing size, laid side by side like silverware. One was small--barely thicker than my thumb. The second was meatier, bulbous in the middle. The third bigger yet and the fifth--

I gasped.

It was the kind of thing you couldn't imagine fitting anywhere--shiny, black and flared like it was made to humiliate.

"There's no way," I whispered.

Gus grinned, cigarette glowing in the dim light.

"You'll take that. And more."

He tapped the box.

"Start with the small one. Wear it while you sleep. Move up every four or five days, if your body says yes. If it doesn't, you stay where you are. But don't backslide. I'll know."

I stared at the largest plug.

"Guys actually want that?"

"Some don't want anything less," Gus said. "Couple of our Marines? They like to stretch a boy out and watch him take it. You squeal, they pay extra."

I swallowed.

"And once you're trained," he continued, "we can go bigger. Some of the boys--back in 'Nam--they get into fisting. Like seeing how far a man can open. How much he can take. One knuckle at a time, all the way to the wrist."

My stomach turned.

Gus reached over and closed the lid gently.

"You're not there yet. But you could be."

He placed a hand on my thigh. Heavy. Warm.

"You do what I say, when I say it. Obey and you'll never go hungry again."

I didn't move. I just stared at the box, feeling the weight of it in my lap like a prophecy.

Gus drove another fifteen minutes. We entered a mixed-use industrial/residential neighborhood that was underneath the span of the interstate highway. The neighborhood smelled like diesel and mold. Gus's van rattled down a side street, past chain-link fences, broken windows, and warehouses turned crash pads. We pulled up in front of a weather-beaten two-story duplex with a crooked door and a yard overgrown with weeds and scrap metal.

"This is her place," Gus said, lighting a cigarette. "You'll stay here."

"Who's she?"

"Gladys, I told you about her. She's been around. Don't cross her, and you'll be fine."

He looked at me, really looked this time. "She works the bar at the Door sometimes. Servicemen like her kind. Big tits, fake hair, knows how to act sweet. We had a thing once, still do sometimes."

"And I'm staying with her?"

"Safer than the clubhouse. You will never be ready for that place."

He took a drag, then exhaled slowly. "You need training. We'll start tomorrow."

"Training?"

Gus turned and cupped my cheek with his hand, fingers rough but surprisingly steady. "You're gonna be a good little bitch, Billy. But not if you are broken. So, we do it right."

He kissed my forehead.

I shivered.

Then he knocked on the door, and Gladys opened it--forty-ish, thick curls, heavy makeup, housecoat tied tight under her breasts. She looked at me with tired, appraising eyes. Then at Gus.

"This him?"

Gus nodded.

She stepped aside.

"Come in, sweetheart," she said. "You're lucky. Gus don't usually bring them here unless he wants them kept."

###

Induction

The joint buzzed with heat and want. Gus's club was barely legal in shape, let alone function--a gutted garage turned den of sin. The air reeked of beer, stale cologne, and jock sweat. A heavy 8mm projector clattered in the corner, casting a flickering black-and-white fuck film onto a wrinkled sheet. A woman on screen was moaning through fake lashes and a bouncing headboard. The sound system pounded a mixture of the soundtrack and Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love," and the movie's moans blended in time with the drums.

The couches were old--stuffed leather, torn fabric, some with stuffing poking through the seams. Large chairs ringed the screen like a perverted theater. Sailors, Marines, Airmen, and the occasional Hell's Angel filled the room, most of them drunk, laughing, leering, rubbing themselves as the film flickered.

My tray shook in my hands--six drinks, mostly beer and two shots of bottom-shelf rye. I walked carefully in my tight jeans and white T-shirt, trying not to trip, trying not to make eye contact for too long. My job was simply to serve drinks, suck cock, and smile when I could manage it.

A sailor in dress whites--clean, young, buzzed high and tight--looked up as I passed. His face was red. He had freckles and full lips. Handsome if you ignore the booze sweat.

"Hey, pretty," he slurred, grabbing my wrist. "You workin'?"

I nodded, stopped and set my tray aside.

He tugged me down beside him on the couch. His arm was strong, insistent. His other hand took mine and slid to his crotch, pressing my fingers over the bulge beneath his trousers.

I gasped. He was hard. Very hard

.

His cock throbbed through the coarse uniform fabric--thick, insistent, already leaking. His hand trembled as he guided mine over it. I looked at him. His eyes weren't cruel. Just desperate.

"Please," he whispered, lips close to my ear. "Please, honey, I wanna cum in your mouth. Don't tease me. I need it."

His breath was sour with whiskey. His cock pulsed through the cloth like it was alive.

I looked around. No one cared. No one noticed. A Marine two chairs down had his dick out, jacking it as he watched the porn, face slack with lust.

I turned back. "Twenty" I said. "Up front."

