The Kept

Author's Note: Okay, I've written another long one, 11, 500 words. Don't be confused, as much as this may seem about a certain area of leather fetishism, that's the subtext. It's about men and sex and how they alter what they really want from themselves sexually for pleasure and fulfillment; the two are not the same. 

For once, this is clearly in a definable place and, unusual for me, all the characters have names. No villains, just some annoying people that, eventually have to be shown the door.  I do appreciate comments for what you say leads me to what I may write next. 

I don't know much about the leather subculture but then, this isn't about that. If you are expecting a visit to IML, sorry, not here. What I do hope is you'll find this interesting, different, diverting.

Thanks for reading,

PJ

THE KEPT

That I found the ad in the Wall Street Journal under their form of ‘Help Wanted” (Market Place) made me believe there was some veracity to it even if the two inches of text said little. Actually, the most interesting part was that it gave an address, not an email, not a cell phone contact, not a Facebook site, but an actual address, including zip code. The only thing missing was...the name of the occupant. What was there said, “Address to ‘SLC’ ”. In a very few words, what was wanted was a ‘male’ not a man, of a certain age, athletic, able to commit to a certain length of time and be ‘broad minded’-an expression I’d not heard in...years. Pretty much everyone, at least everyone I knew, passed ‘broad minded’ even before their virginity was checked off on their score card as, ‘done’. It never occurred to me that ‘broad minded’ indicated your preference for strip clubs, soliciting hookers or...being a hooker. Actually, the ad was very direct in stating that the person offering whatever sort of work this thought of themselves as a ‘homosexual male’. A bit formal but direct. Only two other words suggested...anything…. “Live In”. Okay, but, to myself, apart from the given address, I snickered to myself, ‘live in what?’. The only thing the ad offered was that the person who applied understood this was a long term position, that it was the sort of work that had an ‘impact’ on the employee. Whatever that meant.

Couple of days later a buddy had dropped by my place-said he needed an emergency fuck and I was the closest he could think of-not exactly the most enticing way to be talked out of your clothes then into, well, depending on his desperation, whatever was convenient for the ‘emergency fuck’. On one other occasion I’d barely had time to buzz him in then wait by my door when he appeared, stark naked, from the elevator. (I live on the 24th floor so his odds of making the trip up unnoticed were limited...also there was a doorman…)

He’d seemed surprised that I still was wearing clothes-I don’t know, must be me, but answering the door, even if it’s my personal door, nude, even if I knew the purpose of the caller, just isn’t my style. (Also once, he’d called in an ‘emergency fuck’ but the first person to knock on my door was the UPS guy-this sort of unexpected happening was what precluded nudity. At the door. Ever.) That time his desperation was such-I wondered what his Testosterone count was?-that he concurrently got me out of my pants while leaning over, not kneeling, leaning, to start getting my dick stiff. We didn’t even get out of the short entrance hall-mercifully as he swung me round to get my jeans pushed down I caught the door with my elbow and closed it-the one with a cloak closet on one side and the ‘guest’ half bath on the other. Got it done but I hope he was satisfied, I got nothing out of it except, as he shot toward the elevator, cum dribbling down my leg...which matched the same substance dripping from his ass. I hoped he could hop into the ball of clothing he was holding before someone else needed to go down-that is, down to the lower level, not on him and I mention that for the way he looked, it wasn’t a possibility one could rule out-also, after a few years of residency, I knew the ‘tastes’ of some of my neighbors who would find a naked, or partially naked, man in the elevator as a gift from God. Or maybe, god….depending on your choices in matters religious or sexual.

Just to give him a firm clue about my feelings on sexual emergencies, I sent flowers to his office with a ‘FleshLight’ rather prominently displayed-I’d hand written the card as the florist was already having some ‘problems’ about the delivery and the prominently displayed ‘gift’-would never, ever had delivered my message as written. Even sealed in an envelope.

Justin read the ad, did the strange thing we sometimes do, turned it over to see what was on the other side, then handed it back to me. “Dunno, it’s either something so weird you shouldn’t even think about it, well, maybe to wonder just how weird it is or...answer it being as neutral, if that’s possible, as is the ad. I don’t know why I say this but...if you do send something, I’d write in on good paper, no Crayolas on a yellow page ripped from some kid’s tablet Big Chief Tablet, least it would get you noticed...wouldn’t surprise me if he had your handwriting analyzed, oh, I guess that also means, don’t type….I’m weird about getting hand written-even only addressed-shit, I’ll read it, even if I KNOW it’s an ad before I will my statement from my broker.”

“You still popping corn with Al?”

“Uh, no, he, uh, was suggesting too many offerings that weren’t on any board  just his board. Got a milking machine...for two...kinda fun really, then found out the stupid shit was selling my semen on line….”

“Ebay?”

He looked at me strangely, “That’s sick”.

No point in suggesting that selling male sperm on line seemed pretty sick to me but….maybe my mind needed to be broadened.

“So...whaddya think about the ad?” Wrong moment to ask a question as he was unbuttoning my 501’s with a clear objective. Also while he warmed me up by chewing on my apricots en sperm sauce he was too otherwise involved to answer anything. (I really do have nice sized nuts, low hangers….and while we’re in the vicinity, the cock has quite a lot to recommend it, lets just say everything was in excellent proportion.)

We went a little further that day then I’d meant to; However annoying Jus’ could be, once I had the time (and of course he always had the interest) we burned through  sheets, showers, shower curtains, carpet, hard wood floors, tile, marble, throw rugs, unthrown rugs...we’d worked out a deal with a Chinese Take Out place who would just come in through the service entrance-ignoring whatever they may have heard (Due to a miscue in stated time of delivery we were playing a sort of, uh, game that involved having part of your body in the over when the Egg Foo... Jesus Christ!!! what the fuck…? was delivered)- then left it in the kitchen. Unless Bryan Fung, owner’s really cute son, majoring in econ somewhere, made the delivery and stayed to make and accept a delivery of his own; To spell each other, we’d tie Bry to...something then tag team him. While one of us gobbled down General Chung’s Chicken, the other one gobbled up  Bryan. Or, if he was secured face up, we could slurp on Occidental cock with duck sauce….oh, and screwed him using that interesting, very hot,  mustard they serve using a rubber glove as the means of deposit in  our little economist’s’ well used and widened ass; Depending on how much we’d used, he had to be gagged. Of course doing that, he pretty much knew what was up….While he never quite admitted it, the time he brought a pint of the stuff….we drew our own conclusions as well as our own sets of rubber gloves.-slathered his whole tail-took what little fur he had completely off. In a way….I’d like to see a chemical analysis of it, a couple of times it almost ate through the fingers on the glove and what it did to Bryan…. I believe we could safely say he was beyond ‘opened’ plus, after we’d tortured the kid’s ass with mustard a la Chinois, no one bothered or wanted to eat him out; Even a rimming, lips coated with heavy duty lip gloss, probably was not only unsafe but, really. a bad idea if you had any plans for your lips in, well, a long time.

