Had this story cooking before I took my break, wanted to end, hopefully a high note bros. And it's a long one. Three gays hot off of Pride weekend, head out to their usual gay bar only to see its covered in American Flags for the 4th of July. Happy Fourth Bros! See ya'
"Yo, check your messages," Bobby grunted, scrolling through his phone while Frankie paced the apartment like a caged animal. "The twink's having another crisis."
Alan pushed his glasses up his nose, sighing. "Let me guess. Brad dumped him again?"
"For the third time this month," Bobby snorted, draining his beer. "Says he needs his boys to drown his sorrows."
Frankie's text had been frantic: "EMERGENCY. BRAD'S GONE. NEED COCKS AND COCKTAILS ASAP."
"Fucking Pride weekend just ended," Alan complained, rubbing his temples. "My ass is still sore from dancing."
"Speaking of sore asses," Bobby grinned, "Frankie's will be back with Brad by Tuesday. But we're still going, right?"
Alan nodded reluctantly. "Of course. What kind of friends would we be if we left our little twink to cry alone?"
The three met at the corner, Frankie looking particularly pathetic with his puffy eyes and designer hoodie.
"I can't believe he said I was 'too dramatic'," Frankie whined, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. "Me? Dramatic?"
Bobby clapped him on the back. "That's rich coming from a guy who once cried because his latte had too much foam."
They headed downtown to Spray, their usual haunt. But as they approached, something was wrong.
"What the fuck?" Bobby stopped dead. "Did we take a wrong turn into some MAGA convention?"
The familiar rainbow flags were gone, replaced by American flags, cardboard cutouts of football players, and eagles. Eagles everywhere.
"Maybe it's for Fourth of July?" Alan suggested weakly.
Frankie, however, was on a mission. "I don't care if it's a fucking Klan rally. I need a drink. Now."
As they pushed through the crowd, Bobby muttered, "You know, celebrating America this year feels... wrong. Ever since Trump got back in office, this country's been a dumpster fire."
Frankie and Alan nodded, but didn't engage. They didn't see the burly bartender, Hank, overhear them. They didn't know that Hank had remodeled the place, that he was about to teach them a lesson in patriotism.
Hank finally sauntered over, a smirk playing on his lips. "First round's on the house, boys. What'll it be?"
They ordered. Frankie a fruity cocktail with an umbrella that screamed "I'm having a bad night," Alan a craft beer that was probably brewed by some guy named Chad in a warehouse in Brooklyn, and Bobby whiskey neat, because he was trying to be a man, or at least what his gay ass thought a man was supposed to be—and found a table sticky with the residue of a thousand forgotten nights out.
The table was a small, wobbly circle of faux wood, tucked into a corner that smelled faintly of stale beer and desperation, a perfect metaphor for their lives, really. The bar was a cacophony of noise, a symphony of shattering glass, drunken laughter, and the bass-heavy thump of a country song that made Frankie's teeth ache. It was all so wrong, so aggressively, flag-wavingly straight, that it felt like a personal attack.
"God, it's so crowded," Bobby groaned, his voice a low rumble of complaint as he slouched in his chair, the worn denim of his jeans scratching against the sticky seat. He ran a hand through his chest hair, a nervous habit that did little to soothe the growing unease in his gut.
The air was thick with the smell of cheap cologne and the acrid tang of spilled beer, a smell that usually meant fun and freedom, but tonight just felt oppressive. He watched as a group of men, their faces ruddy with drink and patriotism, slammed their glasses on the bar, chanting something about America that made Bobby's skin crawl. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of loss for the familiar, glittery chaos of Pride, for the comfort of being surrounded by his own kind, even if they were all glitter-drunk and emotionally exhausted.
"Shut up," Frankie snapped, his voice tight with a brittle cheerfulness that was already starting to crack. He took a delicate sip of his cocktail, the sweet, artificial taste of mango and cheap rum doing little to wash away the bitter taste of his latest breakup. He could feel the eyes of the bar on them, a mix of curiosity and hostility, and it made his skin prickle with a familiar, unwelcome anxiety.
