David Strom, Leather Daddy

Since metro-area bus drivers went on strike, fiery David Strom, head of the powerfully rich but small cadre called the Taxpayer's League, has often dominated the headlines. With their Nietzschean philosophy of governance – no taxes, every man for himself, only the strong survive – they’ve consistently questioned the feasibility of public transportation. This Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome approach to Minnesota politics has caused David Strom to be much-maligned by the populace. “And for good reason!” some may say. “David Strom, if put in charge, would be a Tina Turner. It would be survival of the fittest! The weak would perish, and the strong would grind our corpses into the pavement with their Navigators!

But enough of this ballyhoo. Who is David Strom? Few claim to know what goes on inside his head. I hope to shed a little bit of light on that area. You see, I know David Strom. I've known him carnally. He's my lover. Let me tell you my story…

I first met David Strom at an International Leather competition held at one of those depressing and dingy conference centers out by the airport. I heard his laugh before I laid eyes on him – that portly barrel of a torso produces the sexiest, strongest laugh I’ve ever heard. Then I saw him, over by the cocktail wieners, chatting to Mr. International Bootblack (crowned earlier that morning) and a couple of puny drummer boys. I was immediately attracted to him. Those big cherubic cheeks. The confidence with which he ravenously dispensed of cocktail wieners and egg rolls, barely stopping the flow of his words to chew. He was representing the leather community proudly that afternoon, a studded leather harness barely holding in his hirsute pecs, a motorcycle hat cocked jauntily on his head.

At the time, I was fucking a slave named Tony, whom had been lent to me for the weekend by my friend Antonio–the very same leatherman being peppered by a barrage of finely-chewed particles of wiener spraying from the mouth of my ever-loquacious mystery man. I quickly endeavored to be introduced. “I know just how,” Antonio said. “I’ll arrange for you to be the boy to shine that Daddy’s boots!”

I couldn’t believe my luck. To say that I was aroused is an understatement. Kneeling before that continent of a man, it was like my whole body quivered as a passionate single-celled organism with one biological purpose—to shine this bear’s boots. He was puffing a cigar, and the exhaust quickly went to my head. I couldn’t speak; my throat was dry. I busied at my task of buffing his immense shitkickers.

After a while, it was like he finally noticed me. “What’s yer name, boy” he growled. His voice was smoky and peaty like a fine scotch.

“My name is Jason.”

“What?”

“Um, my name is Jason … SIR!”

“That’s better. My name is David Strom. How are you doing with those boots, boy?”

“I hope I am doing a good job on them for you, SIR! I’m trying really hard.”

“I can see that. Good boy, good boy.” He bent down and patted the top of my head.

Never had I felt like such a worthy piece of shit.

We got to talking as I spit-shined those steel-toed behemoths. David was chatty and caddy, dishing the gossip on all the other leather queens at the conference. He instructed me on the finer points of breath control and ironing chiffon. He asked where I went to school, what I was studying. He laughed derisively when I told him I was studying Cultural Studies at the University of Minnesota.

“Bunch of pussies!” he declared. “Books are for welfare moms.”

“Yes SIR!” I said.

He asked what kind of car I drove. Without knowing the sin I was about to confess to, I simply said, “I can’t afford a car. I ride the bus.”

Little did I know the fury that simple one-syllable word would evoke from this man. Like a grizzly bear that’s been stung by a bee, he raged before me. His left foot swung up, connecting with my ribs (fracturing five, I later found out). Spewing lungfulls of cigar smoke, he leaned into me, his face that of the devil himself, with all the smoke of hell wreathed around his head.

“STUPID FUCKING INNER-CITY BRAT! DON’T YOU SEE THAT YOU’RE NOTHING MORE THAN A LEECH? WHY DON’T YOU GET A REAL JOB AND STOP RIDING THE BUS? DO YOU KNOW WHO PAYS FOR YOUR BUS? I DO. AND I’M TIRED OF FUCKING PAYING FOR THAT SHIT SO YOU AND YOUR TREE-HUGGER FRIENDS CAN STUDY JANE AUSTEN AND MUSIC VIDEOS!”

He went on to explain the ways of the world to me. Suffice it to say, I had no idea that I all this time I had been suckling from the teat of the state. I was like a milk-fed pumpkin come county-fair time, grown lethargic and bloated off the largesse of welfare. What was designed to pin down the snipers so that I could pull myself up by the boot straps had become the very means by which I was being kept down. And the brightest star in that constellation of liberal entitlement? The city bus. The ease and convenience of walking two blocks to the bus stop and sitting in the back with latte and headphones every morning had clouded my reasoning and actually made me weak. As David explained, what I really wanted wasn’t a quick and stress-free ride to work, but “a big fat motherfucking SUV. Or a van. Something big and motherfucking heavy that uses a lot of gas.”

“I’m speechless, SIR. All this time, the wool’s been pulled over my eyes.”

“Aye, and liberalism weaves a thick yarn.” David’s eyes glowed triumphant.

“You are poor, boy. You live because of my tax dollars. I own you.”

He placed the filthy sole of one boot against my lips.