He fumbled in his wallet, peeled off a twenty, and tucked it into my pocket like he was slipping me a secret. I slid off the seat and knelt between his legs.

The projector rattled as the woman on screen screamed again.

He unzipped fast, hands shaking, and pulled out his cock. It sprang free, average-sized, needy, and already glistening at the tip.

I looked up once. His eyes locked on mine. "Please," he whispered. "Please."

I bent into his lap.

The first taste was hot skin, salt, the faint metallic edge of sweat soaked into pressed cotton. I wrapped my lips around the head and slid down slowly. He groaned, loud, sloppy, grateful.

"That's it, baby," he breathed. "Oh fuck, yes."

I bobbed gently at first, tongue pressed under his shaft. His hands clutched the cushions. I saw his leg twitch. He was close already.

I opened wider, took more in, let him feel the wet pull of suction, the seal of my lips. He whimpered. It wasn't a sound of power--it was need.

Across the room, someone cheered at the film. Another man moaned.

My sailor panted. "Don't stop. I wanna come down your throat. Please. Just like that."

I sucked harder. I let my hands rest on his thighs, fingertips digging slightly into the starched fabric. I could feel him swell, his whole-body tightening.

"Fuck, I'm gonna--"

I didn't stop.

He jerked, hips stuttering. Then the first pulse hit. Hot. Salty. I swallowed without thinking. Again. Again. He gasped, and his knees buckled, his thighs trembling under my palms.

I held him in my mouth until he stopped twitching.

When I finally pulled away, he looked wrecked, red-cheeked, eyes glassy, sweat beading on his temple.

"You're a fucking angel," he whispered.

I didn't answer. I just wiped my lips, stood, and picked up my tray.

Gus was watching from the bar, one eyebrow raised.

The crowd began to swell, and the heat from the projector made the whole place feel like it was sweating. My knees hurt. My jaw ached. My lips were raw. I'd already serviced three men that night, two sailors who tipped well and said thank you, and one fat Marine who held my head down until I nearly blacked out.

I was carrying another tray of drinks, three beers, a whiskey sour, and a rum and Coke with barely a splash of cola.

That's when I saw them. A cluster of young Marines, fresh faces flushed with drink, sitting on the far couch like they'd just been cut loose from base. They were loud, but not mean. Not yet.

One of them caught my eye.

He was younger than the others, eighteen, maybe just barely. His uniform was crisp, hair newly cut, posture too perfect for this place. He sat stiffly while his buddies laughed and called out at the girls walking by. But none of the women were free--Gladys was behind the bar pouring doubles, and the other two girls were tangled up in the tented rooms behind the screen.

When I brought their drinks over, one of the louder ones barked, "Not what we ordered, but I guess he'll do."

The shy one looked up, his eyes met mine, wide and glassy and then he flushed bright red and looked down.

"Shut up," he mumbled to his friend.

The friend elbowed him. "Come on, birthday boy. You gotta get something tonight. You're shipping out in three days. Can't go to 'Nam with blue balls."

Lowering my tray slowly, I leaned in toward the quiet one and whispered,

"Is it your birthday?"

He nodded without looking at me.

"You ever been with someone?" I asked.

He shook his head.

I smiled, just a little. "You're cute."

His eyes darted up. The flush came back. And then, suddenly, his whole body tensed.

"Oh god," he whispered.

There was a damp spot blooming across the front of his trousers. He pulled his cap over the spot, but it was too late. His friends saw it. One burst out laughing.

"Jesus Christ, Jimmy! You didn't even touch him!"

The others joined in, pointing, howling.

Jimmy looked like he wanted to die. He clutched the drink I'd just set down and stared at the floor.

I touched his hand, just briefly.

"It's okay," I said. "Happens more than you think."

He didn't move.

I leaned in, whispered close so no one else could hear.

"Come back. Tomorrow night. Just you. I'll take care of you. No charge."

He looked at me like I'd just spoken another language. Then he gave a tiny nod.

I stood, grabbed my tray, and walked away before the moment could sour. Behind me, the laughter still echoed--but Jimmy didn't join in.

I moved to a new table but the soldier sitting there didn't look at me when I brought his drink.

He was Army--still in fatigues, buzzed high and tight, boots unlaced. He had a square jaw and dead eyes, and he reeked of sour sweat and drugstore aftershave.

When I leaned down to hand him his beer, he grabbed my wrist.

"You the faggot Gus keeps around?" he asked, voice flat.

I nodded.

"On your knees."

He didn't even ask for a price.

I glanced around. No one cared. One guy was getting a handjob three chairs away. Another was laughing at the porn reel, pointing out something on screen like it was a game show.

I lowered myself, tray set on the floor, hands trembling.

He unzipped, pulled out a thick, semi-hard cock, and held it like it was a cigarette he didn't want to touch too long.

"Don't look at me," he said. "Just suck it."

I did.