"At least the dudes are hot. In a... beefy, probably-voted-for-Trump kind of way. Let's just have this drink and then we can hit The Toolbox. I need to dance." He needed to lose himself in the pounding bass and the swirling lights, to feel the anonymous press of bodies against his own, to forget the way Kevin had looked at him when he'd said, "I just can't do this anymore, Frankie. Not again."
But they wouldn't be leaving the bar anytime soon. Bobby nursed his whiskey, the amber liquid a small, warm comfort in the overwhelming sea of Americana. His eyes scanned the room, a scowl twisting his lips. "Look at those fucking meatheads over there," he said, his voice low and venomous as he gestured with his chin towards a group of bros crowded around a large TV, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of the football game
"Like, we get it. You're 'not gay.' You're straight bros in a gay bar, you don't have to be so fucking performative about it." He watched as they slapped each other on the back, their laughter loud and braying, a sound that grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. They were everything he'd fought against, everything he'd tried to escape by moving to the city and finding his own tribe.
Frankie giggled, a high, brittle sound that was more nervous than amused. He could feel the alcohol starting to buzz in his veins, a welcome warmth that was already starting to dull the sharp edges of his pain. He watched as Bobby's face contorted, a strange gurgle emanating from his stomach before he let out a loud, wet fart, the sound swallowed by the din of the bar but the smell, a pungent, eggy cloud, was unmistakable.
"Dude!" Frankie recoiled, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he fanned the air in front of his face with his hand. Alan, who had been silently nursing his beer, his glasses perched on his nose as he observed the scene with the detached air of a scientist studying a particularly fascinating species of insect, simply pushed his chair back, his face a mask of theatrical revulsion.
Bobby just laughed, a deep, rumbling "huuhuhuh" that made his chest vibrate. "Hey, it's a natural bodily function. Better out than in, right?" He took another swig of his whiskey, the burn of the alcohol a familiar comfort. He could feel Frankie's and Alan's judgment, but he didn't care. He was tired of pretending to be something he wasn't, tired of the constant performance of being a "good" gay man, whatever the fuck that meant.
Frankie's mood shifted, the alcohol and the oppressive atmosphere of the bar combining to create a strange, giddy recklessness. "You know," he said, his voice bright with a sudden, inexplicable enthusiasm, "this place isn't so bad. The dudes are hot. In a... lumberjack-y, probably-owns-a-truck kind of way. We should come back for my 22nd birthday next week." He took another sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd, a predatory gleam in their depths. He was a hunter, and this was a new kind of jungle.
"Just don't let me go home with one of those losers," he said, gesturing with his cocktail umbrella towards a group of suburban dads, their faces already flushed with drink, their polo shirts stretched tight over their burgeoning bellies. "Like, twinks, twunks, and hunks, that's all that I'm taking home. I can't imagine sex with one of those boring suburban dads, getting shitfaced after work because of a nagging wife." He shuddered, a theatrical gesture that was only half-feigned. The thought of it, of the suffocating mundanity of it all, was more terrifying to him than any breakup.
He took another sip of his drink, the sweet, fruity taste a stark contrast to the bitter words that spilled from his lips. "Why did the cowboy buy a dachshund?" he asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.
Alan and Bobby stared at him, their expressions a mixture of confusion and annoyance. They knew this game, this sudden, nonsensical pivot into dad humor that Frankie always resorted to when he was trying to deflect from something real.
Frankie sighed, the sound heavy with theatrical disappointment. "Someone told me to get a long little doggy." He shook his head, a mock-serious expression on his face. "See? You guys wouldn't get it. It's a sophisticated kind of humor."
As Frankie and Bobby bickered, a man in a half-zip sweater, his hair perfectly coiffed and his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy, stumbled over to their table. He was the epitome of a finance bro, from his expensive-looking watch to the faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. "Hey man," he said, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper as he leaned in close to Alan, his breath hot and smelling of mint and desperation. "Got any coke?"
Alan blinked, his mind struggling to process the question. He adjusted his glasses, a nervous habit that always made him feel more like himself. "Do I look like I do coke?" he asked, his voice a squeak of indignation. "Why don't you ask one of your homophobic finnance bro douchebag friends?" He gestured vaguely towards the group of finnance bros at the end of the bar, his heart pounding in his chest with a sudden, unexpected surge of anger. He was tired of being invisible, tired of being underestimated, tired of being the "nerdy" one, the "safe" one.