Known to be generous with their portions, Bryan was one of those dishes that wasn’t on the menu but you had to ask for it/him ; He/it had a kind of a code. Calling in an order, perfectly normal, egg rolls, whatever but then….adding in the few words, “Bryan's Meat Supreme”. This did not always guarantee Bryan-once we got his (very attractive) sister but….she wasn’t what we had in mind. However, Bryan apparently looked over some back orders and just showed up a couple of days later turning Bryan’s Meat Supreme into Bryan’s Meat, Surprise!! Fuck the meat which was what I planned to do. This sudden delivery, of meat without anything in a bag, box or chopsticks, meant that he might have to settle for...just me. Was this a problem? No. Justin was pissed off, when he heard about it but, hey, he had the number, could order take out to his place...quid pro quo.

Plus, however it may sound, Jus’ was only here-depending on where he was and his his exigencies-two, three times, tops, a month while Bryan was but a phone call away-for ‘special customers’ he delivered as late as midnight-one assumes his studies didn’t suffer.

I guess we ‘slept on it’, the ad that is, not to mention several other things; By the next morning it had sweat marks...or maybe it was dried human fluid from one place or another. As was typical of him, if he was anxious to get here to get fucked, he was always late there for something so  no discussion save his calling, as the elevator door closed, “To look int..”

I added the ‘o it’. Decided to do just that.

His suggestion about writing it on fine paper had real merit-after all, I had an address of a real place not some electronic spot all of which argued putting some effort into it. (And that was why I was even doing this, the address. I had a good position, an attorney, and fucking that up over some ad, Wall Street Journal or not, wasn’t worth it but this had a certain cachet...)The answer to what writing paper to get was as simple as asking someone in supplies at our offices where we got our special deluxe lets-really-impress-the-client papers. Simple, I was handed a ream-did seem excessive but they couldn’t hand it out a few sheets at a time-of ecru vellum paper. I was told that Cranes, who made our papers, also manufactured the paper used for paper currency not only for the USA but several other countrie.; That’s a reference one cannot ignore. Plus, the nice person who probably didn’t see friendly life forms very often, said that, free, he could print up some envelopes, properly on the reverse triangle, my return address. Done in a deep brown, Times New Roman script, it produced an envelope that even Cabinet Level Secretaries would wish to open before some printed out note from someone; This was a LETTER easily of some importance, which required attention….now all I had to do was think of words to form a letter that would match the majesty of the container…

Several hours into this project I was grateful to have the whole ream for the rate at which I wasn’t accomplishing anything was...frightening. To fill time while I didn’t fill the letter, I read that what I was writing on was pure cotton rag paper; At the rate I wasn’t using it, at some point I wondered if it could be soaked, mashed, rolled out, returned to fabric and have enough to make, say, a well fitted polo-probably in brown.

It was past ten and I was past tense-two different ways. Feeling distraction might help, I dialed the ‘secret’ number, placed an order for something Oriental as well as four of their great Chocolate Chip cookies-probably made more profit on them then the Pao Gung Slop, and two spring rolls. Half an hour later I was concurrently doing the neat trick of eating a cookie by just having it in your mouth while tying an Oriental to my back massager but on the front, not the back; I had need of access to his rear and feeling, after I was deep enough, the good pulsating, grinding of a deep tissue massage could only be helpful. Probably might do something for Bry’ as well for his cock and nuts had been carefully placed to get the maximum oomph, surge and some setting that wasn’t a thump but wasn’t a pat...There had to be something in this for him, I mean apart from my cock in his ass. After the first few minutes there was a certain odor which suggested he’d not brought only himself. One quick turn through the kitchen revealed quite a spread-which gave me an indecent thought for a late night snack-but in the meantime, got stuffed (a popular verb just then when you think about it) in the oven on low.

Later, chop sticking our way through the very good ‘snack’ he’d brought, I mentioned the ad, no reason, conversation with  Bryan wasn’t a priority on his visits-he’d been kind enough to provide not only sexual diversion but food so...I mentioned the ad. Surprising he had an answer, sort of.

“My Dad’s from the old world, still halts over English so he is super polite, it’s awesome to see some of the younger dudes be amazed when he calls them sir or almost bows when he hands them their food. Dad’s a hoot, bro, he can sell left over anything with that fucking polite shit.” I suddenly remembered why, on many of his visits, I or Jus’ gagged him; We were hardly old, I was pushing 29, but the ‘new speak’ of the young was more than we could take. I’m happy to report that when Bryan screamed, it was the old fashioned way. (Justin, out wandering about, found a place that sold barbecue equipment. One of the ‘implements’ they sold were brands to be put on steaks before they were cooked; Rare, M. Rare. Medium...said it was all he could do to not go in and buy one, “WELL DONE” so the next time we had take out, our delivery person would return with a critical comment about his ass; It would be meant as a compliment.

It was also later that same evening that, suddenly, Bryan got...almost coy. “Bro...how come you never, you know...with my cock…?” I thought that one over, tried to think what we/I’d done with and to his cock, came up ...blank. Nice cock, but what hadn’t we done?

I asked.

“You know, bro, like...stick it in something, really awesome...”
Stick it in something? Frozen Yogurt? The garbage disposal? It had been in both of us...what?

“Like those metal things….hot, dude, really fuckin’ hot.”

Huh? The toaster?

“Cages, dude, metal cages, some guys wear ‘em all the time.”

Chastity cages? I had to assume that’s what he meant but Bryan wasn’t the submissive type and, beyond that, my/our relationship with him was straight sex-okay with some deviations and a side of egg roll-but chastity cages? Didn’t get it. I found out by asking.

“Oh, dude, I dream about you really roping me down, spread out, taking my cock, holding up this metal thing, telling me...that’s it, no more sex for this kinky chink, all I could do was take it in the ass...can’t get off, just...you know...”

Well, no, I didn’t know but just his brief description took me to some quasi dark place that I’d thought about, not in a curious way, just as something that some guys did...seemed to like it...but beyond that, nope.