He shoved his cock in like I was a warm pocket, no rhythm, no patience. I tried to find my breath, to relax my throat, to focus on anything else. He grabbed my ears and started thrusting--fast, rough, like he was angry at me for existing.

"I don't know how Gus puts up with you queers," he muttered. "All that makeup and shit--fucking disgusting."

I wasn't even wearing makeup. Just a shirt and jeans. But I said nothing.

"You like this, huh? Mouth full of cock. Figures."

He came quickly. Shoved deep and held me there. I gagged, swallowed and tried not to cry.

When he zipped up, he didn't tip. He didn't say thank you. He didn't even tuck himself in properly. Just left me kneeling in front of the couch like garbage.

I stood, wiped my mouth, and walked toward the back office.

The office was small and hot, tucked behind the bar with peeling wallpaper and a metal desk that wobbled when I touched it. I sat counting my take: four jobs, three paid. Sixty bucks. House cut was half. Gus got thirty.

I held the money in one hand and stared at it like it was fake. My other hand touched my lips, tender, swollen, still slick.

I felt it come up before I could stop it. My chest seized. My throat closed. I started crying, slow at first, then harder, mouth open but silent.

I pressed my face into the crook of my elbow and shook.

The door creaked open. Soft steps. Cigarette smoke. Perfume.

"Hey," Gladys said, voice low.

I didn't look up.

She sat beside me and put a hand on my back. Not heavy. Just there.

"You okay?"

I nodded. Lied.

She didn't press. Just sat with me for a while.

When the shaking slowed, she asked, "You made good money tonight?"

"No, and it feels like I sold my fucking soul," I said, voice hoarse.

"You didn't," she said. "You sold a skill. A face. A body. And you still own all three."

I looked at her. Her makeup was perfect even in this light--lashes sharp, lipstick smooth, skin powdered just enough to mask the years.

"You ever think about highlighting your mouth?" she asked gently. "Just a little gloss. Maybe lipstick."

I blinked.

"You've got a soft jaw. Big eyes. You'd look twice as expensive with just a touch of color."

I didn't answer.

She pulled a tube from her purse--Revlon, pinkish/red and rolled it across the desk toward me.

"Think about it," she said. "Not for them. For you."

At that moment, Gus entered the office. I palmed the lipstick so he would not see it and handed him the $30. He fanned the 3 bills and said, "you are $10 short, are you trying to cheat me?"

"N-no, it is half of what I earned"

"I saw you suck four cocks, that's $80, so my half is $40". He grabbed my cash, took $10 and returned $20 to me.

"but the soldier did not pay me, he left."

"Did you alert anyone to a cheater? If you give away free blow jobs that's on you not me. I provide the bar, the drinks, the movies the atmosphere that got that dick hard for you in the first place. That costs money and your share is $10. I guess that soldier was a nice fella since you paid $10 to suck his cock," Gus chuckled sarcastically at his own joke.

His comments stung so hard that my eyes filled with tears again and I glanced at Gladys for sympathy.

Gladys didn't say a word at first. Just stood near Gus, arms folded under her breasts, cigarette burning low between her fingers.

He stuffed the bills into his vest and turned to leave, still chuckling.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stared down at the desk, blinking hard, fingers curled around the lipstick in my palm. My throat ached. My cheeks burned. I didn't want to cry again in front of her.

Gladys took a long drag and exhaled slowly.

"You want to hit him?" she asked, voice flat.

I looked up.

"What?"

"You want to hit him? Slap him, punch him, something?" She shrugged. "I do. Every damn day."

I gave a watery laugh. It came out more like a cough.

She stepped forward, stubbed out the cigarette, and sat next to me. Her hand landed on my shoulder--firm, warm, unshaking.

"You're not stupid," she said. "You know what this place is."

I nodded.

"But don't let them take more than they're owed. Not here--" she tapped the center of my chest, "and not here." Her finger shifted to my temple.

I opened my hand and looked at the lipstick. It was cheap. Drugstore red. The label peeling at the edge.

"Do you think it'll help?" I asked.

"It won't hurt," she said. "Not with the right guy."

She reached into her purse and handed me a compact mirror, the kind with powder dust in the corners.

"Go slow," she said. "Start with a light touch. Just the center of your lips. We'll find your shade."

I nodded. My fingers trembled.

"Tomorrow," she added. "Tonight, you rest. Your mouth's done enough for one day."

###

Opening

I sat at the bar, two weeks in, knees hurting from blow jobs and drink runs. Porn soundtracks were endlessly vibrating through my skull. My jaw clicked when I chewed anything harder than toast. I'd made money--just not enough.

Not enough for Gus, anyway.

He called me into the back office. The place smelled like smoke and cum. My shirt stuck to my back.

"You're pulling weak numbers," he said flatly.

"I--"

"Don't speak."

I shut my mouth.

He fanned out my earnings on the desk--$5s, $10s, and a crumpled $20.

