Be proud - part III

Michael stood tall in his leather uniform, the shine of the material catching the sunlight as he took a slow puff from his cigar. The wide boulevard of the gay district buzzed with late afternoon energy—rainbow flags fluttering above cafés, boots on pavement, sunglasses reflecting pride and flirtation in equal measure.

“Michael?” John’s voice rang out—half laughter, half disbelief.

Michael turned. His posture was different now, rooted, grounded. The Michael John remembered had been gentle, quiet, always dressed in vintage cardigans or neutral basics. This Michael was a wall of black leather and authority, all sculpted confidence and sharp edges. The cigar looked right on him—too right.

“Hey, John.” Michael grinned. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

John stepped closer, still processing what he was seeing. “Wow. You look… different. Like—seriously different.”

Michael gave a relaxed shrug. “Yeah. I finally decided to live the way I always wanted to. Took me long enough.”

John gestured lightly at the outfit. “So, this is… what exactly?”

Michael took another puff, then exhaled slowly. “Me. Leather. Cigar. Discipline. Masculinity. The works. I stopped pretending. And I’ve never felt better in my skin.” He looked John in the eye. “Everyone should own what they’re into. No more hiding.”

John gave a faint nod, smiling—though a little tight-lipped. “Yeah. Sure. That’s… great. Really. For you.”

Michael smiled back, unconvinced. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” John patted him on the chest, where the harness met the shirt’s tight buttons. “Just a bit of a surprise.”

Michael chuckled. “Sure. I’ll let you process. But hey—if you ever wanna talk… or try something out… I know a guy who gives amazing first rubber fittings.”

John laughed nervously. “Rubber? Uh—maybe not.”

Michael just winked and turned back toward the leather bar down the street.

Later that night, John lay awake in his small apartment, the fan rotating gently above him. He had showered, pulled on an old T-shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed with his phone in hand, scrolling. His search history, his saved posts… they told a story he had been trying to ignore for years.

Rubber. Latex. Shiny black suits that clung like a second skin. Smooth, anonymous, glossy perfection. Men in gas masks. Inflatable hoods. Boots. Bald heads.

The last image froze him—one of a man with a freshly shaved scalp, polished to a mirror-like sheen, zipped tightly into a black rubber catsuit, sitting obediently at the feet of another.

John swallowed.

He clicked it closed. Then opened it again.

What would that even feel like? To give in. To stop dressing "normally." To stop worrying about how he came across to coworkers, to his mother, to the ex who had once laughed when she found a pair of latex gloves under his bed.

He ran his hand through his thick blond hair.

Could he really… do that? Shave it all off? Wear rubber outside his browser history?

Would people laugh? Would he?

Would it feel liberating?

He pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and took out the small black item he'd ordered months ago and never unpacked. A rubber hood, folded and smooth, smelling faintly of talcum and temptation.

He held it in his hands.

Tomorrow, maybe, he’d text Michael.

But tonight… he just wanted to feel the texture against his skin.

And maybe—just maybe—imagine a different version of himself. One that didn’t hide anymore.

John brought the rubber hood to his face, hesitating for a moment. The scent hit him instantly—sweet, artificial, slightly oily, and oddly comforting. He inhaled deeply. It was unmistakable. The smell of rubber. Of secrecy. Of a world he only ever dared to visit through screens and fantasies.

He closed his eyes. His fingers tightened around the material. The smooth surface clung to his palms like a whisper of something forbidden. Something inviting.

But then—he sighed.

No.

With a soft exhale, he carefully folded the hood back into its discreet plastic wrapping, as if erasing the moment before it became too real. He slid open the drawer and tucked it away at the bottom, beneath a pair of socks and a leather wristband he had never worn outside.

He sat still for a while, hands resting in his lap, the drawer now shut.

He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

But that night, John dreamed.

He dreamed of himself—not the version he knew, but another. A version clad head to toe in glistening black rubber, his bald scalp shining under red neon lights. His eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses, his chest rising and falling beneath a perfectly molded suit. He stood still in the dream, powerful and anonymous, surrounded by low humming sounds and the distant smell of cigar smoke and polish.

No one laughed.

Everyone stared.

And in the dream, John didn’t feel fear.

He felt proud.

He felt free.

The next afternoon, John stood on the sidewalk, staring at the storefront.

It was just glass. Just mannequins. Just clothes. But not just clothes.

Rubber.

Tight, gleaming, unapologetic.

He scratched the side of his head, uncertain. His heart was racing, his palms slightly sweaty. Around him, the neighborhood moved as always—casual, colorful, queer. No one paid him any attention. And yet he felt like every eye was on him.

He read the name of the store again. He had walked past it a hundred times before. He had even looked inside once. But never crossed the threshold.

He exhaled.

Then took a deep breath.

One step. Then another.

And then—he pushed the door open.

The suit slid on like it had been made for him.

Tight. Slick. Impossibly smooth. Every inch of rubber clung to his body like a second skin—no, like his skin. The second the zipper closed, something clicked. Not just the sound, but inside him.

He looked up at his reflection. That couldn’t be him. And yet it was.

His breath caught.

The smell. That unmistakable scent of rubber. It flooded his senses. He inhaled deeply, and the world seemed sharper, clearer—more alive.

