Chapter 19: Rocky Horror Handcuffs

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The Higher Education of Matt Griffith

Chapter 19: Rocky Horror Handcuffs

Saturday, October 28, 1995

Copyright 2024. All characters in this story are fictional and are not meant to represent any living persons.

Note to readers: This chapter has 2 scenes. If you just want the sex, skip to the 2nd scene.

For new readers: The “Gay Mafia” referenced here is just the fancy name for an imagined secret gay club at Oklahoma Christian University (OC), a real private Christian University by the way.

***

Matt tried not to flinch as the man stuffed a dollar bill into the waistband of his gold boxer briefs. The buck was a tip for the cocktail Matt had just handed him–as if the man needed another drink. As if he couldn’t have fetched it himself. The buck also provided the man an excuse to cop a feel–in this case of Matt’s ass, testing its firmness as if thumping melons at the market. And, since the briefs were the only thing Matt wore–besides sneakers, he’d been touched a lot already, and the night was young.

Matt grinned and bore it. Had to. He was there for a good cause, this being the annual Halloween party sponsored by Nicholas and his partner, Bradley, both Gay Mafia alumni. The party was a fundraiser for the GM.

Officially, the GM was there to serve food and drinks. Unofficially, they provided eye candy for aging queens–which gave the party cachet and made its invitations a coveted commodity. It was a win-win situation for everyone: Nicholas and Bradley got bragging rights as hosts of the hottest, most exclusive gay party in town; the GM raised enough cash to keep the lights on at the clubhouse; GM members earned much-needed spending money just in time for the Christmas season; and party guests got to blow their wads–figuratively and literally.

It was a formula that predated Samhain itself: older men with fading looks trading the contents of their wallets to indulge their fantasies with guys still in the bloom of youth but who had the empty pockets that went with it. Think of it less as sex work and more as the Second Law of Thermodynamics–only with money. Nature abhorring a vacuum and all that.

And, just as All Hallow’s Eve was the one night of the year where the spirits of the dead roamed the earth, this party was the singular annual event when GM members exchanged their favors for mammon.

The theme of this year’s party was The Rocky Horror Picture Show, which explained the gold boxer briefs Matt and five other members wore–in tribute to the “Rocky” part of Rocky Horror. William, sporting a black corset and feather boa, was Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Harley was Riff Raff. Paul was Eddie.

Luke was away on security detail.

Matt had not heard of Rocky Horror until six weeks earlier when William had told them all about this party and its theme. Matt still hadn’t seen the movie–not really. Seeing and hearing background snippets as it looped perpetually on the big screen TV at Nicholas’s and Bradley’s house didn’t count. The little bit Matt had seen was just weird. That “Time Warp” dance? Weird–especially when performed by inebriated middle-aged men acting like teenagers. And what was the deal with all the callouts? Janet was a slut. Brad was an asshole. Got it the first twenty times.

The Nicholas-Bradley house was in the Mesta Park neighborhood of Oklahoma City, which was like Pacific Avenue in the Monopoly game, expensive but not Boardwalk expensive. Boardwalk was the Heritage Hills mansions two streets to the south, which made Mesta Park look like servants’ quarters.

Mesta Park dated to the early 1900’s and boasted 2- and 3-story houses in a mishmash of Craftsman, Victorian, and Neo-classical architecture. How did Matt know all this? From Bradley, who was proud to have tossed a large portion of Nicholas’ earnings into the money pit that was their home.

Luckily for all concerned, including the various contractors hired to do the remodeling, Nicholas made good money working as an Assistant Producer for one of the local TV news stations.

The Nicholas-Bradley house was Craftsman. It had a large front porch supported by thick, brick columns. The exterior had shiplap siding and sported more gables than that hovel Hawthorne had written about. The interior was all hardwood floors, oak beams and molding. Windows everywhere–some leaded–even in the closets. Yes, Matt had toured the closets. Come out of them as well.

Bradley was a consummate tour guide. They chatted during a quiet lull before the guests arrived. Matt asked how long Nicholas and Bradley had been together.

Bradley had sighed. “Sixteen years. Two years in college. Then, right after we graduated, Nicholas lost his ever-loving mind and married a woman! It took him almost a year to come to his senses. We’ve been together the fourteen years since, but it still rankles me that I’ll always be the second wife beşiktaş escort bayan and a year behind in the anniversary count.”

Matt’s mind had glossed over the messy details and seen the silver lining: Nicholas and Bradley had been together almost as long as had Matt’s parents–and without the legal sanction of marriage. It gave Matt hope that he could similarly find someone and have a semblance of a “normal” life.