"Gladys says your mouth works. But these guys didn't come here for gossip. They want pussy if it's available, but failing that? A warm, tight hole that won't talk back."

I swallowed.

"You been training like I told you?"

I nodded. "I'm on plug three."

"That's cock sized."

"I know."

He stood up, came around the desk. Towered over me. The leather vest creaked when he moved.

"You wearing it at night?"

I nodded again.

"Show me."

I hesitated.

"Now."

I unbuttoned my jeans, lowered them just enough. The plug was there--black, smooth, nestled between my cheeks.

Gus gave a small approving grunt. "Good. Then you're ready."

He stepped over to a metal filing cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out something red and silky. Tossed it at me.

I caught it. It was underwear--panties, sheer and trimmed with lace.

"I'm not--"

"You are," Gus said. "Starting tonight. That mouth of yours is only half the product. The rest's between your legs."

He turned away and lit a cigarette. "Put them on."

My hands trembled as I peeled off my jeans and stepped into the panties. They clung to me, rode high on my hips, the lace scratchy against my skin.

I stood there, humiliated, half-naked, the plug still inside me.

Gus turned, eyes sweeping down my body.

"Good," he said. "You look like something worth selling now."

He walked toward me, slowly.

"I'm gonna fuck you," he said. "You need to know what it's like before you sell it."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Don't worry. I won't tear you. I'll teach you."

He pushed me down over the edge of the desk. My face hit the cool surface. I heard him spit, felt his fingers spreading lube, or maybe just spit, over the plug.

"Relax," he said. "Push out when I press in."

He slid the plug out with one practiced tug. My hole twitched open behind it.

Then his cock was there, thicker than the plug, hotter, pulsing.

I gasped.

"Breathe," he said. "Let it happen."

The first inch burned. The second made my eyes water.

"Don't clench. You clench, I spank."

I forced myself to exhale. Let my body open.

He slid deeper.

"That's it," he whispered. "Take it. Feel it. Learn it."

When he bottomed out, he stayed there a moment. Let me feel the weight, the stretch, the pressure against everything inside me.

"You'll get used to this," he said. "Soon you'll crave it."

He began to thrust, slow and deliberate. Each stroke taught me something: how to angle my hips, how to breathe through the pain, how to hold myself open.

When he came, he didn't say a word. Just grunted, grabbed my hair, and stayed buried deep.

Afterward, he pulled out and handed me a towel.

"You'll double your take back there," he said. "And I'll get mine. Everyone wins."

He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Keep the panties," he added. "Start wearing them under your jeans. I'll get you more."

He left.

I stood alone in the empty office, panties down, red lace clinging to my hips, cum streaking my thigh. The towel Gus had thrown lay crumpled on the floor. I hadn't moved. Couldn't.

The office door creaked open.

"Billy?"

It was Gladys.

I flinched. Turned away, trying to hide myself with shaking hands and a shame that felt radioactive.

She didn't gasp. Didn't sigh. Just stepped in and shut the door behind her.

"Look at me."

I didn't.

"Billy. Look at me."

I turned.

She took in the scene, my flushed face, the red panties, the streaks on my legs. Her gaze didn't flicker.

"I see he got tired of waiting," she said quietly.

I nodded.

She walked over, picked up the towel, and dampened it with the water bottle from her purse. Then she knelt--knelt--and gently wiped me clean. Not like a lover. Not like a nurse. Like someone who knew what it meant to be used and left standing.

"You're not the first," she said. "Won't be the last."

"I feel like trash."

"You're not. But you look like it."

That stung, but it broke the tension. I laughed--short, bitter.

She smiled, stood, and reached into her purse again.

"Let's fix you up."

She pulled out a compact, a small brush, and the lipstick she'd given me earlier. She motioned for me to sit.

"I don't know how."

"I'll teach you."

She started with the lips--soft strokes, just enough color to give the red panties context. Then she added a little liner around my eyes, smudging it with her fingertip. A dab of powder to kill the shine on my forehead.

"You've got good bones," she said. "And skin men would pay for."

I sat still as she worked, breathing in her perfume--drugstore floral mixed with nicotine.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

She paused. "Because Gus humiliated you. And because you don't have to stay humiliated. You can look like a whore if you want to--but choose what kind."

I looked in the mirror.

I looked like me--but sharper. Hungrier. A little more dangerous.

"You'll need earrings next," she said. "And heels."

"Heels?"

"Only if you want to look expensive."

She took my chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her voice softened.

"You don't have to be pretty for him. Or them. But it helps to be pretty for you."

###

Becoming

Two days after Gus fucked me in the office, he found me behind the bar helping Gladys stock beer.

"You're on the schedule for the back rooms starting Friday," he said, like it was a weather report. "Three sessions minimum. More if you last."

He didn't wait for a reply. Just walked off like he'd handed me a mop.

