Blood & Black Leather by Perry Ruhland

Saint Sebastian, martyred for eternity in alternating tones of black and white, projected piety flickering across a brick wall. A phantom saint suspended in digital amber, roaring film grain burnt into the ropes coiled around his bare chest, searing through crooked arrows and congealing globs of black blood. Agony, captured in the single tear rolling down the model’s cheek. Ecstasy, preserved in the erection raging in the folds of his snug loincloth. The Elysian Field’s signature. It matched the atmosphere – stark, brutal, sexy. It matched the clientele, too.

Leon had noticed the man with the pierced nose checking him out twenty minutes ago. Despite the swarm of handsome faces intermingling among the dancefloor, the stranger was impossible to miss – tall, muscular, sporting ripped jeans and an unzipped leather jacket, a toned chest pressing against a skin-tight shirt. It was the meticulously-manicured appearance of the consummate bad boy, an ultimately flimsy facade when coupled with his bashfulness. Yes, bashfulness - for every time Leon’s gaze met the stranger’s own, his head jerked away, traces of crimson cheeks not entirely lost beneath the Pleasure Dome’s kaleidoscopic strobes. It was cute, or so Leon thought.

It was only after Leon had finished his second cocktail of the evening that the man made his move. His eyes met Leon’s own and finally stuck, a tight grin flashing across his face; controlled, cocky, a touch overcompensating for his prior cowardice. Leon grinned back. Just how he liked them.

Leon loved men. Not necessarily in the manner others of his persuasion loved men, although one could be forgiven for mistaking his love for theirs, but in a more spiritual sense. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to say Leon’s love for men was something more suited for the spiritual realm, a love akin to the way the architect loves the great cathedrals, and the astronomer loves the milky way. To Leon, the masculine were the one true Great Work of creation, alchemical perfection made manifest. He loved their forms, their scents, their rituals, their behaviors, their creeds, their sisyphean quest for an ideal they could never quite embody, always reaching, always struggling, always fighting. He could see it in the stranger’s posture as he pushed across the dancefloor, his muscles pulsing beneath his sleeves with every step, dual razorblades glistening in his eyes. He could feel it burning within himself.

The stranger spoke in a honeyed baritone barely discernible above the blaring cacophony of Bizarre Love Triangle, emerald eyes twinkling brighter than any light. He asked Leon if he wanted a drink. Leon knew his answer, but he didn’t reply. He watched instead, rapping his nails across the bar, polished pink digits clicking loosely in tune with the pounding drum machine. He admired the way the shadows sculpted the stranger’s cheekbones, the way a prism of flashing colors danced across his skin, the way a single bead of sweat rolled down his neck. For a moment, the stranger’s neck grew flushed. Leon smirked.

He accepted the drink, of course. The stranger smiled as he hopped onto an adjacent stool, his grin just wide enough to betray his manufactured cool. Leon asked for a rum and coke, and the stranger waved the bartender over. He ordered drinks, and Leon watched.

As Leon had discerned from afar, the man was quite cute – but there was something more to him, something exhilarating. It was in his shaggy op of raven hair, in the studded piercings through his right ear, in the stubble dancing across his lantern jaw, in the cracked sheet of onyx hastily painted across his nails, in the charmingly garish leviathan cross hanging from his neck. He had the appearance of a man who cared very much about how little it appeared like he cared – a certain goth-chic swagger, a cocksure posturing towards the darkness. Leon held back a smirk. If only he knew.

The stranger cleared his throat when the barkeep left. He stuck a hand out and said his name was Romeo. Leon laughed. Of course it was. Leon introduced himself, shaking the man’s hand. He had a firm grip, and judging by the little smirk he gave, he wanted Leon to know it. Leon found it adorable.

The drinks arrived soon after. Romeo slid the bartender a twenty and grabbed his glass, a tumbler of hickory fluid and fragmented ice. Leon asked him what it was.

“Jack, on rocks,” Romeo answered, the slightest tinge of a boast creeping into his voice. 

On cue, he took a sip. He made a point not to flinch.

