For the sake of preservation, this thread endeavors to recreate the legendary Tumblr blog str8guys4fags2serve. Written by a young Apex Alpha, its bluntly honest revelations form the bedrock of Hierarchical truth found on this website and all others. I thank the anonymous Alpha writer for sharing his wisdom. This thread is a tribute to you, Sir. CLICK HERE for all of these posts in chronological order!
I played baseball in high school (shortstop -batted third, and pretty good – started all four years). Baseball is a great game, requiring skill, intelligence and real athleticism. But it is not a sexy, spectator-attracting sport like football or basketball. We generally played with only a sprinkling of fans, moms, dads (although not my mom or dad – they were totally uninterested), girl friends, in the stands. No cheerleaders, no rah rah, no pom poms.
But my Sophomore year I noticed this guy was always in the stands – sort of off to a side, not with anyone. Late 20s, maybe early 30s, kinda nerdy. Too young to be a dad, too old to be an older brother. And he seemed to be focusing on me a lot. He was at every home game and pretty soon he started to show up at away games. I started to wink at him at the end of each inning when I came back into the dugout or when I went into the “on deck” circle before batting. I hit a home run with two men on base in the bottom of the 9th inning to win the game once, and as I rounded third I doffed my batter’s helmet in his direction. After that game, he was waiting for me as I left the locker room after showering and changing into cargo shorts, a wife-beater and flip flops, my usual street wear that year.
“I know you hit that home run for me, Jake” he said.
“No,” I responded, although surprised that=at he actually knew my name. “We needed to win the game.”
“Still, an effort like that takes a lot out of a boy. Let me buy you a steak dinner. You deserve it.”
What the fuck, I thought to myself. Either home for dinner for tuna casserole with my mom and dad who could give a shit about my home run. Or steak dinner with this guy who is a fan.
“Sure,” I said.
“I think you look great in those shorts and shirt Jake, but I don’t think they’ll let you into Mortons wearing that outfit. Do you have anything else to wear?”
“Nope, all the stuff in my locker is dirty and smelly.”
He kinda sighed at that prospect, but said, “Well, we’ll just have to get you something to wear.”
And fuck if we didn’t stop at the mall and he bought me a pair of $300 designer jeans that looked like they had been painted on me, and a $100 designer tee shirt. And some expensive cowboy-style boots. (He really, really liked those boots.)
And when we stepped into Mortons that evening, I noticed that the place went silent. And I know instinctively that the silence wasn’t for the dude, Walter.
Walter was literally panting for breath as he tried to order. So I took over and ordered for him. I know he was grateful. Over dinner Walter gushed about what a great athlete I was, how much he admired my skill as a ball player, how he thought i was the best looking guy on the team. He subtly (well, he tried for subtle, but he was not) speculated that I had the biggest cock in the locker room. My ears perked up at that. “How’d you know?” I teased. (Actually, I did. Bigger than any of the players, any of the coaches. longer, fatter. and I was only 15.) Walter just about keeled over with excitement. “Would you like to come back to my place?” he asked.
“Well, I don’t know. I got some homework to do.”
Well, after a little back and forth I agreed to go back to his place for a while. (The nice part about having parents who don’t give a shit about you is that you can change plans easily and not even show up and they don’t even miss you.) We went back to Walter’s luxury condo, and don’t you know that fucking Walter had shrine to me in his second bedroom. Newspaper clippings about my playing, photos that someone (Walter probably) had snapped surreptitiously, a team hat and a ball that Walter claims was my first homer of the season.
We sat around, chatting for a while and then I asked Walter to take me home. He suggested that since it was late (all of 9:30) I should stay the night, but I insisted on going home. On the way home though, in Walter’s 7 series Beamer I did say that I had a good time. I specifically did NOT thank Walter however. But what was left hanging out there was the suggestion (unspoken) that we should do it again.
That was all Walter needed. We did it again, and again and over the course of some weeks, Walter became my first fag. It proved to be an education for me – and for Walter.
