Free Legs by Ian Cooper Page A

caught rabies so far
but it was only a matter of time.
    He’d never had the heart to tell him
that.
    “ Well, there’s only one
thing I know for sure: I don’t stand much of a chance.” Guys and
girls were already eddying around the tall newcomer, slender,
willowy, and exhibiting a feminine grace that most twinks could only
envy.
    Brandon knew he shouldn’t
put himself down, (or others) but there were times when the
loneliness and the ineffectualness of his efforts were more than he
could bear. He knew he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be dragged
along. God. Where the hell are you going to go? What the hell are
you going to do? It was always the same, first here, and then
there, and then maybe somewhere else, and then if all else failed,
they would grab a bite to eat, and he’d go home stone-cold sober,
lay sleepless all night, a hundred bucks poorer and suffer the
pangs of indigestion. When he woke up he’d have a headache, a sense
of self-loathing and not much else to show for it. He would have a
bad day at work, dragging his ass around, which was why it was
usually Friday these days.
    If I’m not doing anything different,
nothing’s ever going to change.
    The motivational speaker’s
mantra.
    Brandon turned away, savoring the
impression of a very short, black leather skirt, a long leather
jacket, kind of more faded, and what looked like size fourteen or
so black and red patent leather pumps, and a set of legs that beat
all. It was hard to tell if the person had breasts or not. They
were wearing a studded leather collar, which fair took his breath
away when he saw it.
    But it was the shoes that were doing
it, he thought.
    Nice feet. Fuck, even if that is a
guy.
    Nice job, buddy. I like it!
    Keep up the good work.
    Yeah, and if all else fails, we can
put a flag over your head and do it for the Queen.
    The pair of women (one for sure) were
given priority and a table was found for them…as it very well
should be.
    He caught Slam’s eye for a
minute.
    “ I’m feeling all
catty.”
    Slam sniggered.
    The person, looking excitingly bored
and androgynous as all hell, had medium-length purple-black hair,
all fluffed up like a psychedelic glass-fibre lamp, and makeup that
would have put Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, right to
shame.
    Dangly black faience earrings did
nothing to contradict the illusion.
    Slam took a big gulp, then another. He
set the glass down and waved at the bartender.
    “ Wish me luck.” The guy
just looked at him in pure blank mode. “Play it again,
Sam.”
    “ Aw. Hell.” Yeah, move
right in, why don’t you.
    The bartender looked at a retreating
Slam.
    “ My name’s not
Sam.”
    Brandon shrugged.
    I didn’t see that one
coming.
    What the hell is wrong
with me these days?
    He stared bitterly into the bottom of
another glass.
    Bastard.
    Good to watch, though.
    Slam moved on in, slowly circuiting,
with a hand-shake here and a quick nod there, and Brandon sighed
and reached for his wallet. It was right out of the book,
though.
    Oh, yeah. That’s
right. I owe you one. Slam had gotten lucky last Friday night, going home with a
forty-plus medical records transcriptionist with two teenage sons
and a very hard belly that turned out to be under restraint from
the finest stainless-steel and Kevlar girdle that money could buy,
at least to hear Slam tell it. In which case why do it? And yet he
always claimed to have done so. Said she loved sucking cock, too.
He wondered how much of it was true, but if his own loneliness was
anything to go by, it probably was true. He had this mental vision
of big floppy skin-sacks for breasts, wobbling all over that belly.
Some lady, pudgy and forlorn, perhaps glad enough to get
it.
    The bartender finally acknowledged him
with a nod.
    Leave it to Slam to be drinking the
most expensive thing on the list.
    Stalingrad vodka, and eighty proof at that. The worst brand
name ever.
    Brandon turned to watch, sipping his
own light beer as the waistline tended to balloon in