The finance bro flinched, his face falling with a look of wounded surprise. He scurried away, his shoulders slumped in defeat, disappearing into the crowd. Alan watched him go, a strange, unfamiliar feeling of power coursing through him. He stood up, his chair scraping against the sticky floor. "Next round's on me," he announced, his voice loud and confident, a stark contrast to his usual quiet demeanor. "I'm so fucking loaded."
Frankie and Bobby exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised in surprise. They knew Alan had just gotten fired from his data entry job, that he was barely making rent, but their drinks were empty, and the promise of free alcohol was a powerful lure. They didn't question it, just nodded their agreement, their attention already turning back to the bar, to the promise of another drink, another temporary escape.
"I gotta take a leak," Bobby announced, his voice suddenly deeper, rougher, as if it were being scraped from the bottom of his throat. He pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against the floor, and stood up, his body feeling strangely heavy, unfamiliar. He stumbled slightly, his hand reaching out to steady himself on the back of the chair, a strange, dizzying feeling washing over him, like the world was tilting on its axis.
Frankie turned back to the bar, his eyes scanning the crowd, his mind already moving on to the next distraction, the next potential conquest. Alan, feeling a strange, unfamiliar surge of confidence, headed for the drinks, his steps sure and steady, a man on a mission.
Alan pushed his way through the crowd of men, their bodies a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and cheap cologne. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and beer, a smell that usually made him feel vaguely nauseous, but tonight, it just smelled like.power.
As he started to notice that there were actually a lot of ladies here tonight, some of them kind of hot. Wait, hot? That's not right, he was gay? Right? Alan thought to himself, a flicker of confusion sparking in his mind like a faulty wire. The thought was so alien, so fundamentally wrong, that it made his stomach clench. He was Alan. He loved science and math. But as he stood there, wedged between a beefy guy in a football jersey and a woman in a tight red dress, his gaze lingered on the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts.
A strange, unfamiliar heat coiled in his gut, a primal urge he'd never felt before. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the thought remained, a persistent, unwelcome guest. Naw, he was bisexual, he decided, a wave of relief washing over him. Though he mostly said that so people wouldn't think of him was some queer. So what if he fucked dudes? It was just a phase, a college experiment, something to get out of his system. That's what his dad always said, anyway.
As this was happening, Alan didn't notice that his arms began to plump up, the soft, undefined muscles of his forearms swelling with new mass, the skin stretching taut over the burgeoning tissue. His thighs, once skinny and pale, began to thicken, the fabric of his jeans growing tight, constricting, as if they were suddenly too small for his body.
He was just drunk, he thought, the alcohol making him feel bloated and strange. But his mind continued to race, a frantic, chaotic whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Memories of his life began to dissolve into nothing, like a photograph left in the sun.
His lazy Sunday mornings spent reading graphic novels in bed, his first boyfriend, the sweet, shy boy from his chemistry class, the names of the gay bars they used to go to, the taste of his first kiss, all of it faded, replaced by new, more "acceptable" memories.
His science degree, the one he'd worked so hard for, the one he was so proud of, vanished, replaced by a business degree from a university he didn't recognize, a degree in finance, a degree that promised money, power, success.
He scratched his balls, a gesture so uncharacteristically crude that it made him pause, but the thought was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a strange, satisfying itch. He didn't realize his dick was actually thicker, the shaft heavy and substantial in his pants, his balls hanging low, full and pendulous. His pulse raced, a frantic, thumping drumbeat in his ears, as he finally reached the bar, the sticky wood cool against his sweaty palms. As he did, he bumped into the finance bro dude from before, their bodies colliding with a solid, meaty thud.
"BRO!" they screamed at the same time, their voices a strange, harmonious blend of recognition and excitement. Alan spilled the drinks all over his shirt, the cold, sticky liquid seeping through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, making him gasp with the sudden shock of it.
"Fuck you, bro!" Al shouted, his voice a guttural roar that surprised even him. The finance bro just laughed, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face.