“Ooh,” Leon cooed, sipping his own sugary cocktail. “A hard drink,”

“Yeah,” Romeo nodded, a twinkle igniting in those emerald eyes. “That’s how I like ‘em.”

Leon laughed. For as flushed as Romeo was on the approach, he appeared to have found his confidence by now, his leg kicked up against the bar in a facsimile of casual posture, his head resting against a flexing forearm, his face constantly affixed with that grin. He could see the intended darkness now, the mystery, the danger his uniform sought to embody; a thinly sketched aura, but a present one nonetheless. Leon couldn’t blame the stranger for being intimidated by him at first – all men were. He couldn’t blame them either.

He waited until the first drink was down to invite Romeo back to his place. The man with the pierced nose didn’t refuse. His mask faltered once more as he stumbled over an attempt at casual acceptance. Leon smiled. The stranger really was adorable. 

For a horrible moment, Leon almost felt bad for him.

Romeo drove the two home. He was too inebriated to drive properly, but sober enough that it didn’t pose any real danger. Besides, Leon noted, the gesture clearly meant a great deal to the stranger, who had made a show of hurtling down the road well over the speed limit whenever traffic allowed. He blasted music all the way – industrial stuff, mostly, clanging metal and tortured lyrics. Romeo mentioned he was a musician himself between songs. Made this kind of music. Leon giggled. Of course he did.

The duo sat on Leon’s couch and spent an hour emptying a champagne bottle. They discussed music, art, politics, and whatever else Romeo had on his mind. The man with emerald eyes naturally led the conversation, and Leon merely crafted his thoughts and opinions wholesale for whatever would best propel the dialogue. Romeo was enthusiastic about his interests, pinballing from topic to topic at a whirlwind pace, bombarding Leon with trivia and braggadocious claims of signed horror film posters and hookups with underground musicians. Truly, none of it interested Leon in the slightest; art, philosophy, politic, over the years he had come to find such diversions to be ultimately trivial in the face of his own particular pursuits. 

Yet therein lay the magic of beauty, true beauty – for even though the topics of Romeo’s discussion didn’t excite Leon on their own merits, Romeo made them exciting by simply being their vessel. It was in his silhouette, skilfully carved beneath the shadow of night, moonlight glistening across his form. It was in his arms, freed from the confines of his jacket, muscular without distorting or engorging their proportions. It was in his legs, long and thick and defined, stretched casually across the couch. It was in his cock, half-erect, pressed against the folds of black jeans. But it was more than his body. It was his delivery, his posture, his laughter, the way he’d lean forwards to listen as Leon strung along calculated responses, how he’d flash that grin after firing off a particularly bold statement. It was intoxicating.

In his many years on the prowl, Leon had taken countless ‘beautiful’ men home – men of superficial beauty, of sculpted bodies and dull souls, charming facades meant to be admired, their contents fated to be forgotten. This was the norm for such men – all charm and flash and bravado plastered over a yawning oblivion. Beautiful vessels, perhaps, but hardly beautiful men, objects crafted by God or His equivalent to be used and discarded. Romeo was an exception. Exceptions were rare. Exceptions were exciting.

Romeo was fully drunk by the time he kissed Leon. His mouth tasted of booze and spearmint. A sloppy kiss. It felt good regardless. Leon knew what came next. First went the shirt, peeled over Romeo’s head, skin-tight and drenched, smelling of sweat and cologne. Leon’s own hot-pink mesh top followed. Belts came next, and pants after. The two kissed again, embracing on the couch, toned bodies interlinked, the bulges between their legs pressed against each other. Romeo reached for Leon’s groin. Leon clasped his wrist.

“The bedroom,” He whispered.

Romeo didn’t have to be told twice.

Leon’s bed was front and center, king-sized and draped in lavender sheets. Besides it sat a nightstand, adorned with nothing but a lamp and a stout ceramic bowl. Attached to each bedpost, chains – silver chains and black cuffs. “Kinky,” Romeo snickered.

