likes metal bondage, ma-1 and cute guys

I still remember the headlights before I saw the road again.

One second, I was driving my pickup through the back roads of rural West Virginia—windows cracked, country music low, boots resting heavy on the pedals. The next, red and blue lights were flashing in my mirror like something out of a nightmare that didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

My name is Chase. I’m 21. Before that night, I’d never even had a speeding ticket.

I pulled over on the shoulder, gravel crunching under my tires. My hands were steady at first, then not so steady when the officer walked up. When the officer came up to my window, he looked young—close enough in age that it almost made it worse. Not angry. Just… done with this kind of night.

“Been drinking tonight?” he asked.

I remember laughing once, like it was a joke that would fix itself if I treated it lightly. It didn’t. The field test felt humiliating in a way I couldn’t explain yet—I just knew I was failing something I couldn’t undo in real time.

When he told me to turn around, I remember thinking I’d be back in my truck in a few minutes. I wasn’t.

After he told me to put my hands behind my back, everything got quiet. The cold metal of the cuffs snapped shut, and suddenly I wasn’t just a guy in jeans and cowboy boots anymore. I was a case.

The ride to the station was silent except for the hum of the road. No sirens this time. Just inevitability.  My wrists began to hurt as the cuffs dug into my wrists. 

Intake was fluorescent lights and paperwork that made everything feel official in a way that didn’t leave room for denial. They took everything that felt like mine—boots, belt, shirt, wallet—and replaced it with fingerprints, photo, and numbers instead of a name.  My identity stripped away, piece by piece.

Then came the uniform. They gave me a standard-issue jail outfit: a well-worn orange jumpsuit made of rough, scratchy fabric that didn’t breathe right, the kind that clung where it shouldn’t and hung loose everywhere else. It had a broken-in collar that wouldn’t sit flat and a pocket with a large hole rendering it useless. My name wasn’t on it—just “INMATE” screen printed on the leg and back, like I’d been turned into inventory.

The fabric smelled faintly of industrial detergent, sharp and unfamiliar, like it had been washed a hundred times but never really cleaned of what it had seen.

Even my Ariat boots were gone by then—replaced with thin socks on a cold concrete floor that made everything feel temporary and exposed.  I remember standing there in socks, realizing how fast you can go from “normal life” to “processed.”

While the jail uniform was rough, stiff, and unfamiliar, the jail shoes were worse.

Thin, flat-soled sandals, made of cheap foam, almost like something you’d wear if you had nothing to say about your own life anymore. No laces. No structure. No weight to them at all. I remember sliding my feet into them and immediately feeling wrong—like I was standing on something temporary, something that wasn’t meant to support a real person going anywhere real.

I kept thinking about my cowboy boots.

Those boots had weight. They were mine. Scuffed leather, solid soles, built for dirt roads, truck pedals, and long days where you felt every step you took. They made you feel grounded, like wherever you stood, you belonged there—even if you didn’t.

The jail shoes were the opposite. Quiet. Disposable. They didn’t grip the floor so much as accept it. Every step in them felt like I was borrowing time I didn’t control.

And then there were the leg irons.

I didn’t understand what that meant until they bent me slightly forward and fastened the chain around my ankles. The cuffs sat just above my boots—well, the shoes now—and a short metal chain linked them together. It changed everything about how I moved. My steps weren’t mine anymore. They were measured, shortened, controlled.  When I moved, it rustled loudly in the quiet hallway, every step announcing me in a way I didn’t want.

Walking felt wrong in a way I couldn’t fully explain. Not just restricted—redefined. Even standing still, I was aware of them, the faint weight at my ankles reminding me that movement wasn’t something I decided on my own anymore. It was something that had to be permitted, step by step.

Court came later.  Same jumpsuit, now wrinkled from sitting too long. Wrist restraints, waist chain, and the leg irons working together made every motion deliberate. Walking into the courthouse wasn’t walking— it felt mechanical, like I was being guided by something outside of me.

I remember thinking about how different it all was from just a few days before. From boots on gas pedals to soft jail shoes and chained steps across polished courthouse floors.

I didn’t look at anyone for long, but I felt everything: the clerk calling my name, the judge’s voice, the weight of words like “DUI” and “license suspension” landing like stones.

When my name was called, it didn’t feel like mine anymore. It felt like something assigned.

When I finally spoke, my voice sounded smaller than I expected.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

That was it. No dramatic ending. No sudden fix. Just the moment I realized my life could still move forward, but not the way it had been moving before.

There was no dramatic ending. No clean break. Just the slow, unavoidable realization that the same life that once felt wide open in cowboy boots had narrowed into careful steps in leg irons—and that nothing about it was going to reset just because I wanted it to.