Read part 1 to get caught up…

As the evening started, Patrick perched on the edge of his barstool, his heart thumping with perturbation and disbelief. The air buzzed with an energy he barely recognized, charged with surreal, disquieting novelty. Mr. Leather Evergreen, the local fetish pageant he had followed religiously and whose title he clinched last year, had been turned on its head. The familiar program of events was gone, and each had been replaced with a bizarre suburban analog.  

Instead of showing off their leather craftsmanship skills, the contestants were each handed a pair of shears and tasked with trimming a small patch of lawn to perfection. The stop clock ticked its final seconds, and Patrick watched in bewilderment as a dozen portly, middle-aged men sweated and fretted over every blade of grass on their miniature plots of turf. The winner, a guy Patrick recalled from the old Hideaway days, high fived the entire panel of judges when they revealed he’d trimmed his grass uniformly to one-quarter inch in height, exactly what the HOA prescribed.  

Later, in place of an old-fashioned runway, in which Sirs of all stripes would strut their confidence, pride, and spirit for the leather community, the contestants took to the stage looking and acting like carbon copies from a big box store. One after another, they grinned like idiots and proudly showed off their sneakers, cargo shorts, and tucked-in polos. Several wore cell phones clipped to their belts, and one guy even sported a fanny pack. Stupefied at the show of suburban mediocrity, Patrick couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable in his leather boots, breeches, gloves, and jacket. If he’d known this was what the pageant would devolve into, he’d have renounced the title of Mr. Leather Evergreen when the Hideaway’s owners announced the move.  

His attempts to reconcile this new spectacle with the pageant he thought he knew proved futile. The third event, formerly a game show featuring leather history and trivia questions, had become an enthusiastic demonstration of the contestants’ home repair knowledge. As the players slammed their buzzers to be the first to answer a question about correctly finding wall studs, Patrick shook his head in disappointment. The heart and soul of Mr. Leather Evergreen had been excised from the contest, and he wanted no further part of it. He removed his sash, set it down on the bar next to his beer, and then leaned back to where Vince was seated.  

“I can’t stand any more of this,” he whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”  

When Vince didn’t answer, Patrick whirled around and saw he was gone. His breath quickening, he scanned the room while the emcee shook hands with the winner and runners up of the game show.  

“We’ll give the judges a few minutes to tabulate the scores and announce the finalists shortly!” Then, the emcee pointed an outstretched finger right at Patrick. “In the meantime, why not shake hands with last year’s winner, Patrick O’Brien!”  

Patrick’s face flushed as the sea of polo shirts turned to face him. Sitting alone at the bar, decked out in his finest leather gear, he felt like the entire room was studying him under a microscope. He gave a meager wave with one gloved hand and tugged at his shirt collar with the other. All he wanted was to get out of the All-Star Tavern, but he couldn’t leave Vince behind. A wave of hand-shaking well wishers with dad bodies and creepily contented smiles thwarted his attempts to locate his submissive boyfriend for several minutes. Finally, he saw Vince exiting the restroom and wove through the crowd toward him. His chest and leather harness were now hidden beneath a plain, loose-fitting T-shirt.  

“Where’d you get the tee?” Patrick asked.  

Vince carefully tucked the shirt into the waistband of his leather shorts. “Some guy gave it to me in the bathroom. Something about a dress code. Weirdest fetish bar I’ve ever been to, Sir.”  

“We’re not just in some fetish bar,” Patrick said. “We’ve fallen through the looking glass.”  

“You’re telling me. Wanna know what’s even weirder? None of the dudes in the restroom used the urinal. They all sat to piss.”  


“Only one reason I can think of,” Vince said, nodding to a pair of dads exiting the restroom. “Get a look at their junk.”  

Patrick squinted. Either these guys were packing some serious heat, or something else was protruding the fabric of their cargo shorts. A few furtive glances at the other patrons’ shorts and jeans revealed more similarly exaggerated bulges.  

“Chastity cage?” he whispered.  

Vince nodded again. “I think everyone in here is locked up. Except you and me, Sir.”  

Patrick grabbed Vince by the wrist and led him back to their seats at the bar. Now that Vince had drawn his attention to it, Patrick couldn’t stop stealing glances at the crotch of every man they passed on the way. His boyfriend’s chastity cage hypothesis would undoubtedly explain the collegial, decidedly asexual vibe in the supposed leather bar. “How did they force everyone into chastity?”  

“What makes you think we were forced into it, friendo?” Andy, formerly Andreas, the hunk-turned-goofball bartender, startled Patrick with his interjection.  

“Y-You mean,” Patrick stammered, “you all voluntarily locked your cocks up? Why?”  

Andy’s gaze flickered with a split second of self awareness, quickly suppressed beneath a glaze of contented daditude. “By choosing chastity, we’ve found more space and energy to invest in nonsexual relationships, deepening our connections with friends, family, and community. This leads to a richer, more varied social life and helps build a strong support network that isn’t based on sexual attraction or activity.”  

Patrick’s eyes widened as beads of sweat ran down his temples. “Does… everyone in here feel this way?”  

“Why, of course, bud! It’s important to contemplate how sexual interactions affect relationship dynamics, perceptions of intimacy, and personal values. We just happen to find fulfillment in challenging prevailing norms—”  

Vince interjected, finishing Andy’s sentence and matching the bartender’s tone.  

“—and discovering alternative forms of intimacy and connection that align with our individual needs and values.”  

Patrick looked at Vince, who smiled with the same soulless placidity as Andy and every other man in the bar. Vince nodded slowly as if he’d just unlocked the secret to the meaning of life.  

“I should be going,” Patrick said, not noticing that the din of conversation in the bar had fallen to near silence.  

“You can’t, friendo!” Andy said, clamping a robust, meaty bear paw onto Patrick’s gloved hand. “The final event is about to start, and you’ve got to hand the title over to the winner.”  

Patrick glanced across the bar. If he sprinted, he could reach the door in a dozen or so paces, but already, a group of dads had positioned themselves in front of it, blocking his escape.  

To be continued

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