The SubWay
Welcome to “The SubWay: Retribution at the Leather Bar,” an evocative journey through the vibrant and gritty gay leather scenes of 1970s San Francisco. This story delves into the raw and passionate subculture that thrived in the shadows, exploring themes of identity, desire, and rebellion.
In this special feature for Mister B Wings magazine, we decided to take a bold step into the future by utilizing cutting-edge AI technology to visualize the story. As AI-generated imagery is a relatively new frontier, we were curious to see how this innovative tool could bring the electrifying atmosphere of that era to life. By blending detailed narratives with AI-created visuals, we aimed to capture the essence of the leather bar scene in a unique and immersive way.
Join us as we explore this experimental fusion of technology and storytelling, and witness how AI interprets and reimagines the powerful aesthetics of the 70s gay leather culture. This is more than just a story—it’s a visual adventure that bridges the past and the future, offering a fresh perspective on a pivotal moment in LGBTQ+ history.
On June 26, 1964, an infamous article titled Homosexuality in America, published in America Today magazine, catapulted the gay leather ‘S&M’ scene into national consciousness for the first time. America Today sent Clark Cullen, an eager-to-impress young journalist on their writing staff, where no reporter had dared to go before – behind the doors and deep into the bowels of San Fransisco’s pioneering leather bar, the Tool Box. Upon publication, the fourteen-page spread depicted the tensions between the larger culture’s notions of queerness and the “masculine homosexual” counter-movement that was emerging into open view in the West Coast. However, exactly what happened during Clark Cullen’s visit to the Tool Box was left unaccounted for in his report. Until now.
I could feel the nervous sweat collecting on my brow as I sheepishly stepped in. Turning to take one last look, I watched in fear as the heavy metal door closed behind me, shutting out the brightly polished motorcycles parked outside. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to my new dimly-lit surroundings, but when they did, and I could finally see what I had walked into, the feeling truly sunk in. Hanging from the ceiling over the bar is a collection of tennis shoes – favourite footwear for many homosexuals with feminine traits. Behind it, a derisive sign reads: “Down with sneakers!” A black-and-white mural of tough-looking men loomed over me on the back wall. Which, I quickly realised, as my eyes began to wander around the room, could easily have been a mirror reflecting my fellow bar-goers.
It was black leather and sadistic symbolism everywhere I turned. Everyone wore at least one leather item: a leather jacket paired with jeans or leather pants with a tight tee-shirt. One man in particular, who seemed the most committed to this lifestyle, caught my eye. He leaned casually against a wall with arms crossed, one foot up supporting his stance. Wrapping his muscular body in black were motorcycle pants and jacket, high leather boots, and a military cap pulled down low, casting a mysterious shadow over his face. Only his lips could be seen, framed by his scruffy beard, which sensually held a lit cigar between them. I took out my notepad and pencil, focused my gaze on the floor before me, and slowly walked over to him.
After a brief introduction, I built up the courage to explain that I wasn’t “like him”, that I was a journalist and that I’d like to ask him some questions for my report. I noticed a sudden shift in his demeanour when he discovered what I was there for. He uncrossed his arms, stood up straight and quickly turned his head from side to side as if to ensure no one had overheard me. Pulling me closer until my groin was pressed against his, he whispered, “Are you out of your mind? You can’t come here saying shit like that and expecting people to talk to you. Just do what you’re told and keep your mouth shut, and I promise you’ll learn everything you need to know about this place.” I didn’t want to cause a scene and draw more attention to myself than my outlandish preppy attire was doing, so I nodded and allowed him to drag me further into the back of the bar, where it was almost entirely dark.
In the corners, I could faintly make out bodies pushed up against each other, accompanied by moans and grunts of pleasure. I didn’t have time to write down what I was seeing, but I knew all these images would be burnt into my memory forever. The stranger sat on one of the leather sofas that lined the walls and he pulled me down to my knees on the ground before him. Lifting his finger to his mouth, he hushed me one final time before bending me over like a table. Up went his feet on my back. And then his drink. “Hold still”, he said, “You spill this drink, and then you’re in big trouble”. So, I did. I remained steady, resisting the urge to tremble from the excitement coursing through my body. He relit his cigar and began to smoke, entirely at ease like he’d forgotten about my existence, and I’d just become an object for him to use. I only felt remembered when he would yank back my head and ash his cigar in my mouth or feed me a sip of beer and tell me what a good boy I was.
When he finished, he stood up and walked me over to where long metal chains were dangled from the ceiling. With the handcuffs that he carried around his belt, he bound me to the ceiling and pulled my pants down to the floor, where they gathered around my ankles. “Fellas”, he called out to men that had begun to fill the darkened room, “Come help me give our friend here a proper introduction to the Tool Box.” And that they did. One by one, every leather man in that place came forward and took their turn. If they were nice, they’d lube themselves up with spit before they stuck their hard cocks inside me, but most of them weren’t so nice. They seemed to take pride in how much I winced and flinched. Some didn’t even want to fuck me and had just queued up to abuse me with whips and riding crops, and other things that made my eyes water and my backside sting.
The whole time, my stranger stood in front of me with his leather-gloved hand covering my mouth, muffling my screams and rendering them useless. I could see how much he loved it. He loved to see me being emasculated, degraded and outnumbered. To see me afraid and having to suffer in silence. Perhaps it was justified retribution for how we had made homosexuals in our country feel throughout history. Or maybe he did it for no other reason than wanting to. Either way, it seemed warranted and provided invaluable research for my article. Perhaps some details of my visit would be too shocking for most America Today readers and would have to be omitted, but I knew right then, as I hung half-naked from the ceiling surrounded by leather men, it would make for a great story one day…
