I'll never forget the first time I saw two men be sexually intimate with one another. I was 7, in the car with my pops, and at a stop sign two guys off to the right were walking into the woods holding hands. I heard my father grumbling behind me as I continued to watch the burly men. As they slipped out of view my father grabbed my face and turned it to meet his gaze.
"You listen to me and you listen good." His face was serious, and tho he was looking back and forth between me and the road I didn't dare look away. "If you ever end up queer like those two redneck faggots, yer gonna fuckin regret it. You hear me boy?"
I didn't fully understand what he meant or the words he was using, but he said it with a menacing scowl and it was enough to scare me.
As the years went by, I started to become more and more aware of what my father meant. Queer meant "dudes likin dudes" and a faggot was "the worst kinda queer". Imagine my fear when I realized I had an attraction to men. The more I learned about my sexuality, the more fearful I was about what my father had told me that day.
By the time I was 15, it was everything I could do to not be hard around a man I found attractive.
I was a fairly average sized kid with sandy blonde hair and a little pudge. There was little about me that I found particularly attractive...but that was fine because most of the time I was drooling over the fine specimen that I was surrounded by.
Most of the guys in my town grew up to be huge, hairy, and gruff men.
Men that spend their time drinking beer and playing sports. Some pick up cigarettes or chewing tobacco, and most of them love talking about loose women.
I spent my time jerking in front of the family computer to online pictures or trying to steal glances of men from the side lines. Given the physical difference between me and the majority of the male population I was pretty shy. I wanted to avoid being bullied or getting beat, so I did my best to blend in and go unnoticed. They tried to get by in a store isle, I moved in a hurry. A guy asks for a light, I pull my lighter out of my pocket and quietly hand it to him. After a few years of successfully blending in, it was almost impossible to hold back my primal urges to drop to knees for one of these ugly brutes.
All of my sexual energy had been bottling up inside me for years, and now I was a a horny fucker, a 18 year old about to graduate who couldn't keep his dick out of his hand. At this age I was standing at around 5'9", still with a little pudge on my stomach, and still I had very few features that I would define as manly. My only saving grace was the hair under my arms, around my cock and on my legs and ass. I wasn't a satyr, but I would frequently play with my ass while I jerked. I had my pervy routine down and many times in the day I would spot a big bear guy and run out of view to jerk my cock. If I didn't jerk I don't know what I'd do. There was something about these types of men that immediately had an effect on my boy dick. I didn't know too much about sex with men, but I knew enough about myself to know that I needed sex with these men. One afternoon this led to me watching a repair man in our backyard while he worked on fixing our air conditioning unit. He was a big working class man, wearing overalls and a backwards cap. He wore a white t-shirt underneath, but with how he was sweating it was pretty much see through. Curly brown hair stuck out from the collar of his shirt and covered the top and sides of his arms. Inside his shirt I could see his hairy body gasping to be let out from the sweaty prison that was his shirt.
I gripped my dick through my shorts, imagining how it would taste to give him a tongue bath. To remove his dripping sweaty shirt and tongue out his armpits, and suck on his nips while I grind on him. I could feel my dick twitch in my hand as I squirmed and moaned to myself.
"WHAT THE FUCK!?" my father screamed behind me.
I looked up at him and felt a rush of blood fly into my face. The repair guy looked over through the glass door at us and saw me with my dick poking out my shorts and my old man seething with rage. I didn't know what to say, and neither did my father. Instead he slapped me hard across my face. I bent down towards my stinging cheek and immediately was met with a slap on my other, sending me collapsing to the floor.
"You fuckin FAGGOT!" A swift kick to my gut made me gasp for air. I looked up and say my fathers red fuming face. "You queer ass motherfucker...I fuckin told you!" He threw his hat across the room knocking something over, and then got real close to my face "you're lucky you're my son or I'd finish beating you to death."
I looked away and at the tile, and felt my tears fall from my face. Part of me was relieved that I was outed, but the other part (the larger part) was terrified. Was there anything worse than being beaten to death. He grabbed me by my shirt and threw me into my room, locking the door and leaving me out of his sight.
I could hear him downstairs talking with the repair man downstairs, who sounded more confused than anything, and my father was yelling. They both left the house and I watched from my window as the man's car drove away, followed by my father's.
I walked around my room like a trapped ghost. Pale from the experience, still shedding tears, and letting whimpers pass through my lips. After another hour I passed out surrounded by every pillow I could find in an attempt to comfort myself. I woke up sometime the next day, and saw my father's car still missing. Fine. Maybe starving to death in my room was more peaceful punishment than his angry beatings. I found a half empty water bottle, drank it all, and then pissed in it without access to the bathroom. I went back to sleep trying to ignore my hunger.
Around 8 pm I woke to my dad opening the door. "Get up." I stared at him in fear. The closer he got the more powerful the smell of alcohol filled my nose. He was plastered.
"Don't look at me with those sad fucking queer eyes. You know damn well I won't allow a fag to live under my roof. In fact you better take off those pajamas I bought right fucking now. You don't own a damn thing in this fuckin house." I continued to stare at him, my lips beginning to quiver again.
"GET A MOVE ON FAGGOT, YOURE GUNNA GET THOSE CLOTHES OFF AND YOUR GUNNA GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE."
He dragged me out in a shirt and underwear and threw me in the car.
"I can't believe what I saw, dammit. You fucking faggot. I told ya you'd regret it. You're bout to learn what the only thing a cocksucker like you is good fer. I have no fucking use for a faggot son. If you come crawlin' back changed that's one thing, but I bet you won't."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I was scared.
We sat in silence for a long time, until I finally pulled up the courage to try and apologize or salvage the situation.
"Dad, I --"
"QUIET! You shut your mouth fag boy. I bet you've been hiding fer years. One look at you now and I can tell, yer one of those true faggots, the ones that spend all day with dicks up their pussy and mouths. Yer lucky we're pulling up or I'd pull over and beat you just for speaking to me." His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
We pulled up to a small barn and a trailer across the dirt path. I got out of the car and followed my dad down the road to the trailer.
