Rebel Flag on a Rebel Fag

Oh man, it couldn’t be undone now. It had been a series of small decisions, sure. You could have been a doctor, a scholar, a scientist, an engineer. To even get back on that path now would seem almost insurmountable. Your body has needs now. You’re a grown adult, set in your ways. You’re so muscular now, so tanned, and you’ve got a whole lifestyle to keep up. You’ve got friends, parties, and habits, not to mention a job, so life’s mostly about being a stud and just having a lot of fun from here on out.

Yes, you might once have chosen a course towards being someone else entirely. But that guy would have been so boring. You wanted to enjoy life.

Working out has become such a set part of your lifestyle, and you’re not about to let this body you’ve worked so hard for wither away. A body in motion stays in motion.

Plus there’s your sex drive, which is all about forcibly wrestling guys down and asking them if they’re a redneck. When they say yes, you get harder. You tell them you’re a redneck, too. You ask them to explain to you why it feels so good to be a redneck. You ask them how they feel about muscles. You want to know how many cocks they’ve had up their assholes, so you ask them. You want to know how many load have been shot in their mouths, so you ask that, too.

Yes, as with so many men, having an identity you’re not quite supposed to have, such as that of a redneck or racist skinhead, at times, turns you on. It’s just role-playing, you tell yourself. And yet you get so hard, saying those illicit words. Sometimes you’ve gotten black guys to act it out with you. Blaring rap music, you finally say the things to them that you know aren’t permissible for you to say, and it gets you hard.

You should never apologise for being yourself, you’ve long thought. You should get what you want out of life. You should never let anyone beta you.

It felt good to think these things, to go down this path. It made sense. Common sense is so alluring. The way everyone around you acted shaped your thoughts. What’s the power of Christ if not the power of a tattoo? You would rather hit the gym on Sundays than go to church. That’s just you. You were raised to be respectful, and yet you love to play the bad boy, too. It gets you a lot of action in bed.

Why modernise the deep south when you could be holding on to tradition? Why give up that heritage when there’s something so sexy about it to you?

Arkansas, man, where all you have to do is polish your vintage car and show it off at car shows on weekends. Arkansas, where a bottle of whiskey and a night out at the club with your shirt stripped off as you tend bar is really living. Damn if you weren’t living one of the better lives in town, at least as far as you were concerned.

You did it, anyhow, man. You bought your house. You’ve been making a go of it. The guy folks remembered from high school, scrawny and kind of dorky, is long gone. You’ve pulverised him, eliminated yourself, at the same time you’ve maintained all the traditions that are so crucial to your local environs.

You smoke cigars and dip some tobacco when you feel like it. You’ve made your own moonshine and rolled your own joints before. You do whatever you feel like, really.

How many southern states are there in the U.S.A.? Really about half of them were Confederate states, right? And the rebel flag’s been flying as high as Ohio and Wisconsin these days. Everybody wants to be you, even the ones who are from kind of cold and lame-ass places like those states. You don’t really know what goes on up there and don’t really care, as it’s not that relevant.

Yeah, you destroyed that gangly wimp you were one pump at a time. You worked for this. You wish everybody would have the qualities you have, the quality in which you decide what you want and just work for it. You grew that scruff on your face so that you can make guys feels good when you rub it down their bare chests or all over their cocks and nuts. You made your pecs get almost stupidly massive so that you’re a whole different creature compared to the guy you used to be.

That’s what makes your pecs hot, and you know it. You went overboard with building them up, and you can never go back now. That weak guy you were is long gone. This is you now.

You love getting another guy with massive pecs in your bed, slowly kissing him and feeling the heft of his muscles, rubbing your hands all over their contours, worshipping his muscle as much as he worships yours.

When you have sex, it almost takes you into another realm where muscle is all that matters.

You bartender shirtless and you strut around town shirtless. You drive your car shirtless and answer the door shirtless. What’s the point of working for a body like yours if you’re not going to show it off? Sure, you use propriety on the right occasions. You’re definitely on the wilder side of this town.

You can grill up one heck of a catfish before making out with a guy on the back porch, flexing your massive biceps and triceps as he starts licking them and kissing you tenderly, respectfully down your chest.

Later at night it’s moaning and rutting on each other in bed, slapping and squeezing firm muscular asses, rubbing each other’s nipples with fingers and powerful hands, feeling up everything masculine about each other, talking about how hot it would be to get even bigger together. “I’d love to see you with five more pounds of muscle.”

“I’d love to see you with a buzzed head.”



“I’m not gay, man. What turns me on sometimes is the thought of a guy acting like he’s straight, or even going back into the closet, maybe turning bi, talking about the women he’s fucked. For some reason the presence of a woman in porn is really hot to me. I just love that alpha, top dog attitude.”



When you do start getting sweaty and humping a guy’s ass in the dark, there’s a lot of things he could say that you find really attractive. Examples include:

“I’m your fucking redneck fag bitch.”



“Fucking breed me, man, I need you to breed me tonight.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, man. I swear I’m straight. This is so wrong.”



“Your white cock in my black ass, man. Cum in me. I want it.”



“Yeehaw, motherfucker. Ride me like a pony.”



“White supremacy is so fucking hot, man. Call me a cracker. Call me a Nazi.”



“Uh, man, you’re such a hot stud.”



And you fuck those asses, loving how it feels to get lost in the experiences, always feeling like you’re having revelations about the truth of sexuality due to the things guys say or the different ways you find to pleasure other men and be pleasured.

When you hump that ass, faster and faster, shooting your load, thought shuts down entirely. You don’t like to think. Thinking too much fucks a guy up. You just want to live in the moment and enjoy your life.

At parties, you’ve been known to kiss both men and women, and of course you always take your shirt off. Is there a better life. you could be living? You’ve got it all, right? Good food, hot men, a hot body, a bigger house than you. really need, plenty of social dominance and swagger, a nice pickup truck to drive around town, all sorts of friends, bars, and restaurants to enjoy, a job that pays a good enough lower middle class income.

Plus you get to literally throw guys down on the bed or on the couch and rape their fucking asses as they beg for it. You get to arm-wrestle studs who are just as muscular as they are and do crazy hot things in bed with them. You’ve even sat on their asses as your cock’s whirled like a helicopter in their lap, marvelling at how hot you look in your bedroom mirror. You’ve fucked guys with a cowboy hat on. You’ve sucked cock with guys with your backwards, camo snapback on after checking out the local football game with them, discreet and drunk, playing the drunk jock who just happens to be into men under the table. It’s always hot to hit up the game with a guy like that.

You’ve gotten fucking drunk and fucked to country music and you’ve fucked to hardcore gangsta rap. You’ve fucked on the carpet, on the couch, and in the back of your truck on a starry night.

Yeah, you’ve met guys at the front door, post-workout, topless, pecs heavy, sweaty and heaving, wearing just a pair of jeans, commando underneath, a leather belt with a rebel flag buckle, and a ten-gallon hat on before. They’ve told you about how incredible and amazing you are as you’ve poured them a glass of whiskey on the rocks.

Fuck yeah, you’ve been born and bred this way, and you breed ‘em good, night after night. You love your music, your spirits, and your men, and if anybody ever asks about your sexuality, you just say it’s none of their business, that you hate most gays, and that you ain’t no fuckin’ fag, man.