By Bradley Baddley
Trudy left her front desk job two hours early at 10:00 p.m. so we could go to the hairy bear bar. The graveyard shift dude named Raji said he didn’t mind at all coming in early – he was saving money for his big trip back to India.
The Wrangler was in the shadow of the high rise district in downtown Denver on Logan Street. Trudy did an absolutely amazing job finding a parking space within a block of the bar, and she shoehorned the old Ford pick up in just a few inches from the cars in front and behind us. Trudy was really a “smooth operator.”
Denver seemed to be a lot more modern and definitely less smelly as opposed to St. Louis, but the cities were probably neck and neck in the number of bums and sketchy looking street people … (Was I supposed to use the word “homeless” instead of “bum?” I’m SO sorry! I can be such an insensitive little fairy!)
It was “Underwear Night” at the Wrangler meaning you could show up wearing just your underwear … but shoes were still required. I soon discovered that this meant a number of the boys were parading around wearing nothing but tight little jockstraps – it was so deliciously deviant!
The buffed up hairy bouncer at the door was shirtless with a shaved head and he had an enormous silver nose ring. He was looking at me and my fake I.D. sort of cross-eyed and I said: “Oh, that photo doesn’t look like me when I’m in drag,” with a nervous little laugh.
“Uh, yea, O.K.”
“I’m not wearing any underwear at all if that’s alright,” I said with a nervous giggle; I was wearing a very short navy blue mini-skirt and I bent over to tie my shoes so the hunky bouncer could see that I was indeed wearing no undies. I am such an exhibitionist and I wiggled my buns as I retied the laces on my pink sneaks.
“That will be fine,” he said rolling his eyes and he waved me through.
Trudy and I took seats at the main bar, and when we sat down, the hairy dude next to Trudy looked over and hissed: “A girl!” and quickly vacated. Trudy was in fact one of the only real females in the joint, but it didn’t seem to bother her a bit and as it turned out, she knew a few of the guys in the crowded drinking establishment …
“Look over there Becky,” she whispered close in, “That’s Alphonso Buglione, leader of the Flaming Tubes.” She nodded her head towards a short hairy guy wearing nothing but a completely wrong one piece button up long underwear “union suit” and tall lace up combat boots. The hillbilly long underwear had a colorful logo on the back that said “Flaming Tubes” with three flaming pipes.
“Flaming Tubes? What’s that?” I whispered back scrunching up my nose.
“A gay biker gang,” said Trudy, “really kinky – they’re all into BDSM.”
Buglione had a pronounced schnoz with a full mustache and he was wearing a World War II Nazi officer’s cap. He was very short in stature and standing there with a mug of draft beer, he was at eye level with two other members of the Flaming Tubes who were seated with their backs to the bar. Both of the other hairy Tubes were also wearing the signature very wrong union suits with combat boots, and one of them had a long and hairy Fidel Castro style beard. Buglione had a slave boy with long strawberry blonde hair on a leash … standing there in silence with a dick sucking look on his face, and he was considerably taller than Alphonso wearing nothing but a dog collar, a fire engine red jockstrap and sandals.
“Trudy!” said Buglione noticing my heavy metal chick friend, “How’s it hangin’?” Buglione walked towards us with his body shaved slave boy in tow.
“If I had a Big Italian Salami I might know,” said Trudy … “how it’s hangin’ – but I don’t.”
“Of course,” said Buglione snickering , “but I hear you’ve been known to wear a big black strapon cock at times.”
A big black strapon cock? My new friend was a lesbian? … or maybe even a Fem Domme? This was becoming more than extremely interesting and I felt my miniature schwanz grow maybe a quarter inch longer under my skirt … my first impression of Buglione was hairy … and not just a little hairy, really hairy … and hung. He was quite short in stature indeed, and I couldn’t help but notice the outline of a gigantic firehose of a meat popsicle at repose in his hokey button up long underwear suit …
“This is my friend Becky,” said Trudy.
“Hi Becky,” said Buglione, “this is my bitch, Sue Johnson,” tugging slightly on Sue Johnson’s leash.
“I look just like Fergie with no tits,” said Sue Johnson.
“Oh you do!” I said, “a dead ringer! Who do you think I look like?”
“Hmmm,” said Sue Johnson delicately placing his pinky on his upper lip, “where are you from?”
“You’re from the show me state? How quaint … well then, I think you look just like a flat chested Jessica Simpson.”
“Jessica Simpson? No way!”
“Ummmm, then give me a minute here …” said Sue Johnson with a corny deep in thought look on his face.
“I’ll give you a clue,” I said.
“A clue?” said Sue Johnson, “Definitely. Give me a clue. I think I need one.”
“O.K.” I said, “Oops …”
“Oops?” said Sue Johnson.
“Yea,” I said, “Oops I did it again …”
“Oops you did it again? … Oh! I’ve got it! You look just like Britney Spears with no tits!”
Buglione looked as if he was growing bored with our loquacious girly chat, “Hey Trudy, I have some killer indica – you and your bitch want to come back to my pad and get baked?”
… I was Trudy’s bitch now? How titillating!
“Do you like cock and ball torture, Becky?” said Buglione.
“The rock group? … or the actual pork and beans?”
“The actual pork and beans.”
“Uhhh, I’m not sure – I’ve never tried it.”
“There’s a first time for everything and I have a gloryhole box too.”
“What’s a gloryhole box?”
“It’s a plywood box with a seat and no windows – just a 2″ diameter hole. You go inside, I lock the door and me and my motorcycle club take turns sticking our big fat dicks through the hole so you can suck us all off.”
“Sounds like fun,” I could feel my cheeks blushing beet red and suddenly I couldn’t wait to go over to Alphonso’s house and “get baked .”
To Be Continued …