Every January, a leather club in DC holds the Mr. Mid-Atlantic Leather contest, also known as “M-A-L,” the largest such event in the DC area and the culminating event of “Leather Weekend.” One year, some friends and I had bought the entire weekend package including admission to all events, brunches, and receptions at the DC Eagle or other bars, as well as to the leather contest itself (in which contestants in various states of undress hold forth about honor and brotherhood with an earnestness that would embarrass a Klingon).
This year, however, I didn’t buy the weekend package but instead went only to the (free) Eagle on MAL Friday night for what I knew would be some good cruising of many hot men, many from out of town, also known as “fresh meat.”
I did the usual stroll around the bar through the darkness, holding a beer, saying hello to a few friends and checking out new faces and bodies in the crowd. Because it was Leather Weekend, most people were in their best peek-a-boo leather garments of some kind, some laden with metal plates or spikes—dressing in weapons—but usually with large areas of hairy, muscular skin showing chests or asses and often both.
I paused for a while to talk with a friend, and his friends whom I didn’t know, and noticed that the shorter of the other guys was rather cute. As we made introductions, the cute one said his name was Bill (or was it Jim; I forgot by the time I got around to writing his name on my list).
As we four talked or glanced around at new arrivals in the bar, I kept looking over at Bill (or Jim), trying to see in the dim light if he was really as cute as I first thought. Specifically, I was trying to see if Bill (or Jim) might be a “how do you want your eggs?”
Let me explain: A twenty-footer is a guy who looks good twenty feet away in a dark bar, but closer than that, and nope. “He was nice but only a twenty-footer.” A five-footer looks good but only up to five feet away in a dark bar. But a how-do-you-like-your-eggs guy is so good looking no matter how close you get, you want to see him in the morning over the wonderful breakfast you’d make gladly for him. Got it?
And therefore, you should be flattered, and maybe a little turned on, when anyone, anywhere asks you, “How do you want your eggs?” Remember that.
Anyway, Bill (or Jim) had deep eyes and wavy hair and struck me as good-natured. After a while I wandered off to make the rounds again, finally leaning against the wall in a different part of the bar, absently watching the endless porn video, still hoping a hot bear would happen by.
Bill (or Jim) perhaps followed me, because he appeared at my elbow and started chatting me up hard. He said he was an Eagle regular, but I was surprised I had never run into him before. (I myself wasn’t much of an Eagle regular though you might not know it by how often I mention going there.)
It was getting late and I was starting to feel tired and ready to go home. Bill (or Jim) offered to give me a lift as I lived in his direction home.
We got to my house and instead of just getting out of his car, I asked Bill (or Jim) in. We sat on the couch and chatted and within minutes we were making out. We turned off the light and headed for my bedroom. I got him naked, and I pulled him into bed. Bill (or Jim) turned out to have a good body and he was very cuddly though he liked to kiss too hard.
We didn’t do anything sexually unusual that I remember but I got the feeling that with further encounters he might be into somewhat rougher play, like maybe letting me tie his hands up to my doorway pull-ups bar.
The next morning we had some juice—I didn’t actually make eggs—and Bill (or Jim) left. We traded a few phone messages for a while but didn’t get together again.
A few weeks later I happened to see Bill (or Jim) at a dance, but he didn’t seem particularly interested in chatting. I decided not to chance his name.