Semi-normality might be in Matt’s future, but nothing at the Nicholas-Bradley house that evening was remotely quotidian.

The man who had pawed Matt’s ass was Garland Stone-Dancer, 33, the youngest alumnus at the party, by far the best looking of the guests. Not that the bar was that high with these guys. Having a full head of hair and a flat stomach moved Garland into the top four. His deep-set, coal-black eyes and lantern jaw did the rest.

Garland led Matt to the front parlor, took a seat in a leather club chair. He sipped the Manhattan Matt had just served him.

“Have a seat.” Garland motioned for Matt to sit in the other club chair. “I enjoy talking with pretty boys. Your name’s Matt, right?”

Matt nodded, sat in the other club chair. An antique grandfather clock propped up one wall, ticking slowly.

Garland made no effort at speech, inhabited the silence instead. He studied Matt’s body as though it were on display at a gallery, and he, Garland, was weighing whether to add it to his collection.

Garland was dressed as one of the party guests from Rocky Horror: tight fitting, slim-cut tuxedo pants that ended above his ankles. White dress socks. Black dance shoes. Tuxedo coat with tails. Purple, sequined cummerbund, and a severe pompadour.

He also wore a pair of handcuffs as a sort of bracelet, both cuffs clasped loosely around his right wrist. The small connecting bit of chain jangled each time he sipped his Manhattan. Was that accessory vintage to the movie? Or something unique to Garland? Matt’s inquiring mind wanted to know.

Garland broke the silence. “You don’t crack under pressure. I like that too.”

Matt smiled, asked Garland about his surname: Stone-Dancer.

Garland explained that it was of Cherokee origin. His ancestors had been force-marched to Oklahoma Territory in the “Trail of Tears.”

Matt’s kin had come to Oklahoma about forty years later, for the Land Run of 1893, where settlers got to claim land originally given to the Cherokee. That wasn’t exactly something to brag about to a Cherokee. Matt let it drop.

Garland took a slow sip of his drink, causing the handcuffs to rattle. He eyed Matt over the rim of his glass.

Matt sensed a proposition brewing, tried stalling by asking when Garland had graduated from OC.

Turned out he hadn’t graduated–from OC, that is. Had only lasted two years there before transferring to OU. Then law school. Fast forward to his new Porsche, lovingly described. Did Matt want to see it? Same piercing stare.

Matt demurred. He was too nervous to see Garland’s stick shift.

Who wouldn’t be intimidated knowing that Garland and each of the dozen other guests had already ponied up a FIVE-HUNDRED DOLLAR cover charge? These were men of means who meant to do more than just ogle the eye candy, sip their cocktails, and nibble at the hors d’oeuvres. The cover charge got them in the door. Anything beyond gratuitous groping would cost them extra.

Matt worried whether he would be able to keep up his end of the bargain when the time came.

The parlor wherein Matt and Garland sat was an intimate formal space immediately left of the front hall. It had pocket doors that were thankfully open, and which offered Matt a view of the living room where the rest of his fellow GM members doted on the other guests. Laughed at their jokes. Fetched their drinks. Submitted to being petted and pinched.

Paul, the only other freshman, seemed as nervous as Matt–if not more so.

When William had told Matt and Paul how the fundraising worked, Paul had not been happy.

“I’m no prostitute!” he had declared. Crossed his arms. Scowled. End of discussion. This from the same Paul who had bottomed for two different guys at the Habana Inn. Left the first one to find a bigger dick.

Matt had not told Paul about his own Habana experiences–plural, three times–on the receiving end of Vince’s cock. Had Paul known the size of Vince’s cock, he would have wanted in on the action. Had Matt known the size of that thing–before he blithely agreed to flip-fucking, he would have… Oh, who was he kidding? He would have gone through with it anyway!

“Don’t be so dramatic, dahling,” William had said to Paul. “Housewives do it all the time for major appliances or European vacations. No one considers them sex workers.”

“Housewives don’t have pricelists,” Matt had countered. William had just finished explaining to them that as freshmen they could “accommodate” a single guest with the limited services of hand jobs (giving or receiving, istanbul escort $100; mutual, $200) or blow jobs (same setup, double the rates). Those rates were the minimum. Members usually negotiated more, considering they had all their teeth, weren’t strung out, and were disease-free. Members got to keep half their earnings, all of their tips. Upper-classmen were able to turn more tricks, offer more services.

