The Importance Of Acceptance

As I’ve said elsewhere, I was basically gay from birth. By the sixth grade, I had developed a crush on a boy named George (although I didn’t know what it meant at the time), and middle school/high school attractions to boys in class (Bob, I still miss you and your bulge in those tight pants!) further refined my obvious sexual orientation.

However, like most closeted gay youths, I was compelled to date girls in order to fit in with the budding heterosexual attractions of my closest friends. So, like a coward, I started dating girls.

My first few relationships were fulfilling in some way. Despite a general lack of attraction to their bodies, I was more than capable of performing sexually. Some of that probably had to do with the newness of sex in general, as well as the virulent hormones coursing through me at that age. Around that time I also discovered – much to my surprise – that I really loved boobs. For that period of time I was just like every other guy, dating a girl for a while in order to get some pussy before moving to the next one.

Of course, it was all a lie. I knew every kiss was a lie. I knew every thrust of my penis into a vagina was a lie. I knew every “I love you” was a lie. In the moment, it felt real to me; wet lips, warm bodies tangled, heavy sighs, and powerful, head-spinning orgasms. But in my quiet moments alone, a gnawing guilt remained.

When I met my first Alpha Roger at age 17 I was dating a sweet, petite brunette named Lori. Unlike my previous girlfriends, Lori was a virgin. Lori spent months trying to convince me to take her virginity, but I kept resisting. We would lie in the grass of my backyard on breezy summer nights, Lori’s hips gyrating her tight pussy on my finger as if she wanted me to insert my entire arm. I would always stop these heavy petting sessions, leaving Lori breathless and confused. It was a frustrating time for both of us.

Once Roger entered my life, though, my inner truth became crystal clear. I suddenly became Lori, desperately trying to get Roger to deflower me. I knew right then that I needed to break it off with Lori; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else but Roger anymore. The end came a few months later when I didn’t give Lori anything for Valentine’s Day. Rightfully upset, Lori tearfully begged for a reason why I didn’t love her the way she loved me.

“I … just don’t,” I replied. The response was cold and cruel in that special way only selfish teenaged boys can master. And that mercifully ended my last relationship with a female.

Not long after that, Roger slid his enormous, granite-hard cock into my throat. I remember the feeling of his solid, swollen cock-head on my tongue, the salty taste of his foreskin, the firmness of his hands in my hair, and the look of disgusted lust in his eyes as he looked down on me. That first taste of a Man’s cock erased everything I imagined about my life before and reshaped it into something new.

However, I still hadn’t accepted the complete truth about myself. Even then, as Roger was using me as a human tube sock, I still believed that I could be loved. I would construct elaborate fantasies about being Roger’s lover, perhaps getting married somehow and building a life together. Every time he would throat fuck me I would try to make it terrific for him in the hope that he might finally leave his girlfriend for me.

It never happened. I found myself in love with him, flying into jealous, tearful rages and begging for a love that would never come. Eventually, my love-fueled hysterics ended our friendship.

All of these tragic, emotionally-devastating situations occurred only because I couldn’t be honest. I couldn’t accept the truth about myself. I once truly believed that I could be a straight Man, husband, and father. Then I believed I could be a gay Man, a partner, an equal in a committed relationship.

But, as time has passed, I’ve slowly accepted the truth: I am a faggot. I was not born to honor a wife or help raise children. I was not born to be the partner to a Man, the one who makes him smile every morning. I was not born to be loved or cherished or appreciated the way a spouse yearns for their mate or a child might look at a parent.

Instead, I was born to serve. I was born to serve Men. My holes are theirs to use. The works of my hands are theirs to take. My mind is theirs to plunder. My body, mind, and heart exist only to glorify their Masculine superiority.

Men have instinctively known this truth about me my entire life. Ever since Roger first pushed me to my knees in order to receive service, Men have been using me to get what they want. Deep down, they know that I’m nothing but a faggot born to serve them.

I just needed to understand it about myself before I could actually be free.