"Fuck, bro, why don't I just buy us both shots?" he suggested, his eyes gleaming with a strange, predatory light. Al nodded, his anger forgotten, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming desire for more, for the burn of the alcohol, for the camaraderie, for the feeling of belonging.
That's when it happened. As the shots, a fiery, amber liquid, slid down his throat, a wave of dizziness washed over him, so intense that he had to grab onto the bar to steady himself. The world tilted, the colors blurring, the sounds of the bar fading into a distant, muffled roar.
He felt a strange, stretching sensation in his bones, a painful, pulling ache as his body grew taller, his spine lengthening, his shoulders broadening. A pair of perfect pecs erupted from his chest, the muscles swelling and hardening into solid slabs of meat, the nipples tightening into small, hard points.
A thick, coarse pelt of hair began to weave its way onto his body, a dark, wiry forest that covered his chest, his stomach, his arms, a treasure trail forming a tight, sculpted six-pack as it moved its way down to his crotch. The smell of sweat and balls, a rank, masculine musk, began to rise up from his skin, a smell that was both disgusting and strangely compelling.
Memories continued to alter and change, a relentless, brutal assault on his identity. His parents, kind, gentle people who had always supported him, who had cried with joy when he'd come out to them, were replaced by stern, demanding figures who pushed him to succeed, who measured his worth in dollars and cents.
His love for Doctor Who, for the whimsical, hopeful adventures of a man in a blue box, was replaced by a love for the stock market, for the thrill of the risk, for the cold, hard numbers. His collection of Pokémon cards, a cherished reminder of his childhood, was replaced by a collection of expensive watches, each one a symbol of his success, his status. His job at the coffee shop, the one he'd loved, the one where he'd met his first boyfriend, was replaced by a high-powered job at a financial firm, a job where he was feared, respected, a job where he made more money in a day than his parents made in a year.
His kindness, his empathy, the very essence of who he was, began to drain away, like water down a plug hole, replaced by a cold, stone-cold look that began to grace his face. Lines formed around his eyes, etched into his skin by years of squinting at computer screens, of frowning at subordinates, of smiling at people he secretly despised. He aged, the process a rapid, horrifying transformation. 26... 32... 35.
A respectable age, an age where a man was expected to have his life together, to have a career, a family, a mortgage. He remembered landing a job at JPMorgan, the interview a blur of confident lies and manufactured charm. He remembered being a fucking babe magnet, a man who could have any woman he wanted, a man who used his power and his wealth to get what he wanted.
He remembered owning some sick-ass apartment downtown, a sterile, minimalist box with a view of the city that made him feel like a king. He was fucking loaded, and entitlement washed over him like a tidal wave, a suffocating, all-consuming force that drowned out the last remnants of his old self.
He slowly morphed into a complete and utter douchebag, a smelly, disgusting piece of shit who believed he was better than everyone else, who believed the world owed him something, who believed that kindness was a weakness, that empathy was a liability. He made his way back to the table with his best friend from work, the other finance bro, their bodies moving with a new, confident swagger, a predatory grace that was both intimidating and strangely compelling.
They were meeting up with the other finance bros, a pack of wolves in expensive suits, their laughter loud and arrogant, their eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating light. They were the oldest in this boys' night, but that's because most of their friends were married losers, tied down by nagging wives and screaming kids. But they had interns to party with, fresh-faced young things who were eager to please, who were dazzled by their money and their power.
The truth was, Al and his bro were obnoxious try-hards, too old to be doing blow in the bathroom, their bodies starting to soften, their hairlines beginning to recede, but it didn't matter. They were hot, rich douchebags, and in this world, that was all that mattered.
As Al did a line of coke on the table, the white powder a stark contrast to the dark wood, he screamed, "Fuuuuuuck!" the sound a raw, primal expression of pure, unadulterated greed. He needed to get laid, needed to feel the warm, willing body of a woman beneath him, to assert his dominance, to prove his power.
Homophobia raged through him, a burning, corrosive acid that ate away at the last traces of his former self. He called his new co-workers a bunch of fags, the word a casual, easy insult that rolled off his tongue like a sweet, poisonous honey. He needed to show he wasn't a faggot.