William had shrugged. “The only thing you two have to do is work the party and be window dressing. Serve a few drinks. Get your asses pinched. Period. If you want to earn some money, fine. If not, that’s fine too. That just equates to more money for the rest of us.”

As if William needed money. His daddy was an executive for an oil company.

Paul had remained unconvinced even though he was the most cash strapped of the GM members, barely able to pay his tuition with work-study, Pell Grants, and student loans. His dad wasn’t loaded. Just the opposite. But it wasn’t a case of Rich dad (for William), Poor dad (for Paul). It was Rich dad, Shitty dad. Lest anyone forget, it was Paul’s preacher dad who had nicknamed his son “Retarded Robot Dick Diddler”, shortened to “R2D2.” Same Shitty dad who had called Paul last week to inform him he might as well stay on campus for the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. What kind of dad uninvited his own kid for the holidays? A Shitty one, that’s who. One who couldn’t stand the fact that his namesake, Paul Olson II, was a queer with Asperger’s syndrome.

It seemed everyone was thinking ahead to Thanksgiving. Debbie had invited Matt to spend the holiday at her house. He hadn’t yet accepted but was leaning towards doing so. His own family hadn’t returned any of his phone calls, hadn’t driven the thirty miles to see him or watch any of his games. And, if he did accept Debbie’s offer, would it be rude to ask if Paul could also join them?

Pineapple Paul. Matt felt zero physical attraction to the guy but had grown to appreciate him as a person. Considered him a friend.

But we digress. As regarded the whole fundraising-by-fucking concept, Matt had not shared Paul’s high principles. The minimum for blowing a guy was $200. Matt would get to keep $100. Fifteen minutes sucking even a nasty cock seemed better than the 24 hours it would take to earn the same money by flipping burgers. Matt had flipped enough burgers the previous two summers to understand that on a certain level you were getting fucked either way.

Plus, Matt needed money. Bella Bottoms would be back at the Habana for New Year’s Eve. Matt wanted to take Adam there, a first real date. They would eat at Gusher’s, see Bella’s show, spend a magical night in one of the rooms. A hundred bucks should cover all of that.

Matt watched as one of the guests, a guy who looked to be in his early forties, sidled up to Paul. The guy was balding, thick around the middle. Not in the top four appearance-wise.

Balding guy put a hand on Paul’s shoulder, leaned in, whispered in his ear.

Paul shook his head. Pushed his glasses up his nose.

William swooped in. His feather boa fluttered behind him. Asked Paul to retrieve another bottle of wine from the kitchen. Redirected balding guy’s attention to Todd. That much Matt heard clearly.

The rest was an indistinguishable purr, like when funeral directors work their way past condolences and platitudes and get down to the business end of things: that caskets aren’t free, that the dead don’t bury themselves, that Momma needs a new pair of shoes.

Matt imagined William’s sales pitch: Todd was more experienced sucking cock. Or maybe William upsold balding guy on fucking, which freshman Paul wasn’t allowed to do, but sophomore Todd was. The old “Would you like fries with that?” suggestive selling.

Soon enough, balding guy headed upstairs with Todd, who winked at Matt as he passed.

“Ever been face fucked?” Garland asked. Just jumped to the point. No wading into the topic.

Matt’s throat went dry. He felt certain he’d just been propositioned.

“I’ve blown a few guys,” Matt said. “I’ve never been face-fucked.” The truth was less impressive: Matt had blown exactly one guy–Evan. It had not gone smoothly.

The grandfather clock ticked away.

Garland reached into his jacket, retrieved a small role of cash. “Two hundred, right? Face-fucking is like a blowjob, except you don’t have to do any of the work. Maybe I should be the one getting paid.” Snickered at his little joke.

Matt froze, uncertain how to respond.

William popped his head around the parlor entry.

“Garland! I wondered where you had disappeared to! And here you are all alone with one of our freshmen! You naughty boy!”

William oozed into the room. Black corset. Feather boa. The whole “Sweet Transvestite” thing. He seemed flustered. Gave Matt a worried look.

“I need to borrow Matthew for a minute,” William said. He took Matt by the hand and coaxed him out of the club chair. Motioned escort bayan rus for Josh to join them.

“Here’s Josh! You remember him, don’t you, Garland?” William guided Josh into the chair Matt had just vacated. Substituted one guy in gold boxer briefs for another. Ushered Matt out before Garland could object.

Closed the pocket doors to give Josh and Garland some privacy.