“Yeah, well, interesting idea, when they can make one in Chinese noodles, with a lock, let me know, I’ll order one from take out.” And dropped the topic in favor of dumping some ketchup down his tail and pretending my stalk was uncooked meat just slathered with barbecue sauce.

Two nights later I began to think I might have to return to my printing friend for more paper; If he were surprised, I’d understand. I’d also understand if he had to decline-in the interval I’d found out what Cranes paper retailed for-even though we probably got it wholesale, that ream he’d given me...could have been over six hundred dollars. Suddenly, I had to think of a letter and also suddenly I thought about Bryan’s father, his old fashioned courtesy which sent me whirling through a two page letter that started out, “Sir...”. Two hours later what I’d produced might have seemed casual to, say, Her Britannic Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II but to the homosexual male who placed the ad….it might strike him as the written statement of the sort of other homosexual male who was willing to be an altered employee-after some period of time living in.

The next day I mailed it from the most prestigious post office in town...if a post office can be considered upscale, having elegance, old world civility….if a P.O. can have any of those as opposed to winos, cops busting drug dealers and a flurry of trash with an emphasis on the paper crap that was part of a take out meal sold from several nearby fast food place.

That day I also dropped by a former client. When you’re a young attorney in a big firm, you get cases that, you quickly discern, are of no interest to those above you in the pecking order or too strange; The one I was tossed was one of the latter. A leather crafter was suing a client for several thousand dollars representing custom made leather for which  he hadn’t been paid. As part of my due diligence, I visited his shop and found that ‘leather shop’ did not mean some place that sold saddles and western gear. Unless you could wear it to a trendy gay bar. That kind of leather shop.

What turned it for me was Serge, the leather shop owner who’d hand made the unpaid for goods. One look at his work convinced me whatever he’d charged, probably wasn’t enough. He wasn’t just a craftsman, he was an artisan. I made my closing arguments wearing a pair of leather pants he’d made for me with a very dignified blue blazer, Brooks Brothers button down shirt, Hermes tie and double monk strap shoes from Saks; The jury saw class and work awarding him not only the base price, but exceptional funds I’d requested for the time it had taken him to produce the wares as well as ‘damages’. He was in awe and, frankly, I found the cow hide clinging to my crotch...not unpleasant. Needless to say he gave me the pants plus a lot of gratitude. Oh, I would subsequently find, he proved to be a great, if somewhat different, fucker; He’d fit himself with a personal saddle on his ass with a hole where the seat would have been, bridle, bit, reins, stirrups and, oh, yeah, he was also hung like a horse. It was a great evening-once he left the saddle in the ‘tack’ room which promised all manner of different sorts of pleasures. Not just because of the legal victory, but because I genuinely admired his ability we became friends.  Serge was the sort of man who liked you a lot or….you were a customer, got his best work but could leave his shop hoping his leather was warmer in the wearing than he was in person.

Another thing he did and which I bought with some frequency: Belts and money clips. At my age I was still besieged with friends from law school, university and, for Christ’s sake, High School who were getting married and wanted me to be in the wedding. It’s customary to give a gift to the groom. Serge made beautiful, very masculine, intricately hand tooled belts (he finally conceded that if you took a low power microscope to the tooling, one might find just how ‘manly’ they were-how, really can a belt be otherwise? Initials were inlaid in silver into the end strap past the buckle, choice of colors, widths, buckles left to me. The other were leather money clips, also with silver initials, made with some sort of magnet that could really clamp and hold. Both gifts were more than appreciated as, clearly, they showed I’d put some thought into them. (To be honest, after the first one was a success, I simply called my leather making buddy, gave him the waist measurement, color, width and, a few weeks later he presented me with a really fine, mahogany stained wood presentation box, the belt or clip inside. My only problem was that he insisted on only charging me his material costs….Of course, by then we were ‘together’ on a fairly frequent basis so….I accepted...then wrote his will, got his taxes done, became his corporate attorney...I hoped it evened out.)

Cranes papers proved to be more than the correct choice: There could not have been a better one. Ten days after I slid my missive into the slot, my mail box contained a beautiful ecru vellum envelope with SLC engraved, not printed, on the flap. The one page letter complimented me on my graciousness, my respect for custom and suggested there was an interest. Although he regretted having to ask, might I send him a pair of head shots, full face and profile of me? nothing more. As an example he suggested that I use as my model mug shots taken by police but, of course, that was only to give me the positions he wanted. At least he didn’t ask I hold up something, my phone number perhaps. It was signed SLC. Just because I owned one, I suspected this had been written with a Mont Blanc blunt tip pen-his handwriting, almost. said if he wanted to make some extra money on the side, he could fill out things such as graduation certificates, that sort of document where more than just a printed piece of paper would seem appropriate.

For whatever reason, I didn’t tell Justin barely mentioned to Serge saying that  I needed his services again; He had a very fine, almost museum quality, catalog which, I knew, used a photographer and I hoped...maybe...he could arrange for the head shots…? He laughed, didn’t ask why and said it was an easily done thing but….he would have to charge me. His cost? A picture of me in the pants, indeed the whole outfit, I’d worn in court to put in his catalog. His fetish wear, if that’s what his leather items were and I wasn’t wholly convinced, sold briskly but he had the idea that a picture of a professional man wearing leather pants as easily as he might wear gray flannels or a gabardine suit...might take his business in a new direction, find a new clientele. Why did I question that? Why? He came to me, held me and whispered to me that men who would come to him for pants...would stay to buy a harness, leather jock….instantly...I knew he was right so much so that I suggested, after all I was around the shop enough to know his merchandise, why not have a duplex centerfold, me in my lawyer duds facing me...in what I might actually be wearing under those symbols of business and conservatism?

“Erik, you’ve never worn anything….”

“Tell me it’s a bad idea...”

He continued to embrace me….”It’s a great idea and that you’d do it….Erik, tell me, do you…?”

I ducked my chin so that it was almost over his shoulder, couldn’t see his face.

“Maybe...I’ve, I’ve wondered, walked by the shop at night...I know you live next door, I, Serge, you take me places, I don’t understand but….I know I’ll go if….you’ll...”

“Take off your clothes, Leather Man, your hide is about to get a new skin.” Held me, hard, I could feel his tears. “Erik….that day in court, when you honed in not on the garment or the money but the work and the craft, my soul being in it….I stepped on the road to...” I put my hand over his mouth.

