THIRTY-ONE DAYS…PART 1 [chapters 1-6]

THIRTY-ONE DAYS…PART 1 [chapters 1-6]

By
Ronan Jackson Jefferson




An erotic thriller, for mature readers only.
Copyright © 2014 by Ronan Jackson Jefferson
All Rights Reserved.

The full 164,000 word text is available in its entirety from SMASH WORDS, KOBO, SONY, APPLE, BARNES & NOBLE NOOK. Recently made available for the AMAZON KINDLE.


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WWW.EROTICAREVEALED.COM, June 2014 edition.



CHAPTER ONE


This is certainly not the best part of the big city. Sitting in the parking lot across the street from my destination, I see nothing but dull, worn, dirty brick. The street level windows are covered in metal caging. Graffiti is sprayed here and there. The building I am interested in is two stories high and at least a hundred years old. The ground level started life as a small manufacturer, with offices and living quarters on the floor above.

The entire neighborhood is made up of similar structures, interspersed with garbage strewn, potholed, parking lots. At one time, serious retailing in mom and pop stores occurred here. Butcher shops. Small engine repair. Leather goods. Shoe repair. Convenience goods and dry goods. At one time, serious alcohol production and bootlegging occurred here. On this exact block. Little Al Cabrezzi and Johnny Polenta. Today, it is pawn shops, massage parlors, payday loans and seedy bars. This neighborhood is stuck in no man’s land. It is both years away from rejuvenation, and decades past its prime.

The date is January the first, the beginning of the New Year, and the time on my dashboard clock says ten p.m. Everything is closed tonight, except for the place across the street. Apparently, this place never closes. I am into my second can of beer since arriving. I feel apprehensive about the next few hours of my life, but a little buzzed at the same time. New things have always made me anxious. This thing, what I am doing here tonight, is really, really new. Life altering new.

Curiosity will probably be the death of me.

I have ventured nearly three hours from my small town. I sure as hell don’t want to stumble upon anybody I know. Not where I am going.

How would I explain?

I couldn’t. So it wasn’t going to happen.

Three hours driving distance should be a safe buffer zone.

I look around. Vehicular traffic is almost non-existent. I have seen only a dozen cars in the past hour. The first car was a cop, and the next eleven were lone men cruising for hookers. The men were searching for the shivering ladies of the night who had been moved away from the near street corner. I did a hooker once. Actually, twice. Nasty business, but way in the past.

Everything I was seems to be in the past.

The pedestrian traffic is also pretty thin. A few folks have entered the building I am watching, though I don’t imagine this place will be busy tonight. There is no reason to be out and about. The temperature is five degrees below the freezing mark, and after all, it is New Year’s Day. Last night’s parties and consumption will have laid most of the citizenry to waste. They will be taking advantage of this annual day of recovery. For me, this makes it a good night to begin the big experiment. If I can call it an experiment.

I shake my head.

I don’t want to dwell on it.

Because this is crazy.

I finish the second beer and pinch myself on the cheek. Yes, there is a tiny bit of numbness. I haven’t consumed a drop of alcohol in six months. At least I will be a cheap date. As I mull over what I think goes on in the place across the street, I don’t yet feel ready to venture forth. I figured two beers would be enough to get me going. I have finished two Buds, and I am still firmly planted in the driver’s seat. With no intention of moving.

When I took this new challenge on, I didn’t think it would be such a big deal. I now understand my miscalculation. Two cans of beer, and not ready to budge. This should tell me one thing. My internal sensors are correct. My internal sensors should be obeyed. I don’t need to do this. This is not right for me. Put the last four beers in the trunk and drive this car home.

Go now.

For god sakes, go.

What would change though?

Anything?

I would still be in the same boat as I was yesterday, and last week and last month and six months ago. Even eight months ago, and a year ago. Yes. One full year. One full year of frustration. Of confusion. Of second guessing. Of depression. Of self-loathing.

One full year of nothing.

Shit.

I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

A yellow taxi stops in front of the building, breaking my thought pattern. An old guy climbs out; he is probably fifty years of age. The old guy pays his fare and walks toward the entrance door. My signal to rip open beer can number three.

The music is playing on my stereo, a ‘number one hits’ station. My car’s engine is idling and the heater is set on low. I drive a fuel efficient Toyota Camry. I am not worried about burning a little gas to stay warm.

I am not aware when a car pulls in beside me. The driver gets out and looks around. I slide down in my seat, not wanting to make eye contact. The guy is five years older than me, maybe thirty-two or thirty-three. He looks to be strong and athletic, about ten pounds past his prime. He is looking down at the ground as he scurries across the street.

I laugh to myself.

Married?

Father of small children?

Well known in town?

A pillar of society?

Which one buddy?

This guy clearly does not want to be seen going in. I don’t blame him. He quickly enters the building I have been watching. Whew. He made it. I am still here. In my car. I am not even close to being ready. I tip the third beer can to my mouth and guzzle the contents down my throat. I turn the music up louder.