Gladys raised an eyebrow. "That soon?"

I swallowed. "Guess so."

She didn't say more. Just went back to wiping glasses.

That night at the apartment, I sat on the edge of the tub with a notebook in my lap. I'd already marked the plug sizes and dates--each night, a tally. I'd made it through Plug 3. Tonight, I'd try 4.

I flipped to a clean page and wrote at the top:

Back Room Prep -- Friday

I made a list:

• Eat light Thursday night

• No dairy, no fried foods

• Bran muffin + black coffee first thing Friday

• Bowel movement by 2 p. m.

• Enema at 4 p. m. (Gladys's bathroom)

• No solid food after

I underlined that last one twice.

This wasn't about romance. It wasn't even about sex. It was logistics. Clean hole, good attitude, no accidents. I'd seen what happened when things went wrong--heard the stories, smelled the aftermath.

The thought of a drunken Marine pulling back the curtain and finding a mess? That was worse than anything Gus could do.

I closed the notebook. Took a breath. Reached for Plug 4...

Friday loomed. Gus had made it official--I was on the schedule for the back rooms. Three clients minimum, no excuses. My jaw had barely recovered from last week, and now I was supposed to smile while someone pushed inside me like I was built for it.

Gladys found me hunched over the kitchen table, notebook open, pencil tapping. I'd just finished listing out the bowel schedule again. I couldn't afford to mess this up. A single slip and I'd be humiliated or worse.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked over my shoulder and raised one penciled brow.

"Planning your debut?" she asked.

"Trying not to get shit on," I muttered.

Gladys snorted. "A noble goal."

She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then gave me a look I'd come to recognize, part sympathy, part strategy.

"You're going to wear those rags?" she asked, nodding at my jeans and stained T-shirt.

"It's not a fashion show."

"Honey, everything here is a fashion show. You want to pull top dollar? You don't just open your legs--you invite the fantasy."

She disappeared into her room. I heard drawers open, the squeak of a hanger pulled too hard. When she came back, she dropped a pile on the couch: cutoff shorts, a white ribbed tank top, hoop earrings the size of saucers, and a little bag of nail polish and eye makeup.

"Try those," she said. "And wash your damn feet first. We're doing your toes."

It was ridiculous. I said so.

"You want them to choose you?" she said, flicking ash into a teacup. "Then look like someone who knows what the fuck she's doing."

I tried on the clothes--shorts that barely covered anything, a tank top that clung to me like skin. But when she painted my nails--a hot cherry red--and outlined my eyes, I looked in the mirror and didn't flinch.

She stood behind me, adjusting my hair with a comb.

"Don't worry about the deep voice," she said. "They're not here for small talk."

"What if someone hurts me?"

She paused. Lit another cigarette off the last one.

"You don't take anyone who looks mean. You don't take anyone who won't meet your eyes. And you don't ever go back for free."

I nodded slowly.

"You're not a victim, Billy. You're merchandise. That means you've got market value. Now stand up straight and let me see you walk."

She made me practice. Stilettos would come later, she said. For now, I had to learn how to lead with the hips, not the shoulders. How to sway without trying. How to smile without giving it all away.

By the end of the night, I didn't just look like a boy who wanted to be wanted -- I looked like one who knew his price.

###

Soldier Boy

Several weeks passed, and things got better, including my sex appeal. The Iron Door was packed, sailors crowding the couches, cigarette smoke curling under the projector beam, a fresh reel thudding with rhythmic porn moans and Stone's "Jumpin'Jack Flash" pounding from the speakers. I'd already serviced two men before ten and turned away a third for smelling like onions and diesel. I could afford to be choosy now. I looked the part--cherry red lips, hoop earrings, tank top tied just above the swell of my ribs, and cutoff shorts so high the lace of my panties peeked out when I moved just right.

I was the headliner tonight.

That's when I saw him.

Jimmy.

The shy Marine from several weeks ago. The one who'd arrived with his buddies, blushed scarlet, and came in his trousers before I even touched him. He was alone this time. Still in uniform, cap tucked under one arm, nervous as hell. He scanned the room like he didn't know where to stand, eyes flicking from the screen to the bar to the tented backrooms. Then he saw me.

I smiled and beckoned with two fingers. He followed like a puppy.

I took his hand without a word and led him to one of the back cubicles--canvas draped for half-privacy, single bed with clean towels, a small red lamp in the corner casting everything in a velvet glow.

Once we were inside, I turned to him. "You came back."

He nodded, eyes already glassy. "You said--"

"I remember. First one's still free. Come here."

He sat down awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, back ramrod straight, like he was being inspected. I knelt in front of him, hands on his knees, my voice soft.

"You don't have to be scared. Not with me."

Jimmy let out a shaky breath. I saw his hands tremble as he undid his belt. He didn't even get the fly down before I felt it--warmth blooming under the khaki fabric. He gasped. His face collapsed into horror.