“Mmm,” Leon responded, draping an arm over Romeo’s shoulder, hairs tingling on the back of his neck. “I think they’d look good on you.”

 “I prefer to be on top.” Romeo smirked.

Leon chuckled and shoved the man onto the bed. 

“Not tonight you don’t.”

Romeo giggled as he hit the mattress, sprawling onto his back. And that’s when he saw it. Above him, suspended ten feet in the air, was a mirror, rimmed by a string of white lights. It was every bit as massive as the bed itself, and positioned precisely to present its double — a second bed, a second set of cuffs, a second Romeo. Yes, Romeo saw himself in that mirror, his arms, his legs, his abs, his cock, his own body, his perfect body, beauty bathed in an angelic glow, a prince of the night captured in shimmering crystal. Leon watched Romeo as he watched himself, admired himself, became himself. And there, sprawled across that bed, something changed. For reasons Romeo couldn’t quite understand but Leon knew perfectly well, something shifted within him, a new understanding of himself, of his role with Leon, of his role in the world. He did not want to be in control tonight. He wanted to be worshipped. To have his body be the vessel for another man’s prayer. He laughed. He grinned. He looked to Leon and met his eyes and that razor glint shined and he said–

“Why not?”

~

Leon stood before the mirror clad in leather pants and combat boots. He rolled the kamisori over in his hand. He murmured something before the blade in velvet tongues, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, fingers webbed around the handle, knuckles turning white. The razor kissed his lips. Words that none could hear reverberated across the blade. Pink tongue flashed across the edge. Blood and saliva intermingled and disappeared.

Leon loved the instrument. A single piece of stainless steel molded and hammered into a true masterwork of design; sharp, thin, elegant, flawless. It reminded him of himself.

He stuck the razor in his boot and returned to the bedroom.

~

Romeo, draped across the sheets, pale head propped up against violet pillows. Naked. Smiling. Blushing. Erect. Limbs spread out to each end of the bed, cuffs constricted around his wrists and ankles, chains pulled taut. Leon, legs straddled around his captive’s chest, leather pants pressed against bare skin. A finger slid across the submissive’s cheek and down his chin, stubble bristling beneath a pastel nail. A black ball gag, large and full of holes, dangled above Romeo’s mouth. Those emerald eyes fluttered between it and Leon.

Romeo asked for last words. Leon kissed him instead. Blood and saliva mixed between interlinked tongues. Romeo didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care. Ecstasy overwhelmed all else. His mouth curled open in a moan. The wiffle-gag followed, wedged between the submissive’s teeth, straps pulled tight around his head, buckled in the back.

“Comfy?” Leon asked, a light touch stroking his captive’s hair, obsidian strands threaded between his fingers.

Romeo grunted, an affirmation rendered wholly unintelligible. Drool bubbled up from the gag’s holes and cascaded down his cheek. His cock twitched. Leon grinned.

And he dug a single pink nail into porcelain flesh. A trickle of crimson oozed from the puncture wound, the bound prince buckling as folds of pristine skin unfurled into crimson buds. Romeo’s body quaked, hips twitching as Leon smeared red over white, inching down his captive’s torso and up his shaft, licking it off his fingertip. It tasted of salt and sweat and sugar, and it burned Leon’s throat and it burned just right. 

The kamisori slid from Leon’s boot and into his hand. The blade glimmered in the light, a thousand stars refracting off its shimmering edge. Leon lowered it to Romeo’s body with a trembling grip, his hand guided by bliss, tip trailing across the bound man’s form, tracing every muscle, every curve, the polished edge sending shivers down the beauty’s spine. He teased the razor up Romeo’s quivering cock, its point pressed against the pink head, beads of precum dripping down onto steel, smothering the mirror in hot fluids. Romeo moaned again. He mumbled something that sounded like ‘please’. Those emerald eyes ripped from the ceiling and met Leon’s once more.

And Leon froze.