Four young guys, they appear to be college kids, are sauntering down the street. They pause in front of the building. They are hoofing on marijuana joints. Four joints, four guys. They toss the roaches in unison and enter the building. These guys aren’t hiding or scurrying. They are out and open. They are a different breed than I, a different breed than the guy who parked beside me.

These college boys have bought into the program. I have not. I hoped I never would. I will definitely be a scurrier. In fact, I am seriously entertaining the thought of leaving.

Beer number four is in my hand, the tab is ripped open, and I drink. I slap at my face. Quickly, my face has gone from tiny numbness to nearly full out numbness. I crack my face once more, hard enough to leave a red mark. With the interior lights switched on, I see the red mark when I look in the rear view mirror. My face is beginning to feel stupid, similar to the aftermath of my one and only dental visit. I am not feeling drunk, but I do feel buzzed. Finally.

The music is cranked again and the bass beat is thumping. I chuckle to myself. Starting to feel a little better about all of this. I check the dashboard clock. Eleven twenty-four p.m.

Where did the hour and a half go?

I look at the last two beer cans, lonely in their plastic rings. I am thinking of taking the two cans in for backup. I feel okay to go, but I don’t know what is lurking behind the entrance door. I down the last half of beer can number four.

It is now or never time.

I take forty bucks out of my wallet and tuck the cash in my front jeans pocket. The wallet goes under the driver’s seat. I turn off the radio and pull the keys from the ignition. What the hell. I grab the last two beers and tear them from their plastic holders. I gather up the empty cans, take a deep breath and get out. Shut the car door; take a quick look both ways and behind me.

Nobody around.

Safe.

I step to the back of the car, fob the trunk and dump the empty cans in. I tuck one full can down the front of my pants and the other goes in my jacket pocket. My jacket is long enough to provide cover for the two can bulges. I close the trunk and look around again. No cars and no pedestrians. I tug my baseball cap down low over my eyes and move quickly across the street. I am scurrying, similar in movement to the guy who parked beside me. Scurrying as a rat would. Guilty. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

This was the second warning regarding the great experiment. If you have to scurry to get where you are going, you must be doing something wrong.

I already knew this, didn’t I?

I sure did.

Desperation makes you do desperate things.

I am less than thirty feet from the entrance to the brick building, moving smartly. A guy comes out of nowhere, perhaps from between the buildings, sort of cutting in front of me.

What the hell?

He is taller than me, at least six foot four, slim to scrawny, and young with shaggy cut blonde hair. He is wearing tight black leather pants and black stomping boots. A white baggy tee shirt completes his look. He must be freezing.

Good timing, idiot.

I veer off and head down the street, a little discomfited. The young guy heads into my building as I pretend to window shop. I am looking at grimy, wire covered windows with nothing on display. I must look the fool. Okay fool. Turn around, go back, and go inside. I peek back. It is all clear.

I turn around. Start walking. Approaching the front door I look up and see a small sign.

The sign says, ‘House of God’.

House of God? Seriously? A little bit of blasphemy, no?
Yes, I would say, a lot of blasphemy.

Below the ‘House of God’ is another sign.

‘Members Only’.

What the……?

Members only?

Not good. This may be all for naught.




CHAPTER TWO


My foot catches on a heave in the sidewalk and I nearly do a face plant. I am able to right myself, but I am staggering. I am drunker than I thought. I have consumed only four beers, but the six month layoff has become a factor. My body and brain are probably counting twelve beers. This is beginning to approach the fun zone for the old me. I take another deep breath, tug my Brewers cap lower over my eyes, and yank the door handle. I step into the brick building. A dark, narrow hallway leads me to a caged booth. A flat counter with a pass slot juts out from the booth. Behind the caging, the booth is covered with smoked glass. I can’t see into it. I read another sign.

‘Membership Fee $20’.

I dig a twenty out of my pocket and slide it across the counter.

Why is it so dark in here? How are you supposed to conduct business?

A hand reaches out from the slot to take my money, and hesitates. I feel eyes upon me, scrutinizing.

“Are you sure you want to join this club?”

It was an older voice, belonging to somebody my father’s age. Gross.

I simply nod. I did not want to speak aloud. I thought someone might hear me and recognize my voice. How ridiculous. How paranoid. Three hours from home.

“You know what kind of club this is?”

What is with the fifty questions? Open the stupid door, and let me in.

I nod again.

Silence.

More silence.

This is going to require a verbal answer, I deduce.

“Yes,” I respond.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

Seriously? Are you kidding?

I knew this was the ‘House of God’, or whatever they called it, but come on. It was no church in there, behind door number one.

“Yes,” I answer. “Two beers.”

The almighty wizard must have ruled in my favor. His hand took my money and then slid out a sheet of paper, with a pen. I looked at the paper. Barely legible in the darkness.

‘Requirements for Membership’.

Name.

Address.

Phone number.

Email.