"Shit--shit--I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

His eyes filled with tears before I could say anything. He turned his head away and covered his face with both hands.

"It's okay," I said. I sat next to him. "It's really okay."

He shook his head. "No, it's not. I've never--I can't even--fuck, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong with you," I whispered. "You're young. You're scared. You needed a hand, not a blowjob."

He cried harder. Shoulders shaking. I reached out and rubbed his back in slow circles.

"I leave tomorrow," he choked. "Vietnam. Da Nang. I'm not ready. I don't want to go. I just--" He sobbed. "I just wanted to feel something good before I die."

My throat closed.

I didn't say he'd be fine. I didn't lie.

Because in that moment, I knew--knew with the kind of clarity that drops like a cold stone in your gut--that Jimmy wasn't coming back. He would die in some jungle far from this place, from me, from everything soft.

His death would be meaningless. And I--I would still be here. Painted, perfumed, waiting to open my legs for a stranger with cash and a hard-on.

I kissed Jimmy's temple.

"You felt something," I whispered. "And that's more than most people get."

He curled into me like a child, uniform stiff and smelling of starch and fear. I held him until the sobs quieted, until his breath came soft and slow.

And when he finally stood, I walked him out the back way so no one would see the tears.

Gladys caught my eye as I returned to the bar. She didn't ask. Just handed me a drink and lit a cigarette.

I took the glass, stared at the warped reflection in its surface.

Something inside me had shifted.

I was still the star of the show.

But the stage suddenly felt a little smaller.

###

Broken

A few weeks later, Gladys, Gus and I were at the club, standing near the bar. The night was heavy--heat and sweat clung to the ceiling beams like ghosts that didn't want to leave. The Iron Door was humming, loud but off somehow. Too many shadows. Too many glances toward the back room. Even Gladys seemed jumpy, wiping glasses that were already clean.

Gus leaned against the bar, arms folded, jaw tight.

"Back office," he said.

I didn't argue. Just nodded and followed.

Inside, the lights were dimmed. The desk cleared. Gus lit a cigarette without looking at me.

"We got visitors," he said.

I waited.

"Cops. Beat patrol. Been looking the other way for years. We grease them. Usually with the girls." He finally met my eyes. "But tonight they asked for you."

My stomach dropped. "Why?"

"You're the story now. They want to see if you're real."

He opened the closet and pulled out a row of hangers--lingerie, slips, cheap sequined dresses, thigh-high stockings. He threw a pink negligee on the chair.

"Strip."

I hesitated. Gus stepped forward, voice low. "You want to keep working here? Keep your spot? Then you give them what they want. You smile. You act like you like it."

I stripped.

First the tank top, then the shorts. Panties last. I stood there, skin hot with shame, plug already inside me. Gus handed me the negligee. I stepped into it. It clung to my ribs, sheer across the chest, hem fluttering at mid-thigh.

He adjusted the straps. "Now this."

A long black wig. I pulled it on. He handed me a pair of clip-on earrings, a bracelet, and a compact.

"Make it convincing."

I did. Lips red. Eyes smudged. A little powder across the cheekbones.

Then they came in.

Two patrolmen. Uniforms half-unbuttoned. One was thick and bald with smoker's breath. The other younger, mean-eyed, tongue flicking at a toothpick.

They looked at me like I was a used car on the lot.

"Christ," said the bald one. "You weren't kidding. Bitch looks almost real."

"Pretty mouth," said the younger one.

I didn't speak.

"Turn around," one barked. I obeyed. He smacked my ass, hard. "Yeah, this'll do."

Gus said nothing. Just nodded at me and left.

The door shut behind him.

They moved in like dogs. One tore off the wig and tossed across the room. The younger one grabbed my wrists and shoved me to my knees.

"You know how this works," he said.

The bald one unzipped, already hard. I opened my mouth. He shoved in deep, no warning. I gagged. He laughed.

"Bet you suck cock better than any girl on this block."

They took turns--mouth and ass--one behind, one in front. The stretch hurt. The lube was spit. They pulled my hair, slapped my face, pinched my nipples until I cried out.

"You like that, faggot?" one snarled. "Little cum slut, huh?"

I floated. Dissociation took over. I watched myself from above--kneeling, moaning, taking it like a professional. Not a person. Just a hole.

They fucked me harder, laughing, spitting. Called me names I'd heard all my life: faggot, sissy, bitch, cocksleeve, whore.

I didn't fight. I didn't resist. I just waited for it to be over.

When they came, they pulled out and shot across my back, face, hair. One wiped his cock off in my wig. The other used the hem of my negligee.

"Clean up, sweetheart," the younger one said, zipping up. "You're the new favorite."

They left me there--kneeling, dripping, used. The door clicked behind them.

I didn't cry. Not yet.