There, bound below him, lay a man. Proportionally faultless, skin nigh-unblemished, soul untarnished, every centimeter of his body carefully composed, every fiber of skin glistening in the light. It was Romeo, just as he left him; naked, bound, aroused. But the man on the bed wasn’t merely Romeo. Maybe it was the blood on his tongue, maybe it was the burning in his loins, but here, now, Leon understood that the man bound to his bed was more than just a man – he was the ideal, he was the ideal Leon had been chasing his whole life. Romeo’s was a beauty that matched – no, surpassed – Leon’s own. He was the Great Work, the Perfect Man, an angel tied to a bed. 

Leon never had a true, lasting interest in other men. Not as anything but templates, canvases, models, abstractions. Relationships had never crossed his mind, and the idea of actual romance with a man held no appeal. For a moment, that changed. For a moment, Leon wished he could be with Romeo forever. In this moment, in this eternity, Leon does not tarnish the perfect body, he does not destroy the miracle of creation. He lives with it, he embraces it, he fuses with it, and the two burn together in a light that slays Venus, that drives Narcissus to despair, that blinds the Demiurge. A life unimaginable.

The vision was perfect. And Leon chose the alternative. He chose a greater ecstasy. Because this Romeo in chains – he was a gift from the heavens. The ultimate man, an Adonis insurmountable, every curve and every surface of his body impeccable. He was brought to Leon’s bed for a reason. He was brought there to be enjoyed. To be destroyed. To have Leon be the one to do it. To taste the obliteration of pure beauty and defile the angelic personified. Nobody since the legionnaires who struck down Saint Sebastian with their volleys were ever able to enjoy such a beauty in such a pure expression of love. Nobody would ever love this man in such an immaculate way as Leon. He would be the first to love this Great Work as a man should. He would be the last to.

Leon understood this to be his destiny. He ejaculated in the confines of his leather. 

So he leaned forward, planted a kiss on Romeo’s forehead, and slashed him open from his throat to his sternum.

Romeo screamed and gargled and came. Hot love splattered the sheets. Arterial spray dotted Leon’s face. Romeo writhed in his bonds, his dying cries lost behind his gag, bubbles of blood and saliva building and sweltering and bursting as flesh folded and blossomed and bled. “It’s okay,” Leon whispered, grabbing the stygian bowl from the nightstand and pressing it against his victim’s yawning gash. “It’s okay now. It’s all over.”

The kamisori dropped. Leon cradled Romeo’s cheek. The captive man wept and the killer dried his tears. 

“It won’t hurt anymore,” Leon promised. “It’s done.”

Romeo’s gaze met Leon’s own for the very last time.

“Let go.”

Leon watched the last moments of life dance across Romeo’s eyes. Those wonderful emerald eyes. The razors in them dulled. The fight behind them ceased. No amount of strength, nor spirit, nor struggle could stop this. His battle meant nothing anymore. So he looked up. 

Romeo lost his life staring in the mirror above him, and in those last moments he understood that he did not die as a man. He died as an angel. Beauty made flesh.

With the last of his strength, the Great Work smiled and died.

~

Leon stood before the shrine, nude and spattered in blood, lost in the utterance of his holy gospel. A story of love and lust, Apollo and Bacchus, heaven and hell, night and day, pain and pleasure, blood and black leather. He had been here many times before. He would be here many times again. Closing his eyes, Leon held the black bowl to his lips and drank. Blood, saliva, sweat, and sperm mixed in his mouth, swirled together, and were summarily spewed forth, a concoction splattering across the shrine’s marble face, fluids flickering in candlelight. Something rumbled. Twin mirror-eyes glowed.

In those glowing pools, Leon saw his eyes as two stars, his hair as molten gold, his face as carved marble, his skin as shimmering diamond. In those glowing pools, he saw himself as he is, himself as he always was, and he knew for as long as the moon rose and waters flowed and beautiful men fell beneath his blade, he would see himself as he will always be.

He began to cry.

Perry Ruhland is an author and filmmaker based in Chicago, Illinois. His work explores grotesque terrors, gay masculinity, and cosmic despair. He has seen 'Cruising' at least eight times. He can be found on Twitter @Perry_Ruh