He hollered to one of the interns, a young man with a terrified expression and a cheap suit, to go introduce him to one of the female interns, a pretty blonde with wide, innocent eyes.
The intern scurried away, eager to please, and returned a moment later with the girl, her face a mask of polite interest. Al was the most obnoxious, disgusting piece of shit to the girl, his words a slurred, aggressive barrage of compliments and insults, his hands roaming freely over her body, groping her, feeling her up, belittling her, his breath hot and foul in her ear. But he was an alpha, and he knew it, and she was just another conquest, another notch on his bedpost.
He went on and on about how much he loved the Fourth of July, about how America was the only place where a dude like him, a rich, entitled, wealthy douchebag, could make the money he did because of capitalism, because of the freedom to exploit the weak, to take what he wanted without consequence.
He leaned in close, his voice a low, conspiratorial rumble that was meant to be seductive but came across as predatory. "You know, this country, this great nation, it's built for guys like me. Guys who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty. Guys who know how to make things happen."
He punctuated his statement with a squeeze of her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh with a bruising force. "I'm in finance. I make more in a week than your dad makes in a year. I've got a penthouse downtown with a view that'll make you cry. And this body?" He leaned back, puffing out his chest, the fabric of his now-tight shirt straining against the solid slabs of muscle. "This is a temple. Built in the gym, not on the couch playing video games like all those other soyboys out there. This is what a real man looks like."
He was a disgusting pig, his words a crude, obnoxious litany of self-aggrandizement and casual misogyny. He talked about his car, his watch, his stock portfolio, each declaration a hammer blow to her self-worth. He called her "sweetheart" and "baby girl" in a way that was both condescending and possessive.
He was everything she should have hated, everything her feminist sensibilities should have rebelled against. But there was something in his eyes, a wild, unhinged glint that was both terrifying and strangely compelling. Maybe she was drunker than she thought, the fruity cocktail she'd been nursing a potent mix of cheap liquor and even cheaper promises.
Or maybe she was just horny, a lonely girl in a city full of boys who were afraid to be men. Because as Austin continued his rant, his voice growing louder, his gestures more aggressive, she found herself drawn to him, to his raw, unapologetic masculinity.
He saw the shift in her eyes, the flicker of interest, the subtle parting of her lips. It was all the encouragement he needed. "Come on," he growled, his hand wrapping around her wrist, his grip like a vise. "Let's get out of here." He didn't wait for an answer, just pulled her through the crowd, his body a solid, unyielding force that parted the sea of people like a shark. He headed for the bathroom, his mind a haze of coke and lust, his dick a hard, insistent pressure against the zipper of his jeans.
He kicked open the door to the men's room, the smell of piss and disinfectant hitting them like a wall. He didn't even bother to check if the stalls were occupied, just pushed her into the last one, the flimsy lock clicking into place with a pathetic little snap.
He was on her in an instant, his mouth crashing down on hers, a brutal, hungry kiss that was more about possession than passion. His hands were everywhere, tearing at her clothes, his fingers rough and demanding. He was an animal in heat, coked out of his mind, his movements jerky and frantic, his breathing ragged and harsh.
He fucked her against the wall, his body a sweaty, heaving mass of muscle and need, the sound of their flesh slapping together a obscene, rhythmic beat in the cramped, filthy space. It was gross, it was degrading, it was the most primal, most honest thing she had ever experienced. And she loved it. He was Austin, he was 35, he didn't care about math or science. He cared about fucking and his own wealth. He was a douchey finance bro, and this wasn't the only bimbo he'd be fucking tonight.
Bobby, his bladder full and his patience worn thin, banged on the door of the bathroom, his fist a solid, angry thud against the cheap wood. "There's a fucking line out here, asshole!" he yelled, his voice a frustrated roar. He could hear the sounds from inside, the grunting, the moaning, the rhythmic thumping, and it made his stomach turn with a mixture of disgust and a strange, unfamiliar envy. He shifted from foot to foot, his annoyance growing with each passing second. "Hurry the fuck up!"