I stood slowly, legs trembling, and peeled off the lingerie. My knees were bruised. My ass throbbed.

I found the towel Gus kept under the sink and wiped myself as best I could. The mirror above the desk showed a girl who looked like a ghost--makeup smeared, eyes flat, cum drying on her cheek.

That girl wasn't me.

But she was who I had become.

And I would not stay her forever.

###

Leverage

My popularity as a novelty continued to grow and a few weeks later I was chatting with Gladys before my shift started at the door.

Gladys lit a cigarette behind the bar, while I reapplied my lipstick in the cracked mirror.

"You know he records everything, right?" she said quietly.

I froze, tube in hand.

"Back-office sessions. All of 'em. Audio, reel-to-reel. Hidden mic behind the AC vent. Been there for years."

My stomach turned. "Even the cops?"

She nodded once. "Especially the cops."

That night came back in flashes--my wig torn off, hands pinning me down, one in my mouth, one in my ass. Their laughter. My silence.

"Where does he keep the tapes?"

"Bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Locked, but he's sloppy. You get him drunk or tired, you've got a window."

I didn't need more. I had a plan before she flicked the ash off her cigarette.

...

The crowds had grown restless. The Iron Door wasn't just a sailor's haunt anymore--it had become something more.

Word had spread. First among servicemen, then among hippies, then to the men with money and secrets. Every Friday and Saturday, they came--lining up along the street, parking their cars against chain-link fences, crowding the curb with their hunger.

And they came for me.

On stage, I wasn't Billy. I was a goddess in heels, wrapped in sequins, crowned in teased hair and starlight. I'd step through the curtain to screams and hoots, the projector flickering behind me like lightning.

I'd call up a serviceman--someone clean, nervous, about to ship out. Marines were best. They blushed the prettiest.

I'd fawn over him in full view--sliding my arms around his waist, whispering filth in his ear, kissing his cheeks until red lipstick bloomed across his uniform. I'd rest my head on his chest and breathe in deep like I could smell the jungle already waiting for him.

He'd get hard. Every time.

The audience roared.

I'd guide him back to his seat with a swat on the ass, then spin slowly under the spotlight. The music would swell--something dramatic, full of strings and tremble--and I'd lift the front of my dress.

The gasps always came before the applause.

Gus loved the show. Loved the money more. But some nights, when the crowd screamed my name louder than his, his eyes got tight. Like he was calculating something he didn't like.

That's when I struck.

A Sunday night. Slow. I stayed late to "thank" him for the new corset he'd given me.

"You're my investment," he said, cupping my ass. "Gotta protect my ROI."

I laughed, poured the whiskey. Just one sleeping pill, quickly stirred in while my back was turned. I nervously watched it dissolve as I flattered Gus with praise.

He fucked me lazy, sloppy. Called me his good girl. Then slumped unconscious with one boot still on.

I slipped from the office couch, pulled on a robe, and crept to the filing cabinet. Bottom drawer. Locked.

I found the key in the pocket of his vest.

The tapes were labeled by date. I knew the night--had replayed it enough. I found it: white label, red ink, 02 November 1968.

I grabbed it and carefully removed the label with a razor, pressed in onto a blank reel and slid it back in place. Closed the drawer. Relocked it.

I wiped the knobs, the handle, even the whiskey glass.

Gus snored.

My makeup bag was always handy, and I tucked the real tape inside. My leverage lay between a powder puff and my Revlon compact.

###

Collapse

By the time the next weekend rolled around, the complaints had grown. Noise. Loitering. Public indecency. Gladys overheard a neighbor muttering about calling a city inspector.

"Too many people watching this place," she warned.

Gus didn't seem to care. He saw the line down the block, the cash in his hands.

But I did care.

Because now I had something he didn't know I had.

A reel of tape.

And leverage.

I hid it under a loose floorboard in Gladys's apartment. Wrapped in a silk scarf. Labeled with nothing.

I didn't know when I'd need it--but I knew I would.

Tension hung like humidity, heavy, electric, waiting to break. Gus was short-tempered, drinking more, snapping at Gladys, at me. Even the regulars noticed. The line of bodies had grown bigger, louder. Clients were lining up outside an hour before the doors opened, and neighbors were getting bold, shouting from windows, banging on garbage cans, calling the cops more than once.

Gus pretended not to care. But I saw it in the way he paced. In the way he stared at me now, like I was both golden goose and blade at his throat.

That Saturday started like any other: full house, buzzing projector, drinks flowing.. I did my number, red satin robe, opera gloves, a sailor pulled from the crowd to blush on command. The reveal brought the usual chaos--cheers, whistles, a thrown beer can that missed my head by inches.

I changed backstage and was about to head to the bar when the sirens hit.

Not one. Not two.

A flood.

The lights flared red and blue. Then an eerie silence--music cut, projector dead.

Then boots.

