
I rarely dream about being in love.
My lifetime spent in service to Alphas has largely made the possibility of being in love an impossibility. I’ve certainly been in love with a couple of my Masters, straight Alphas who could never fully return my love. And I’ve had people in love with me, mostly girls to whom I could never return affection.
Thirty years of service to Men have passed since my heart first opened like a hopeful flower in my foolish youth. They have been years filled with the wonders of discovery, of purpose and discipline. Yet they remain like cold stone sculptures in the statuary garden of my life.
But occasionally my subconscious allows a sunrise of a dream of love to warm the concrete and grow the smothering ivy choking it.
A dream of being in love, it happened last night. I want to share it with you.
I was a proper English lad in the early 20th century, maybe between the World Wars. Like all proper boys of that time, I was dapper in my crisp white shirt, black tie, and black wool slacks.
Matching me almost exactly in dress was my Alpha, William. Ah, William! He of the chiseled jaw, the confident smile, the jet black hair slicked back, his sharp, dark eyes peering like an animal from beneath his low, shadowy brow.
We were on the third floor of a cavernous English mansion, seemingly alone and safe. William sat confidently on a tall bannister that stood guard against a precipitous drop to the ballroom floor below. And I was between his legs, my head in his lap.
His large, heavy hand gently stroked my head. I’d never felt such a breathless peace before. It was like being a boy at home, wrapped in a favorite blanket while held by Mom … except there was a sort of electrical excitement quivering beneath the surface. The whole world felt alive in that moment, simultaneously infinite and intimate, and endlessly possible.
William began humming, just random notes I think, but in them I heard a song.
Excitement overwhelmed me and I popped up with a huge, child-like grin, and kissed his surprised face right on his cheek. I began spinning in a dance across the dark hardwood floor, singing the lyrics to William’s tune as they arose from my heart.
With our love in bloom,
I’m singing a tune,
That could lead careless lovers off a cliff,
And if that bloom had a scent,
Of poisoned intent,
You’ll forgive me for taking a whiff.
My dance took to a third-floor balcony overlooking a stately garden courtyard. Encircling the rear of the house were a series of closely-arranged marble columns three stories high.
In my pure, fearless joy I leaped from the balcony to land precisely on the top of the nearest column. As William protested, I jumped again to the next column, except this one was covered in vines and topped with moss. I slipped slightly, and I nearly plunged to my death.
I lowered myself and laid on my stomach on top of the column, fear gripping me as I breathlessly gazed at the concrete below.
“Are you alright?” asked William. He had leaped right to me and was standing over me. I looked up and saw his shiny black dress shoe near my face.
My William is here to rescue me! Foolish me! I thought. I instantly felt completely safe … and completely ashamed.
I carefully crawled on my belly until I could properly reach his feet, and then I tenderly kissed his shoe with all of the gratitude I could express.
“Good boy,” said William. “Good boy.”
And then I woke up.
I’m not sure why I felt the need to share this with you all. Partly it’s for the sake of my own memory, since I don’t want to lose William’s nonexistent love.
But maybe I want to share it as a kind of warning. Being a faggot and living it properly can sometimes be like trying to find the treat in a maze that has no treats and all dead ends.
That sounds more hopeless than I intended, but it’s true. We are born to a life of service to Alphas who can love us like a favorite dog (which is itself a powerful love), but it’s not like being in love.
Our Masters will most likely never be in love with us. We were born disposable, stamped with an invisible sell-by date. Every dismissal, every passing year, every new wrinkle … they all add to the weight of that eventual reality.
I’m proud to be a faggot. I’m not sad about the purpose selected for me, nor regret my enthusiastic fulfillment of that purpose.
But aside from Baby Boy, I’ve never known truly reciprocal love in my adult life.
Except when my mind, in a flash of merciful sunlight, allows me a moment to dance in it.
Always,
sam the faggot






















































