He turned, flexed, ran a gloved hand over his chest. The sensation was electric.

He didn’t want to take it off. Not now. Not ever.

"How much for the whole set?" he asked the shop assistant, his voice steadier than he expected.

"Which one?"

He smiled, eyes gleaming.

"All of them."

He stepped out of the shop, the heavy door falling shut behind him with a metallic click.

The sunlight hit the rubber like a spotlight. His entire body gleamed. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. A couple of guys raised their eyebrows. One man let out a low whistle. A woman across the street grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

John’s pulse quickened.

This was the moment he'd feared — the moment of exposure, of judgment. But the shame he’d anticipated didn’t come. Instead, something else rose in his chest.

Pride.

Not the kind you forced. The real kind. The kind that made you walk taller, smile wider, feel like you were finally, finally the person you were meant to be.

He caught his reflection in a shop window. The glossy rubber suit, the gloves, the way he held himself.

Damn.

His mind flashed to that video — the one he never talked about, the one he’d bookmarked and watched again and again. The rubber guy with the perfect smooth scalp, no brows, no hair, just a blank, polished surface under the hood. So extreme. So complete.

He bit his lip.

Would that be too far?

He ran a hand over his blond quiff.

But then again … why not?

John was practically vibrating in the chair.

The rubber clung to his frame like a second skin, gleaming in the daylight that poured through the wide front windows. Outside, the Castro bustled, rainbow flags fluttering in the breeze. Inside, it smelled of talc, clippers, warm shaving cream — and just a hint of rubber polish.

Across from him, Damon, the barber — tall, bald, browless, in full rubber — grinned.

“So,” he said, folding his arms. “You sure about this?”

John laughed nervously, running a gloved hand over his thick blond quiff one last time.

“Not even a little,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Damon chuckled. “That’s usually the best way.”

John took a breath. His heart was pounding, but not from fear anymore. From exhilaration. From anticipation. He’d seen this place in his dreams, had imagined this moment on lonely nights when the rubber hood lay hidden in the drawer.

Now he was here.

Now he was ready.

“No half-measures,” John said, straightening his spine. “Take it all. Smooth. Bald. Everything.”

Damon gave a slow nod. “Alright. Let’s free the real you.”

John could feel it — the clippers at the nape of his neck, the hum vibrating through his skull like a low, electric whisper. Damon’s gloved hand rested steady against his crown, angling his head with practiced ease.

A strip of hair fell.

Then another.

He let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding — and laughed.

Not nervously. Not in disbelief.

But with pure, bubbling joy.

Each pass of the clippers stripped something away. Not just the blond locks he’d once styled so carefully, but layers of hesitation, of fear, of shame. His scalp tingled where the machine passed, and the exposed skin met the cool air of the barbershop like a baptism.

Damon leaned in, voice low and reassuring. “Still good?”

John met his eyes in the mirror. “Better than good.”

He could see it now — the man he’d been afraid to become. Sleek. Bold. Free. The boy with the good hair and the clean-cut smile was almost gone. In his place: something sharper, rawer. More him.

The mirror showed the evidence. The sides were gone. Soon, the last strip of hair would fall. And then…

Then nothing but rubber and skin.

And pride.

John stared at his reflection.

The scalp was smooth. Slick. Gleaming.

But it wasn’t just the absence of hair that stunned ihn — it was the absence of eyebrows. Without them, his face looked alien. Raw. Exposed.

“Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

His hands trembled slightly as he reached up, fingers hovering over the glistening skin. No trace remained of the stylish blond quiff or the neatly groomed brows that had once framed his expression. He looked… different. Like someone else.

Like someone he hadn’t yet met — but might want to become.

Damon stepped behind him, resting both gloved hands on his shoulders. He massaged gently, grounding him with firm, knowing pressure. “Breathe.”

John did.

“You’re beautiful,” Damon murmured. “You were cute before. Now? Now you’re fucking sexy.”

John blinked. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, a smile crept across his lips.

Maybe… maybe Damon was right. Maybe this wasn’t a loss — but a revelation.

He couldn’t help it. Again and again, his gloved hand slid over the smooth, flawless surface of his scalp — as if he needed to confirm it was real. No hair. No eyebrows. No going back.

John stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by rainbow flags and the bustling life of San Francisco — but all that mattered was this feeling: freedom. Pride. Transformation.

He could feel the stares. Some curious, some discreet, others openly intrigued.

Once, he would have been embarrassed. Today… he relished it.

He wasn’t the person he had been yesterday — and that was exactly the point.

On a sudden impulse, he fetched the heavy slave collar he had once ordered in a moment of curiosity — and then hidden away in a drawer for years. Today, he locked it around his neck with a satisfied click. It felt right. It felt earned.

Then he picked up a brush.

The pink floral guest room — too sweet, too polite — had served its purpose. Now it would become something else entirely.

Black paint, glossy and unapologetic, coated the wall with each confident stroke.

He smiled. It was time for a playroom.

One week later.

He wore rubber as often and as long as possible now — like a second skin, like armor, like truth. And tonight, he was meeting Miguel. Sweet, funny, secretive Miguel. He’d always suspected something, a lingering glance, a curious question too casually asked.

Miguel didn’t know it yet, but he was ready too.

Sometimes, all it took was a nudge.