No way was I going to do this.

The mind reader behind the smoked glass window saved the day.

“Make something up. Tax rules and all. We are a private club.”

I quickly filled in ‘Dave Watson’ and an equally bullshit address, phone number and Email. I pushed the pen and paper back. A pause. The paper was returned to me.

“Read the last paragraph and sign below it.”

I picked up the paper and read. Tried to anyway. It was dark, and the four beers were playing with my vision. I narrowed my eyes.

‘I absolve the club and any of its members from…….blah, blah, blah’.

Eight lines of waivers. Blurring as my brain swam in the four beers.

Whatever.

I signed Dave Watson, and returned the paper.

I heard a buzzing sound. An inside door had been unlocked. The door was on my right hand side. I could barely see the outline of the door frame in the dark hallway. I felt for and found the knob, turned and pushed on in.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the heat, humidity and sickly sweet odor. The guy who took my money passed me a key and a towel. He smiled at me, a welcome of some sort, I suppose. The guy was thin, gaunt and ugly, had a wispy pony tail, and was older than my dad. Grandpa, comes to mind.

“Rooms are at the back, rookie,” he says.

Rookie. Right. As if this is a locker room full of athletes. More likely, a room full of assholes. I grab my key and towel, nod and walk on, passing a long bar. The bar is empty, save the bartender. There are guys sitting at small tables, drinking. Some of the guys are fully clothed; some of them are wearing towels. Seeing the towel men is not a happy development.

A couple of ninety inch flat panels are playing a basketball game. Lakers versus somebody. These guys obviously enjoy watching sports. Which I find a little weird. Because I enjoy watching sports. Drinking beer and watching sports with my buddies. No different to what is going on in here. Also, I could see a pool table, a Foosball table, shuffleboard, a dart board, vintage pinball games and sit-down PAC-man tables.

The place reminded me of the old Colony Bar at home. It was where I took my first drink. The Colony divided the men and women into separate rooms. The place was always packed. The ‘Men Only’ room meant no women to fight over, no jealousies, none of the competition bullshit. It was men and sports, and men and drink. Simple, peaceful, quiet. A relic of the past.

I put my head back down and keep walking, coming to an open doorway at the end of the barroom. I look at my room key and am able to see the number, one twenty-nine. I exit the bar and enter a series of hallways. Immediately, thumping dance music fills the air. The hallways are dimly lit with red L.E.D. lighting. Some sort of attempt at ambiance. This part of the club resembles a hotel. Plenty of doors with numbers.

I follow the numbers down a corridor, make a left, then a right and head deeper into the building. I keep moving, scanning the doors. Some of the doors are cracked open. Some of the doors are wide open. There are single men in these open door rooms. Sitting on small cots or lying down flat. Some of the guys are ass down. Some are ass up. Most all of these guys are completely naked, the small white towels cast aside. Not the same civilized scene as the guys drinking beer and watching the basketball out front.

As I move further in, there is man traffic in the hallways. I have to squeeze by two forty year old guys, having a serious close chat. An ancient guy drifts out of a doorway, gawking at me, smiling as I pass. How disgusting. Other males drift into and out of the rooms, using the hallway to get around some sort of maze. Finally I see my number on a door. I am at the dead end of a hallway, middle door, with a room on each side of me. The doors on these other rooms read one twenty-eight and one thirty. I quickly key my door and step in. I close the door behind me.

Well, I made it. So far so good. Kind of nasty though, so far.

My eyes accustom to the small room. The room is about seven feet long and five feet wide. The entire room is mirrored. All of the walls and the back of the door are covered. As is the ceiling. Mirror, mirror on the wall, I bet you have truly seen it all. I bet.

Against a side wall sits a cot, about three feet across. There is a small locker bolted to the end wall above a night table. I toggle a light switch on the wall. The light rises up to a screaming intensity. I can see a plastic bowl full of colored condoms and mini lube sticks. Christ.

Lovely, isn’t it?

The light is blasting off every mirror surface, seemingly intensifying. It must be like this inside a microwave oven. I toggle the light back down, dropping the wattage lower and lower, setting the mood.

What the hell am I talking about, setting the mood?

I think I need way more alcohol than these first four beers.

I toggle the lights off. Pull the two beers out of my clothing. Set them on the night table. Take my jacket off and toss it on the night table as well. Pop the top off one of the cans and begin to sip. I relax back on the cot with my head against the wall. I notice a red light on the ceiling, directly above me. It must be a smoke detector. No way would there be cameras in here. Cameras would be illegal. A serious, nasty breach of privacy. I think some amendment covers this.

A few minutes pass and I hear the door next to mine open, and then close. A patron has entered. The light is turned on because I see bright laser beams of white poring through the wall into my room. I can see perfect circles cut in the wall. The circles are at various heights and range from peephole size to three inches in diameter. Holy shit. Peepholes and glory holes.

Quietly, I shift on the bed, slipping my eye to the nearest peephole.