William and Matt were in the entry hall. William apologized profusely. “I’ve been so focused on Paul, I forgot to keep an eye on you. Luckily, I intervened before it was too late.”

“Too late?” Matt asked.

“You saw the handcuffs?” William whispered.

Matt nodded.

“That’s his kink. Restraints. Rough. Borderline abusive. Probably not a good fit considering your…history. We generally only let our senior members entertain Garland.”

Matt appreciated that William had been watching out for him. Thanked him for doing so. But wasn’t willing to just walk away from those hundred bucks. More than a hundred now, considering Garland’s kink. How hard could it be anyway? The handcuffs and stuff?

Matt had an idea. The reckless kind that worked out brilliantly about 65% of the time, went disastrously wrong the other 35%.

“Just checking,” Matt said. “Is Garland the only lawyer here tonight?”

“Isn’t one enough, dahling?”

Matt nodded. One would do. “I’m going back in there,” Matt said. “I’ll tell Josh you need him.”

William sighed in resignation.

Back in the parlor, Matt resumed his seat in the club chair facing Garland.

Garland wore an amused smile. “I’m guessing that switcheroo had something to do with my handcuffs? Keeping you away from them since you’re a freshman? Sending in the more experienced Josh?”

Matt shrugged. “Have you ever done a name change for someone?”

Garland’s black eyes twinkled. “And here you are, back in the ‘big boy’ chair and Josh gone. William can’t be too happy about that. I assume he’s eavesdropping just outside the door, ready to rescue you again, if necessary.”

Matt crossed his arms, trying to disguise his nervousness. He’d marched back in there full of confidence that he could manage Garland. Already the power dynamic was ebbing away from Matt and towards Garland.

“Name change?” Matt repeated. “If you want to cuff me and face fuck me, the price includes a free name change.”

Garland polished off the remainder of his Manhattan. The ice cubes clinked against the glass. The handcuffs on his wrist jangled. He set the glass down on the side table by his chair. “Name change. Got it. No problem. Anything else?”

“Four hundred dollars.” Matt tried to sound confident. He’d never asked for that much money in his life. He didn’t know whether to be more worried about a “Yes” or a “No” from Garland. A “No” meant no deal. No money to pay for the New Year’s Eve date with Adam. A “Yes” implied that Matt wasn’t fully understanding what it was he was agreeing to do.

Garland leaned forward, licked his lips. “For that kind of money, I expect to play rough. Slapping and shit.”

And there it was, wrapped up in pretty words and topped with a bow: “slapping and shit.” Matt could not claim he hadn’t been warned. A cold frisson of fear coursed through his veins. He shivered.

Matt leaned forward as well, locked eyes with Garland. “Okay, but let’s get two things straight. First, I’m not consenting to be raped. Secondly, this ‘slapping and shit’ better not leave bruises or handprints. Keep this in mind while you’re doing your ‘slapping and shit’ that at some point I’ll be out of those ‘cuffs and I’ll remember whether you went too far. If you do–go too far, I promise you your Porsche will pay the price. Slashed tires. Shredded convertible top. ‘Shithead’ carved so deep in the paint, it won’t sand out.”

Garland grinned wolfishly. He stood and removed his handcuff bracelet. “Deal,” he said. “Get up and put your hands behind your back. I’m cuffing you here. You’ll follow me up the stairs with everyone watching.”

Matt stood while Garland cuffed him. Grimaced as the single strand cheek plate ratchetted into the double strand, clamping his wrists.

Garland checked the fit, asked if it was too tight.

Matt shook his head.

Garland leaned in and whispered in Matt’s ear. “Ever since I heard there was a freshman GM kid nicknamed ‘Mustang,’ I’ve been itching to meet him. Turns out you are as high spirited and wild as an untamed horse.”

Garland patted Matt’s hair as though it were a stallion’s mane. “The Cherokee perfected the art of taming wild mustangs, not breaking them. Breaking is when a horse forgets its wild nature and will submit to anyone, even a child, even pull a plough. Taming means that horse only submits to the man who subdued him.”

Matt’s eyes went wide.

“Before we’re done tonight, Garland soothed, “you’ll be my trick pony. My cock will fit in your mouth like a perfect bit. You will ache to do my bidding.”

Garland walked towards the door. “Now follow me, Mustang.”

***

Matt felt all eyes watching him as he trudged up the stairs, hands cuffed behind him. He trailed Garland–who took his sweet-ass time.

Part of Matt felt deflated, outsmarted by the older man. Resentful.

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