“Submit, boy. Wipe the inner-city scum off the bottoms of my Harley Davidson motorcycle boots, bitch.”

And submit I did. And submit I do, to this day.

David, oh David. Hold me down with those ham-hock arms, just like you hold down the bottom line of our wasteful state. Make me sign away myself to you as your property, just like you made Pawlenty sign away a second term with a pledge not to raise taxes. Arms crossed, you bare the gate to the state’s coffers. Stadiums? Light Rail? A bed for a homeless man? Medication for poor schizophrenics? Not on your watch. “Don’t raise my taxes to pay for that shit. I’ve got to buy a closet full of new dresses for my bitch this year. I can’t afford a new pool table and a scholarship for some poor black kid.”

The bitch of course is me. It’s a moniker I wear proudly—it’s embroidered on the collar which fastens me to Master Strom as he parades me around The Eagle on Saturday nights. After a few heady months of dating, I moved in to his massive faux-Edwardian hunting lodge on twenty acres of forest and ponds out in Maple Grove,where I learned his likes and dislikes, his daily routine, and most importantly, how to please my Daddy as his personal butt-boy.

Life is bliss—a blur of traffic jams, political banquets, violent but cathartic sex in our homemade basement dungeon, and cooking. David’s a big eater, and I’m constantly trying to keep the cupboards stocked and My Man’s tummy full. [For all you other boys out there who enjoy the ‘chore’ of cooking for your Daddy, might I suggest Bear Cookin’: The Original Guide to Bear Comfort Foods as a great resource when in need of spicing up your culinary repetoire?]

He’s got a soft side, too. Oh, he’s not all mean. He’s got a soft spot for films starring Dirk Bogarde, and he loves the Gay Men’s Chorus – never misses a show. Get a little vino in him and he’ll queen out over the artistic merits of Judy Garland, and I’ve never seen him leave a showing of Thoroughly Modern Millie with a dry eye. And he loves me—he really does. You people don’t understand. We just show our love to each other in different ways, through bruises and sweat, cigars and crops. We’re just different, that’s all! And one day—god willing—we’ll get married. You know, amending the constitution costs tax dollars! That shit doesn’t get a free ride! There’s a softer side David other people don’t get to see. When the cocks have softened, he’s really tender. Honestly!

We have had our rough spots, as every couple does. One evening last summer, I drifted back to consciousness in the SUV. We were stuck in traffic somewhere in the vastness of Minneapolitan suburbia.

“Wha—where am I, Daddy?”

“Shhh … quiet, babes. We’re almost home.”

“The last thing I remember was you spinning the wheel of death, and suddenly—I dunno—my arm must have hit the washing machine or something…”

“We had a little accident, babycakes.”

“What?”

The OxyContin was slowly wearing off. I felt the throbbing in my forearm—and looked down only to see my arm from wrist to elbow encased in plaster.

“Shit! My god!” I screamed. I began to sob. “What did you do to me?”

“Oh, I know—and it’s all my fault! I can’t believe I hurt my little boy!” He was crying too!

It was romantic, in a way. There we were, stuck in traffic, at a standstill. And he took me in his arms, and smothered my forehead with kisses. “Oh I just want you to take me home and make sweet, sweet love to me,” I cooed into the immensity of his breast. I stayed that way for several minutes in which the traffic didn’t budge.

David broke my reverie–“Boy, look up. Look at this.”

All I could see ahead of me for miles and miles were the sinister red snake-eyes of brake lights streaming ahead, a molten river of metal clogging six shimmering lanes of aching concrete.

“Look boy, isn’t it beautiful? This is paradise. This is progress.” And it was so, so beautiful!

* * *

But this whole bus strike – well, it’s raised your profile, David And with the praise comes the attacks, of course. It’s not easy being right. I’m just writing this to stay I’m sticking by you, Daddy.

The other night, for example, we were cooing post-coital in the giant canopy bed. You were calling me your “little übermensch” which always makes me blush. But from deep within the goose down ruffles of the bed, where you had dragged me as a pirate drags his spoils, we became aware of a sinister sound—a hum, a drumbeat, a chant, coming from the grounds. We clicked on the television to drown out the sound, and were shocked to see the façade of our house on the six o’clock news! Sure enough, the camera crews were there, reporting live. A roaring crowd had gathered, a sea of upturned faces gaping pitifully. The bedraggled, the ugly, the multi-ethnic of Minneapolis.

It had taken them six hours to march from the slums of the West Bank, Marcy-Holmes, Loring Park, Seward, the skid rows of Hennepin Avenue and Nicollet Mall. They had come for blood, and they were chanting, chanting … “We ain’t walking anymore … we ain’t walking anymore …Magic Bus … Magic Bus … I want it I want it I want it … Just to drive to my baby…” You swore loudly, and emerged like Venus from the pink sea-foam of the bed. You threw off your dress and hoop skirts, and covered up your petticoat with a robe. Striding to the balcony, you threw open the French doors.

With a hand raised, you quelled their screams: “Let them drive Hummers!”

And with those words, the fate of the monarchy was determined…

Posted by jason at March 22, 2024 07:15 AM