“Yeah, it was a good thing those leather pants were heavy or the jury would have seen another piece of leather….just not stretched and tanned...”

It was the first night I slept with him as two men not just two men fucking. It was the first night I slept in a Leatherman’s bed. It was the first time I let him tie me in a spread eagle using leather straps. It was the first time I let him whip me….softly, just using a suede whip on my shoulders while further down he fucked me. It was the greatest orgasm of my life made greater as he took my sperm, applied it to a piece of leather, began to work it in, which, he said, would one day be the basis for a piece made to only hold my balls, shaped so that each hard orb would have a distinct place…I wanted that so badly I thrashed in my constraints and told him, yes, hold my  balls, start there, the genesis for men, balls, sperm, his leather would make me more fertile, I wanted to, soon, have him tie my balls into my sperm softened leather...he kissed my neck, told me he would.

He treated me, in my nakedness, like the finest skin he’d been offered. Tied down, stretched, he started to rub, caress, tell me what I would be when I was skinned, used….how magnificent I would look, how his preparation would give my chest, my face, a depth of color that only comes when the skin is worked endlessly, chewed, using spittle and sperm the only fluids….I contributed another handful of colloid cum for him to work into me…

He lay on top, kissed the back of my neck, said only that...the skin he would take from me was the top, the dermis, he would find that thin layer that men have but never find, the layer that glistens as if permanently sweating but is soft, almost demanding that it be stroked….

The next morning, in tears, I told him….there were problems,  a job, commitments, but...while I did say those things, he only put one hand on my jaw, looked into my eyes and simply said that, sure, he knew that, he expected that. To go on, I had to resolve, finish, whatever I needed to do, even if it took...months. Each time I came to him...I left that life just a bit further back, I’d have finished off one more thing. He laughed… “You know, I have a taste for Chinese take out….:” And we both laughed, Bryan with a chop stick up his cock….Justin panting at the door but finding his cock suddenly leathered up with no hole to stick out….my guys at the office...slowly wondering, secretly admiring as my leather pants, some days were flannels and a sueded leather shirt or a suit with an embossed leather tie….he looked forward to their dropping by...and we both knew they would. Along that path, he had no idea or desire that I leave the firm, abandon being an attorney...I’d just be the first leathered up attorney at the firm. In, of course, a sophisticated way.

Rather abruptly. “It’s morning. I’ll get the photographer squared away about the mug shots, please, Erik, I need you but I need time, even in court I tried to fight it but...”

“Yeah, me too...” Gee I was glad his shop didn’t have one of those damn bells that clanged when the door was opened, I did not want to hear anything when I left, just the sound air makes when swept up by a pane of glass and scooped inside.

I did not see him for a month. By design? No, somehow we’d passed that point where things needed explanation; In this case, we simply did not see each other, full stop. That said, he saw an awfully lot of me as in the interval the catalog, and mug shot shoot, was set up and done. Somehow, a warehouse on an old wharf in Bayonne, New Jersey seemed an unlike spot for a photographer who, as far as I knew, did rather intimate photography of men in varying garments, sort of flesh of two sorts on display. That’s what I thought but very quickly remembered what we’re all taught...Never Assume.

Professionally called “Jimmy Shoots”, he was a much in demand photographer for ad agencies all over the city, his specialty being...cars. Hence the warehouse; For all the intimacy of a softly lit loft, you cannot get a GMC pickup into one. Candid-I’d dealt, professionally and sometimes legally with ad firms so I understood his no bull shit way of speaking (and heaved a sigh of relief that, obviously, he unlike Bryan did not subscribe to the ‘dude/bro/awesome’ school of speech)-he said Serge had told him I was a special man to him which, professionally, to him, meant...Nothing. He did, however, compliment me on the mirror version of leather pants versus leather under things, lot to work with there, A Lot, Yes Sir. Now strip.

I mentioned the head shots. He picked up a camera body and a lens-they were everywhere-snapped a picture, pushed my head sideways, took another picture then handed the whole thing to one of his several assistants. Only thing about that, the size? These were black and whites, eight by ten matte finish, looked best. He’d have them for me at the end of the shoot. I started to ask if he could…?

“Send a set to Serge? Buddy, he’s going to see every angle of you I take...he’s the client, they get things like that.”

Oh. I slunk off to a dressing room to undress.

On a mannequin, with me standing there wearing only a pair of bikini briefs, was the outfit I’d worn in court. Plus something I’d not worn, a leather jock as well as leather garters to hold up my knee length socks. Carefully, no creasing, folding or mutilating, the garments were removed from one dummy and put on, well, another dummy. Told, no threatened, not to sit down, if necessary they’d find a leaning board. Couldn’t even put on the shoes and socks, scuffing the brightly shined shoes-I found they’d been lacquered to produce a gleam Saks never had in mind. (A groom buddy-he got a belt-worked for an ad agency. He recalled for a holiday issue to get just the right sort of visual ‘juiciness’ wanted for the turkey, it, had been shellacked with excess shellac allowed to simulate those good, good, oh so good tasting juices.) (Kev really was a good friend but all of us knew he occasionally had to be shuttled from ad speak to human speak.)

Need I tell you the floor, at least the majority of it, hadn’t been mopped since, possibly, the Normandie turned over at her pier during WWII? If we could have substituted the bottoms of my feet for shoes and socks….The last thing before I was allowed to have my socks gartered then my shoes put on, was a visit with a ‘stylist’.

His first appraisal of me as a model to appear in Serge’s magnificent catalog suggested that this was a joke, some clown had found me dumpster diving but for High Art, I was to be used as a contrast between men beautifully leathered and photographed and…..this….Jimmy took him to one side and whatever he said had an effect. Not particularly positive but, with great reluctance, he agreed to ‘see if there was anything that could possibly be done’. He had suggestions, the first of which was that my hair be cut into a faux Mohawk. No. Shaved Bald? Hell, no. Crew cut?….By then Jimmy pointed out that he took the pictures, he knew what the client wanted, that what he saw was what he had to work with. In the end, my lips were touched up, some highlighting powder was dusted on my cheeks as well as my eye lashes had longer lashes glued to them. Just before I did almost called a halt to the crap and fiddling with me, Jimmy called a halt, said we’d get a set up, words that galvanized the many, many people around him.

