Cage James

Almost everyone who was anyone on Castro Street knew Cage James. Maybe not intimately, but they knew of him. He could be found on street corners, hanging out in front of bars, or just walking up and down the sidewalk in low-rise jeans so tight they would have been considered obscene in a suburban shopping mall. His shirts tended to be as tight as his pants, to the point where they hugged his chest and left an inch or two of his bare abdomen showing.
When people saw him coming, they would either stop what they were doing and stare in his direction or nod as if expecting him to return the gesture. Sometimes he would nod; other times he would smile. Most of the time he would continue walking without offering any gesture one way or the other, which is why he often wore dark sunglasses at night. He'd learned that by not making eye contact with most people he could remain unaffected.
Cage knew they were watching him and talking about him. People had done that all his life. When they weren't staring at him they were flirting with him. When they weren't flirting they were gaping at his crotch or the back of his pants. He knew he had assets most other men didn't have. He never took his dark dangerous looks or his perfect lean body for granted, and he knew how to use them to his advantage as often as possible.
On a cool, rainy night in April he wore his tightest black jeans and shortest black T-shirt under a distressed leather jacket that looked as if it had been dragged over a bed of nails. Though it looked old, the leather jacket was brand new and he'd paid over a thousand dollars for it earlier that week. His black boots were new, too, and he'd paid almost two thousand for them. If anyone who didn't know him were to have glanced in his direction that night they would have thought money had never been a problem in his life.
As he swaggered down the sidewalk toward his favorite gay leather bar in The Castro, he passed a few hookers lingering in front of a tattoo parlor with a red neon sign that he knew were men dressed as flamboyant women. They chided him about his tight pants, they made lewd references about the way his dick bulged in his jeans, and one even patted him on the bottom and said, "I need to get me some of that hot ass, baby." He laughed and continued walking without giving them a second thought. He knew they meant no harm, and he also knew how hard they worked to make a living.
When Cage reached the bar the hulking bald bouncer at the door nodded and stepped aside so he could enter without showing ID or paying a cover. Cage had had sex with the bouncer many times and he knew the bouncer wouldn't dare charge him a dime, especially not after Cage had gone out of his way to please this particular bouncer who had several kinks no one else knew about. Although Cage could pass for eighteen, everyone in this bar knew he was twenty-five. He'd worked there in many different capacities in the past, from bar back to male stripper. That's how he got the name Cage, because he used to dance naked in a cage on top of the middle bar. His real name was Nelson, a fact very few people knew.
It was a Tuesday night and the bar wasn't as crowded as on weekends, but he still had to push his way through the smaller crowd to get to the back bar where he liked to hang out alone so he could watch everything from a distance. A guy in black chaps patted his ass near the middle bar and he sent the guy a smile and continued toward the back. Cage had slept with him, too. He remembered that guy had an uncut dick with a birthmark shaped like the state of Florida. A tall thin guy in black leather jeans and a black leather vest rubbed his arm as he passed the rest room entrance. A few men in other types of clichéd leather gear with exaggerated facial hair smiled at him and patted his back. He kept his head down and continued walking.