I was not gay. He was a man. I was his bitch, yet not woman. I would stroll past everyone in black leggings torn and safety pinned in black skull pointy toed heeled boots, on my way to the Roadrunner, or my favorite, Peter Pan. This bar, barely a bar, on the corner of Market Street hits the Tenderloin. Every cowboy hustler, fresh out of prison convict, biker babes, Diva’s as me, hustlers, and vagabonds; more like a cattle call for dead souls waiting for an adventure to end it all. There were so many fights around or near that pool table, and that’s were I meet my first prison Daddy, Adam. He was a big time heroin dealer, just out of jail or prison; either way as I walked around the pool table I looked over the shadow boys and men along the walls where people sat or sprawled in extravagant elaborate masculine poses between the babes and Queens. I was drinking a beer from the bottle and I sat down in my tight black ripped legging s heels wig and trench coat, my lips stained with cum and my red and black orchid lipstick mixed together. I intentionally sat down next to or on a youngish looking male tough; rough trade. He looked heavy lipped from his nod his hips dripping lustfully at me while barely saying with a lascivious look,
“I have something for you in my pocket.”
With one hand, my left, I held my beer, and with my free and dominant hand I groped him, squeezing his already hard cock. He leaned in close to my neck biting it and said whispering,
“Look inside my pocket baby.”
Now this was getting fun. I looked in to his rough masculine face with scars and tats on his neck and scars on his face, but with beautiful blue gray eyes that pierced me with lust. On the adventure for booze or promise of sex, I reached into his pocket and felt his cock as well as a couple of folded papers, which I knew held dope of some kind, and a couple of pills. I slowly erotically pulled the pills out in my hand and kissed his neck in the dark shadows of the edge of Peter Pan Bar at the corner of Market Street and Turk. In my hand instead of his hard throbbing cock, which I left behind in his pants, I found two blue pills, capsules.
“DOWNERS”, he grunted at me.
I swigged them both down with my beer and he grabbed my thigh, hard. He was holding me down with his strong hand and arm. He leaned into me, the weight of his body holding me against him and the between him and the wall. It was sexy and dangerous. Scary and erotic. He drunkenly grunted his name at me,
“Adam, and bitch,” he hissed, “I own your ass.”
He thought he did, and I let him. To get what I wanted, but to do so I gave him so much so many times. Over and over again like a bad case of flu he and I would meet up, never expecting it to continue, and as at this point he was just out of prison and I knew he would be gone out of my life and back there and some point. I just hope I didn’t join him.