One very white place was suddenly lit. I was led to the edge, supported while first one sock was attached to the garter then the other followed by both feet slid into the oh so shiny shoes. Finally I could walk in something but not off the white place, surrounded by an off white drape that went up...twenty feet? Getting to the place indicated was the easiest and shortest chore; Now I had to stand precisely where told while lights were adjusted, Jimmy, in a fresh pair of white athletic socks, moved about checking for angles, looking first at me then through a lens finder and finally into a camera. I lost track of how many times I heard a click and also how many times I was told to move this or that a little, a lot, turn, foot out, one  behind the other, look boyish, sexy, masculine, debonair...not easy for an attorney who doesn’t have many looks other than squinty eyed after reading pages of briefs in two point print.

Time was called or rather paused while just at the edge of the white, a sort of tent appeared into which I was told to go and, what else? Strip. My wardrobe for the opposing picture was in there. Finally peeled, I looked for it and was told to look for a bag with “Serge” on it. Apparently it had fallen under the chair-I was allowed to sit to undress as now it was okay to spindle, fold or mutilate what I’d been wearing. Also there were some wetted towels, for my feet, as well as the sort of paper booties one associated with surgeons in hospitals.

I opened the bag to see my next set of….Oh My Great Jumping Jesus!!!!

“Jimmy, Jimmy!, where’s the rest of it?” I held up what might have been a leather jock if there’d been more as well as just a leather thong that went…?

“He made it just for you, pull it on, you’ll be amazed at the fit.” I was already that, amazed that is, and I didn’t even have it on.

“This is it?”

“Sure, why not? What were you wearing in court that day?” The answer, a jock, came back  but...there was substantially more to it, substantially.

“Hey, get it on, this is a quick shot, only need a couple of poses and, here, tie this around your neck, it’s a cross between a tie and a collar, just loose, you aren’t collared...could be worn under a suit.”

While I stood wishing I’d kept my big mouth shut….but then remembering Serge, how he’d appreciated the idea, that I’d do it….how much I...how much I was coming to love him. I tied the thong tight, hoped he’d notice.

Elsewhere the stylist, him again, and Jimmy were not in agreement. From what I could gather, he felt my fur detracted, I needed to be shaved. No. Compromise, the hair on my chest was trimmed making a more defined trail of fur leading to the top of the jock-I’d found there was a cock ring inside which...wouldn’t show but, I gathered, would be mentioned in the description. I thought about that while portable clippers zipped over me producing what, I guess, the stylist thought ‘helped’aq ‘the garment’.

As Jimmy said, it didn’t take long-what he wanted was me in a position that mirrored the one they would use in opposition with the leather pants. He had some rush proofs which he consulted as he directed me to move slightly, raise or lower my head, slightly….and we were done. Back in my original dressing room, I forgot I was wearing my new leather underwear, apparently it really was comfortable-or I was just very distracted- and was leaving just as the more ‘muscular’ men for the rest of the catalog showed up. Surely the stylist would be thrilled.; Faux Mohawks, shaved heads-and bodies-as well as body ink which, in one case, I thought I recognized from a particularly graphic piece of porn Jus’ and I had watched while I screwed him. From that one I got pointers even some of it proved to be painful-we marked it as something that Bryan might, uhm, enjoy.

On the quick trip home I tried to imagine myself as happy as an unemployed lawyer for hire wearing an all leather suit while I worked in Legal Aid. Oh, and lived with a man whose sole interest was in keeping me as his own plus covered in leather save on those times when the only ‘leather’ he liked was my own skin. Impossible to judge the damage I’d done to my career-the firm had been more than pleased with the result I’d got for Serge but never could they have imagined it would go further than collecting their costs from the losing defendant to my appearing basically nude in a catalog that catered to...men with different tastes. Leaning against the window as we sat in Penn Station, I guess I teared up as a drunk offered me a pull on whatever was in his paper bag saying, “Son, I know, you’ll feel better.”

Back at home, and wearing only the leather G string/jock I finally looked at the head shots so quickly taken by Jimmy; I was shocked. One look told me why he was so in demand, these pictures, almost casual in attitude, portrayed a stunningly handsome man, beautiful eyes, not smiling, not pouting just looking out at...whomever was seeing the picture. I was hot, so much so I involuntarily reached down, pushed the jock aside and jerked off looking at myself….Why hadn’t I noticed I’d done that? My nice new leather collection of shoe strings attached to something the size of the red nose on a clown was now smothered in sperm. I remembered Serge and started to work it into the leather deciding, what the hell, to wear it to work on Monday.

Monday, feeling a breeze come up my leather pants, I found my buddy in supplies, said I had another problem….hoping he could or would help. With some reluctance I showed him what needed to be sent which sparked a reaction I could never have anticipated; “Some guy is really lucky, really...”

He looked at me, not suggestively, but like a friend who really is happy for another friend. “Erik, he better deserve you, cuz….if he doesn’t, well...”

I was wreathed in guilt; I didn’t even know the man’s name and here he was, my protector, my friend, a man who wanted something for me I didn’t even know. Only one thing….I smiled at him. “You, me lunch, today. See ya at the elevator at one.” Fearing he’d refused, I left and hustled back to my semi-private cubicle just in time for Bill Channing, one of the Senior Partners, to step in, congratulate me on getting a raise, a better ‘place to work’ and some promises about becoming a full Junior Partner. He also mentioned my pants, asking where I got them? I reminded him that we had represented the maker in a successful suit, I was sure his name and address were in files or, if he had a minute, I’d copy it out. Making a weird clicking noise, he said Nah, he’d find it, looked almost at my button fronted crotch and swung out back into the larger world of law. The morning, to that time, was either ahead of whatever else my days usually were or...I was still asleep and having a helluva dream.

Since I couldn’t inspire myself to do anything, I called Serge. One of his many, many assistants-I never saw them as they worked in a leather heaven of assembly of garments a few blocks away-answered. Name was Billy, knew who I was, seemed on the verge of saying something than didn’t. Quiet voiced, he asked if I wanted to leave a message-he’d have to take it as the answering machine was on the fritz. I had planned on telling Serge I was ‘leathered up’ and at work but, faced with Billy, I mumbled something about a nonexistent something then quickly hung up before he could ask me to clarify what I couldn’t have clarified.

Bill (Channing) had meant what he said and delivered. An hour later I was holding some files and my phone directory in an empty space complete with walls, a real window, an empty desk-with chair-as well as a closable door. Based on that I assumed the raise was a given and was suddenly glad I had a ‘date’, someone to share this happy turn of events. Also knew a trick to get his name without seeming a cretin.

But I did. As we stepped into the elevator I said.. “I’m dim today...would you spell your first name for me again, I never get it right.”

