The leather clowns were late. Usually they showed up the last full week of April, but here it was May and no sign of them. I worried. We all did. I asked Hobo Joe, him being the oldest of us, if they’d ever been late like this before. Once. When he was young, before any of us, he told me. Why? I wondered and he just shrugged. Never asked, never said. Only time it ever happened.
So we sat around and worried, night after night. Far as any of us knew, the leather clowns had been coming forever. Never talked much. Hell, we didn’t even know their names or where they came from. Just accepted it, you know, and gave them our own names. Like Red, because he dressed all in red leather. Black dressed in black. White in white. Mustache had a mustache and Daddy? Well, he just looked like a daddy with his short-cropped grey hair and his hairy chest. Tattoo was inked from top to bottom and Scar looked like he’d been in a knife fight long ago.
Thing is, we all looked forward to their coming. It was better than Christmas. And they’d always come. Until now. And so we waited and while we waited, we talked and told stories. Stories about our favorite memories of the Leather Clowns.
Smiley told us of the time Red took him out to the woods. He’d looked so handsome, he said. Red leather pants, red leather vest, red leather boots, and a red leather duster. No shirt. Red never wore a shirt. He smelled of leather and sweat Smiley told us. He pushed me up a tree and pulled my overalls down around my ankles. His cock was wrapped in metal-studded leather too and when he took me in the ass it hurt so sweet.
Smiley got a faraway look in his eyes. Hell, we all did. We knew that pain. Red had taken each and every one of us once and it always hurt that sweet. Afterwards, though, that was what we really clung to. Afterwards he’d hold us, his cock still in our asses, cum deep inside our bowels. Hold us and whisper things in our ear. He’d tell us how beautiful we were and we’d believe him and hold onto the feeling for as long as we could, feeling beautiful and loved.
That’s why we worried. It wasn’t all about the sex. It was that feeling. Of being beautiful. Of being loved.
Blanket told us about the last time Daddy had taken him. It had out behind the tents. Daddy had him down on his knees, sucking his cock. His pubes had smelled like diesel. He’d held him down with one hand, simply using his mouth while he called him dick sucking sissy and nancy-boy and cock whore. When he’d come, it seemed never-ending, like he’d pumped a gallon of jizz down his throat before slapping his still hard cock against Blanket’s face.
Blanket had a faraway look on his face while he told us about what happened afterwards. Daddy’d patted him on the head and told him he was a good son and how proud he was of him. Best day of my life, Blanket told us. I’ll never forget how his hand felt. Strong but kind. Tender even.
When it was my turn, I paused, thinking back. The story that stuck out in my mind was when Mustache took me upstairs to my tiny little room. All I had was a mattress and a trunk filled with everything I’d ever owned. Mustache greased me up with Crisco while I was down on my hands and knees. His cock was so big it barely fit and it hurt like fire, but yeah, it hurt sweet too. He’d fucked me until I was screaming for mercy, screaming his name, screaming for god, begging and crying for him to stop, for him to never stop. When he came inside of me, it was like I’d died and been reborn. Just remembering made me feel good inside, like I was wrapped up in all the best things in the world. Like I was made of love.
Afterwards, he’d told me how much he loved me and kissed me with such tenderness that I began to cry. I cried now again, telling the others. They did too. It was cleansing and afterwards I felt better. We all did.
After we were done, we went back to our rooms, our tents, our alleyways, and dreamed of the leather clowns and we felt both better and a little sadder, wondering when they would come or if we’d never see them again. Goldie thought they’d forgotten us, as did a few of the others, but me? I never once doubted they’d come again. Soon, I prayed. Please let it be soon. I prayed every night, remembering Mustache’s words and his kiss. I kept the faith long after May came and went. Past June. Into July when even Hobo Joe had given up hope. There were nights I would waver, wondering if they were right. If we’d seen the last of them.
And then, late in July, as I sat upon my apple box back behind McClary’s funhouse, I caught the scent of leather and sweat and diesel on the wind and I stood and waited, trembling as tears spilled from my eyes. They’d finally come.