Cops poured in like a Gestapo fantasy--uniforms, guns, batons. Shouting. People ran. A girl screamed. Someone pulled down one of the curtains to hide.

I didn't run. I walked calm on the outside, heart pounding hard in my chest.

A cop grabbed my arm.

"Hands where I can see them."

I raised them, slow and steady.

Early the next morning, we were charged with vice, prostitution, lewd conduct, operation of an unlicensed establishment. Gus got hit harder--bribery, resisting arrest, racketeering. They'd been watching us for weeks.

In the holding tank, I sat beside Gladys on a bench that smelled like piss and old sweat.

"They know who we are," she muttered.

"Yeah. But I know something they don't."

She looked at me.

"I want a lawyer," I said to the guard. "And I want a deal."

* * *

The reel-to-reel tape changed everything.

My lawyer--some Jewish firecracker in a cheap suit named Lenny Kramer--retrieved the tape from my hiding place. He played thirty seconds of it in the interrogation room. That was all he needed.

Two uniformed cops. Their names audible. My voice gagged and crying. Laughter. Slaps. Grunts. One of them saying, "This one's for free."

Lenny's face was pale when he hit stop.

I gave the lawyer their full names, badge numbers and he had already heard Gladys' corroborating testimony.

"You sit tight," he said. "I'll handle this."

* * *

By Monday morning, they cut us loose. Gladys and I walked out free. All charges dropped.

Official word: lack of evidence. Unofficial word: Leverage.

Gus didn't get so lucky.

I saw him once more, through the glass. County lockup. He looked like a wreck: swollen lip, torn shirt, eyes burning holes in the glass.

"You little bitch," he growled through the phone.

I didn't answer.

"You set me up."

"No," I said quietly. "You did that all by yourself."

He stared at me. No smile. No smirk. Just that ugly, wounded pride.

"You're nothing without me."

I hung up.

He pounded the glass like he could still reach me.

###

Drafted

I packed my bag. Some male underwear, jeans, and two T-shirts. The rest I left for Gladys.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, blinking like she could hold tears by force.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"You were a fucking star."

I smiled. "Maybe somewhere else. But not here."

We hugged. It wasn't pretty. I cried into her shoulder like a kid.

"You ever come back," she whispered, "I'll be here."

"I know."

I kissed her cheek and walked into the night, a Greyhound ticket in my pocket and nothing else from Oakland but memories.

The bus terminal smelled like wet concrete, old French fries and regrets. My bag sat on the bench beside me, the Greyhound ticket tucked inside, already creased from nervous fingers. One-way to Michigan. It felt surreal--like the kind of decision you make in a dream but only realize is real when the wheels start turning.

I had thirty minutes before boarding.

I dropped coins into a payphone and waited.

One ring. Two. Then her voice.

"Hello?"

"Hey Sis. It's me."

A pause. Then, "Billy?"

"Yeah."

A second longer pause. "Oh my God. Where are you?"

"Oakland. I was... I was thinking of coming back."

She didn't say anything right away. Then: "You got the letter, didn't you?"

"What letter?"

"The draft notice. It came here last week. You're supposed to report for induction tomorrow."

Of course they sent it to Michigan. I'd given the board my parents' address back in juvie--no real place to land in California. It was the only address they had.

"They want you to report to the Oakland induction center," she added, her voice small.

"Are you sure?"

"It's your name. Your birthday. There's a big center in Oakland. Says to report there at eight a. m."

I gripped the phone, my hand slick with sweat. Outside the glass booth, the sun was starting to dip behind the haze. I looked down at myself--slacks, plain shirt, no makeup. I hadn't worn jewelry since the raid. I looked... ordinary. Like the boy I used to be.

"I'm sorry. I thought you already knew," she said. Her voice was soft. "I hope you can find your way back sometime."

"Thanks," I whispered. "I... I'm glad I called."

A beat. Then she said, "I miss you."

"I miss you too."

I hung up.

The ticket felt radioactive in my fingers.

I stared at it for a long moment, then tore it in half. Then into quarters.

Jimmy's face came to me--soft and terrified, whispering about dying in a jungle. That moment in the tent when he'd clung to me like I was the last soft thing he'd ever know. I'd seen his death before it happened. Now I saw mine.

But what choice did I have?

The Army didn't care if you wore lipstick last week. I could tell them I was queer and get a deferment but that would brand me forever. Brand me into a life of constant repression and limited options. I was only 18 and not ready to take that path.

I slept on a bench in the bus station waking early the next morning intent on finding the induction center. It was not far. A cold, square building squatting between warehouses and office parks. No signs. No flags. Just a line of young men with blank faces and manila envelopes.

I joined them.

No one looked at me. No one cared.

Just another body.

Another number.

Another boy going to war.

And that was how it ended.

Not with a bang--but with a silence so complete, it swallowed everything I had ever been.