“Joe. J. O. E.”

“Oh.” Regrettably the Otis Elevator People once again kept us safe although I would have preferred we crash seventeen floors killing all of us but sparing me the stupidity….

Joe punched me in the ribs, the way you do when your team just won, “It’s okay, I knew you didn’t know, just wondered how you’d find out?”

Over lunch I told him about the ad, the correspondence, how much I didn’t know, the pictures were a request and...they were taken by the guy who did the catalog for the leather man I’d represented. He looked at me, at the pants, then back at me. “Gotta ask….what’s under the trousers? I’m betting whatever it is doesn’t say ‘Hanes’ or ‘Jockey’ or….”

“When his new catalog comes out you can see what I’m wearing: I’ll drop a copy off just after I’ve been canned, told I’m an embarrassment to the firm then ordered from the premises.”

“Jesus, how, I mean, what...I mean….”

I unsnapped a couple of the buttons on the fly then pushed the waist down so Joe could look.”

“That’s almost all of it.”

He looked at me, not quite stunned but also not quite believing as he said…

“Cross my heart, I’ve seen all those catalogs for sex clothes but I never thought, well,  I knew someone had to buy them but….”

“I didn’t either.” In two gulps I got down a double Bourbon straight.

He, too, gulped although for different reasons. “Erik...I guess you figured...I’m gay too. I, uh, well, I’ve admired you…” He sort of hung his head. What else, I put an arm out and pulled him to me. “Want a leather jock?” He looked up, grinned, “And I’ll wear it to work.” As I left that afternoon, his name, address and phone number on a card, he was preparing the envelope with the pictures. This time both the addressee’s name as well as mine were printed on it, the brown Times New Roman, in brown, on the front, in very large letters. Also, making sure the firm’s name wasn’t on it, he used the postage meter then added it to our outbound ‘high importance’ document space. The answer to this mailing would have to be one of two things; Very revelatory of purposes, things and names or...there would be no answer, ever. I thought about Joan Rivers who often said, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”. Seemed appropriate just then.

It wasn’t exactly the end of a perfect day, just the end. Apparently Jupiter was in the seventh house and something had aligned something with Mars which is the only possible reason for the confluence in my home that evening. Apparently Justin had been putting off an major emergency until this evening, a fact I didn’t know until he appeared at my door-my back door. How he got in? Well, he’d been visiting another tenant who, suddenly, had an old  boy friend reappear. Not wishing to stand in the way of what may-or may not-have been a touching reunion, he gathered up his clothes, slipped out that service entrance then walked the two flights to my service entrance where….he found Bryan with a key. Seems he’d planned a surprise not to mention a  bag full of little white boxes with metal handles. That’s in my kitchen. Where I went for a beer wearing only what had become my most staple piece of clothing, Serge’s leather jock.

Bryan, the one with the most clothes, simply said what we all probably thought, “Jesus fuck, dudes, what’s going on?” This was not the time or the place I wanted to play twenty questions, or any questions, so I simply snarled that I didn’t give a shit who was here or why but they’d shown up at an inconvenient moment. Jus’, who should have kept his mouth shut, dropped to his knees, pulled, actually tore in half, my leather buddy and, had I not cold cocked him, would have started to warm up my cock.

“Jesus, bro, why’d you punch out the dude?” I shot Brian a look that wiser adults, assuming he was most of an adult, would have interpreted to mean, the parties over, get out, I’ll just leave the bag….and backed out the door. But he didn’t. End of round two, no TKO’s, just solid knock outs.

Half an hour later, and given two pair of cuffs I had for certain activities, not to mention a number of expensive ties, my two uninvited visitors found themselves bound and gagged as well as cuffed, to each other in that amusing way of one wrist to the ankle of your buddy and reverse, one ankle to the wrist of the man beside you. Each of them had half of my former leather jock in their mouths, a couple of pieces of electrical tape over that just to make certain that silence was golden. Oh, and that hank of para-cord Justin had thought we ‘might have some fun with’? I did. On the packaging it said it could easily support 800 pounds so I assumed it could secure two men to the base of a granite kitchen island; All I needed to remember to do was to step over them as I went round the room. And why was I doing that? Gathered up a couple of beers, some fresh Chinese take out, turned out the lights as I left the kitchen, stepped over them again then, behind me, closed the door rather regretting it didn’t lock.

Trying to get comfortable, wearing nothing, I held a cold beer against my balls then slopped Chicken Something Or Other down my crotch. For whatever reason, that tore it. I made one call, carefully stood up dumping dinner on the carpet-at this sort of moment I understood why people liked hard wood floors. On the other hand, those hard wood floor lovers didn’t fuck on their hard wood floors or, if they did, were very tentative and did not end up with a bruised ass.

In the kitchen I slapped both ‘visitors’ into consciousness-okay, they already were-told them when released I would give them two things, a cold pack and a trip out the back door, Bryan was asked to leave his key. Justin, once his mouth was freed tried to mumble something about ‘buddies’ while I stood in front of him holding a piece of leather, my only comment to him being he had other friends in the building, here after, he could have emergencies there. My only regret was that as I slammed the door, it couldn’t pop them on their asses.

Back in my library, I cleaned up the mess, still holding the shreds of my custom made jock noticing that tears were mixing in with the Chinese whatever it had been; I tied it around my balls, had three stiff drinks and went to bed uncertain about the next day, month or year.

Getting to my new office delayed me so I didn’t find the sack with “Serge” hanging on the door as early as I might have. Now having a lady from a pool of secretaries, I learned that this had been delivered quite early, perhaps there was a card...There was.

“It meant more than I can tell you that you cried when you told me of your loss. I wish I made one, slightly different, for everyday but….Here are two, one dark, one light. If they need adjusting...call the work station, they’ll fix it while it’s on you. S.” There was a number, the referenced work station I guessed.

Closed the door, slipped off my shoes, my pants-I was commando in honor of a friend lost-made it easy to pull it on; Naturally, it fit perfectly. There was one other thing, Serge would understand. Still in his perfectly made sack, I dropped by supplies where Joe was bamboozled by a request by one of the newer employees, apparently from the crop who’d not been penmanship trained. While he enthused, stripped, and put on the other leather jock, I tried to translate what was wanted; Best I could come up with was that he needed a “Graft of Ladled Puddles”. In my mind, I suspected he wanted some legal pads (the Graft part?). My suggestion to Joe was that he return the request with a note in Spencerian Script  saying as he was unable to read what was wanted therefore he couldn’t supply it.

Joe’s cubby hole was actually quite large, he was just surrounded by boxes of all manner of ‘supplies’ which left him with a chair, a minimal table for a computer as well as a hat stand. But...the real part of his world opened up when you started down the rat paths that skirted around the neatly stacked packets, boxes, pallets of an amazing number of things. For what ever reason why he was keeper of the toilet paper bemused me but...the word supplies does cover a wide range of things. Suddenly he led me into a furnished room. Attractive Persian Carpet, Sixty inch television, comfortable recliner, two occasional chairs, a table between them plus, behind a curtain, a bed.

“My home. Access to the executive washroom, gym, shower, kitchen, whatever I want, I order” He winked. “Supplies.” I started to take off my clothes which took him by surprise. “Erik, I didn’t mean….”

“I know, but I do.” I looked into his quiet eyes, tears, a man to be held which I did. “Can supplies get condoms or…..do you care.” He actually laughed.

“Andy Klein, Jesus he’s a putz, I order condoms, sex toys, magazines, you wouldn’t believe the shit he’s into…..Some sort of Japanese Bondage book, the rope to go with it….”

Andy Klein, one of the dullest of the Senior Partners; At fifty still suffering from acne and, apparently, a number of other interests some of which, based on what Joe showed me, weren’t entirely legal. And then I looked at Joe. And gulped.

You see pictures of guys with a full tattooed body suit but….this was the first time I’d seen one in person; It was magnificent. Peaceful, the images on him seemed to want to touch you, hold you...without thinking I moved toward him, took him in my arms, kissed him, picked him up then gently laid him on his bed while I knelt beside it. All I could do was run my hands, gently, over him half expecting to feel what was depicted, half being sorry that I could not. He turned his head toward me, extended his hand…

“Erik, please, please….”

His was the sort of sex that you forget when and where you started and it just continues. Being under him while we blew each other was like being in a museum filled with amazing pictures that you’ve never seen. His sperm as it flowed into your mouth was the path to them, leading your eyes, your hands, his hands, your cock so naked, so plain so….ashamed to be accepted by this swirl of living art. Allowing his cock into me was an embarrassment as  there was nothing for it to see, just pinkish flesh, nothing whereas in him, I could only imagine, it would be like ducking your elastic head as you drifted into the blue grotto floating while his ass stroked you, waited for you to regain your center after being in this marvelous place.

He held me in him for, I don’t know, a long time. Forever if one went by a clock somewhere on him but not long enough based on my feelings of absolute containment within a living piece of art. He was the curator, allowing you to stand while he assessed where in this pantheon of design you would best fit...absorbed into him. Only one other time, one other man….whipped with suede that seemed to take my flesh and suck it into the lash, into the man.

We held each other, nothing to say, kissed, slept, fucked again, more aggressively, finding that great art is derived only through great pain and yet….the only pain, if it was, came as he placed his lips on my nipple, sucked it, slightly nibbled it….I did not know how or even if I wanted to stop or end….Could Serge come to us? Could he find his way through paper and pencils, pens and typewriter keys? Could he lay out a path of leather to finally tie up the pictures, the art, the man they both…..loved? What should be done with me? I had to be taken someplace, secured to something, their property, one to ink me the other to wind the ink from place to place then finally left, unframed but crucified my mouth open, my eyes closed...leather not nails pounded through my hands, my ankles, my balls pulled down, one spike put in to show the genesis of man.

Joe held me to him.

“Thank You, Erik, all I ever wanted from a man at once….Please, now, leave...”

I looked at him, kissed his God Head, licked his testicles, caressed his face...All I could give him was a smile. It was enough.

Leaving him was almost impossible, I could feel the designs still attached to me, only letting go as I got farther from their home, their man, their proper place in making him….beautiful.

Unlike Hansel and Gretel, or I think it was them, I hadn’t laid out a trail of crumbs so was almost immediately lost in the warren of supplies; It was easy how they could never fire Joe as it would take a very long time to just find where a few simple things were, not the more arcane screws for elderly typewriters or velvet ropes (I’d seen them used) to block off a conference room. So efficient and effortlessly he’d done his job that he was now in a position of power though I doubt he realized it; Give me what I want-maybe Erik bound and gagged-or you’ll never see the key to the wash room again.

Eventually I popped out someplace then made my way back to my own larger cubby hole but not without noticing….people looking at me. Fleetingly I wondered if some of Joe had rubbed off but that interesting notion disappeared when I saw, hanging from my office door knob, a white bag with “Serge” on it. Too heavy to be more leather undergarments, I opened the very clever closure as I rounded my desk then saw the contents. That’s when I tripped and fell on the floor holding a copy of the catalog.

Being on the floor did have an advantage, if anyone looked in, they wouldn’t see me ergo, I wasn’t there. Took no effort to open it to the center, if practically fell that way showing me. Twice.

The only picture I care about was the ‘answer’ photo, me in my jock looking at me fully clad. But who cared about pants and shirts and ties….not when you could look at an expanse of Erik and, oh, just incidentally, at his most pivotal part, some weaving of material that seemed to support….Holy Shit! A pair of bowling balls. Not my balls, no, I knew my balls and these weren’t them. They. Whichever. Thoughts of killing Jimmy flashed through my mind followed by thoughts of killing myself-why went for a cadre of Senior Partners to crash through, pick me up, take my chair, first toss it through the window followed by me. At least it wouldn’t hurt….too much.

Laying on the floor was proving advantageous; I could hear at least two people come in, look about then go away. Easy, I could just stay here, eventually everyone would go home and then….creep out and slither away never to return. Or maybe….I had a slight vision of who had just come in the room, I’d seen this man, I’d seen the magazine he was carrying in his hand-white with “Serge” on the cover. Bill Channing. Oh well, he had seemed a nice guy, easier to be fired by him than some faceless acne faced….visions of Andy whizzed past my mind. And with a dildo stuck up his ass, his cock in an extender, a parachute, with then pounds attached, over his balls...for Channing, I got up. Wondered if I should march to a wall, cover my eyes, ask for a last cigarette then, with a Mt. Blanc Pen, draw a bullseye over my heart.

He extended his hand to help me up. “You alright? Hey, buddy, absofuckinluttely great! It takes balls, and boy, you got ‘em, to do this, couldn’t be prouder….gonna make this part of our yearly portfolio. Shows how progressive we are and, buddy, I have a place out on the island, play golf? You, me, some weekend? Get out of the hustle? Gotta go order one like yours, hell, order one for all the partners….Great job, buddy, just a great job.”

Glad a chair came with the desk. The next ten minutes I spent signing...autographs, right across me in the centerfold. How the hell did so many of these get here? I didn’t think they were to be even mailed for...well...what did I know? I hadn’t seen Serge in over a month. The shoot was somewhat before that….so…

I swallowed deeply, knew what I had to do. Assuming I could be the fair haired boy for couple of hours I called Channing’s office, nominally to accept his invitation but also to get some time off before work stoppage and all those autographs….he laughed, said come back next Monday, we’d set something up for the next weekend.

He must have known I was coming. Standing there in his usual quiet demeanor, smiling, holding a white catalog. “Hi.”

My smile turned into a few tears. Standing there all I could do was start to slowly unbutton my coat, drop it on the floor, start on the shirt,  pull off the tie, kicked off my shoes, finished the shirt, let it settle like a blue striped bird over my shoes, kept looking at him. Un snapped the buttons on my leather pants, gravity made them fall and there I was. His jock on my body. He came to me, embraced my nuts with his hand, put his head on my shoulder, his arms around me. “Are you ready?”

Never been so calm. So completely sure. I could feel my nipples harden, my cock erupt from the top of the leather container. “I have to show you something, it may change your mind but...”

He reached under the counter and pulled out a magnificent vellum envelope with SLC on the front then took from it two head shots….I stared at him, the envelope.

“SLC, Serge Leather Company. Erik, I didn’t know until it was too late. The trial was over, I’d abandoned any hope, why I did the ad…..and then the first letter arrived, signed. I only asked for the head shots hoping there was no mistake, it was you so here we are. Do you want the position? You have to live in, I will change you….I will keep you...You will have to live two sides of  your one life.

“Strip.” Under what he was wearing was not only a leather jock but some other things, pieces I’d seen, pieces that, on him, did what leather can do for a man when it’s their life and not their affectation. With each tanned revelation he grew in stature and magnetism; He was the other side of me, the   part through the mirror but this time….I could step through, go to him, be with him accept whatever more he wanted me to be for I’d want it myself.

We stood there. I had a thought. “Serge, I was unfaithful to you today, I fucked a man who has used his leather his way, but now...we’re just like him, our bodies, and what we’ll put over them, on them, perhaps in them are the same as his ink just done differently. In your ad you said whoever accepted would be….changed. I want that change, now I know that, like the man in the ink, I want to be the man, as you understand it, in leather. Not just put on for a party but knowing that what is on us is only a substitute, we cannot skin ourselves to remake our skin into something better. Tell me, do you feel when you put on something leather that all your doing is covering a place on you that was skinned and now replaced?”

He held me, whispered in my ear… “.I have to restrain myself from taking a certain blade, knowing the design is made and… I scream because I cannot do it, it’s not physically possible.”

I thought and wondered…. “I love you, but...you know that. If I am your mirror then shouldn’t you use your mirror to see what cannot be done to either but you must, Serge, you must have envisioned the finished product, the way you would look, the mirror would show you. It’s the problem of putting on clothes and, yes, we can look in a mirror see whatever is there but the image in only a cheat, it’s yourself, animate only when you move or shift or turn. Your real mirror, the one I want you to make me, will not precisely mirror you, but be the living ideas you have, ones you can change but with those changes will be real, not just something you held up to yourself then looked in a mirror.

I could see him realise that the ad he placed really was asking for a man on whom he could visit his dreams and see them come to live.

“What would you like to do first? How would you like to see the man you’ve kept inside you revealed? In here, in these places, when I’m with you...I’m almost you, not your doppelganger, but the spirit of the kept man released.”

I slowly pushed down his jock that was on me. Now he would only have to want to see to make it real, the permanent answer to wishes. I could see his desire to take me grow and so, as I was now partly him, I wanted him to take me. But now, he would take his kept man as he would like to be taken, he could see himself as he’d always wanted to be and was thwarted because, well, Shakespeare got it, “this too, too solid flesh”

“I love you. I want to see me through you, I accept your application.”

I smiled at him. “Now do something”

Hours later, I was bound with hundreds of feet of the thinnest most flexible leather to a wall. He had found a way to outline each muscle group in this amazing ribbon of something so light, how it could have even been cut was beyond imagination. It was tight, it was painful but it was the pain he had feared for himself only because he would have had to choose between almost playing dress up and falling short of what he wanted or going to far and ruining the reality with too much fantasy. Now, in front of him, on his wall, his work of art; Portrait of the Artist as Leather. Kept there, changed, altered, but now he knew as I did.

It was on a hard surface in a dim room. I’d practiced moving in my second skin of tanned, flesh. I was laying on the mirrored floor waiting for him. This was to be the first time, he would finally find out what the flesh he loved made into the man he loved would feel like when he gave himself up to be fucked by leather….

He knew he gave up all rights when he let leather take him for what he was doing was acknowledging his true self. I could start, slowly, torturing him with his own flesh, driving into his ass with his own cock. He could not orgasm as his flesh could not. It was agony as he rolled and clutched himself having given this pleasure of man, the fountain of sperm to his other self.

I carefully tied him, painfully spread eagled, stood over him, his skin, his beloved tissue and simply let his seed spread on him. He could watch his flesh writhe in both agony and pleasure as time after time the silver thread sprayed him. His delight and agony were perfect. One side was both, the other side could not be either but he could see his masculinity displayed, venerating himself and finally, desperately, finding the kept man he wanted himself to be.

I let the skin he had put on me slowing unwind revealing the other man he loved knowing all he had to do was the winding. Now we could fuck one another, play with our bodies, slather our cocks with spit, eat asses make love, kiss, touch, feel the human under the skin. I lay on him, reached out,  let the one man become two, take him in now my arms, love him, accept his love while we rolled in leather as if with enough heat it would creep up and force us to be reclaimed in our own skin…. Kept as men but Kept.

We were one of only three men to ever appear in his catalogs. Joe, his magnificent skin, was the third. The dynamic made the catalog a best seller even before the orders. What the leather did for Joe was unlike what it did for others as, carefully considered, it accentuated the brilliance that was his singular art. The first catalog with all three of us had Joe in the middle, nude, Serge on one side, nude and, of course me on the other side nude. On the white floor artfully arranged, as only Jimmy could do, was everything we would wear in the catalog. It was brilliant. But it was also Serge who had the foresight to one day holding a lawyer allow him to take an idea and give it life in leather, Leather that Kept Him.