As he stood there, fuming, a strange, dizzying feeling began to wash over him, like the world was slowly tilting on its axis. He felt a strange, pulling sensation in his gut, a painful, twisting ache that made him gasp. He reached out a hand to steady himself against the wall, his fingers brushing against the cool, painted surface.
He felt a strange, tingling sensation in his chest, a feeling of pressure, of swelling, as his pecs began to tighten, to harden, the soft, hairy flesh giving way to solid, defined muscle. His arms, once slim and wiry, began to balloon, the biceps swelling, the triceps tightening, the skin stretching taut over the burgeoning tissue.
He looked down at his hands, his fingers thickening, the knuckles becoming more prominent, the nails short and ragged. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he leaned his head against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps.
He tried to fight it, to hold on to the memory of who he was, to the feeling of his own skin, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands. The changes were relentless, a brutal, unstoppable force that was reshaping him from the inside out.
He felt a strange, scraping sensation on his skin, as if a thousand tiny razors were shaving away every hair on his body. He opened his eyes and looked down at his arms, at his chest, at his legs. They were smooth, hairless, the skin pale and unblemished.
He was hairless, a blank canvas, a perfect, sculpted statue of a man. He felt a strange, hollowing sensation in his face, as if his bones were being rearranged, his jawline sharpening, his cheekbones becoming more prominent, his brow ridge thickening.
He was aging, but in a strange, reverse way, his face becoming younger, more chiseled, more... perfect. 26... 23... 21... 20. He was a freshman again, but not the awkward, gangly freshman he remembered. This was a new kind of teenager, a jock, a frat boy in the making.
His mind began to change, too, a slow, insidious erosion of his identity. Memories of musicals and pop divas, of late-night dance parties and whispered secrets, began to wither on the vine, replaced by a new set of memories, a new set of obsessions.
He remembered the weight of a football in his hands, the satisfying thud of it hitting the ground, the roar of the crowd as he scored the winning touchdown. He remembered the burn of his muscles as he lifted weights, the strain, the pain, the exhilarating rush of endorphins. He remembered the taste of cheap beer and the feel of a cheerleader's soft, willing body beneath his. He was a jock, a frat boy, a dude's dude. And he loved it.
He let out a loud, raucous fart, a disgusting, protein-fueled blast that made the guy in front of him turn around, his face a mask of disgust.
"Sorry, man," Bob said, his voice a low, rumbling chuckle. But the guy just laughed, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face.
"Just being dudes, bro!" he said, and they both laughed for far too long, a shared moment of masculine camaraderie that was both bizarre and strangely comforting.
"Watch the door for me while I leak, bro," the guy said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
"Ew, gross man! I don't wanna see your dick!" Bob yelled, but the words felt hollow, rehearsed. The truth was, minutes ago, he would have killed to see this hot dude's cock, to feel its weight in his hand, to taste its salty, masculine flavor.
But now, the thought disgusted him, a wave of nausea and homophobia washing over him, a corrosive acid that ate away at the last traces of his former self. He was straight. He had always been straight. The thought was so simple, so fundamental, that it was hard to believe he had ever believed anything else.
He felt a strange, stirring sensation in his groin, a familiar, welcome heat. His dick, once a source of shame and confusion, was now a source of pride, a symbol of his power, his masculinity. It was a perfect five inches, but so thick it could choke someone, and Blake loved to choke out bitches with his cock, to hear them gasp and gag, to feel their bodies tremble beneath him.
He was so fucking horny, so fucking ready, his eyes scanning the crowd for a willing partner, a warm body to lose himself in. He saw a bimbo barbie girl at the bar, her hair a bottle-blonde cascade, her makeup a thick, colorful mask. She was perfect. He and his bros were doing Irish carbombs, the mixture of beer and whiskey a potent, explosive brew. He told them not to wait up, his voice a confident, predatory growl, as he made his way towards her, his body moving with a new, confident swagger, a hunter stalking his prey.
The bimbo barbie girl, whose name he'd already forgotten, was giggling at something he'd said, though he couldn't remember what. It didn't matter. Her laugh was high and breathy, a sound that went straight to his dick, and her eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and alcohol.
He had his arm slung around her shoulders, his hand possessively resting on her bare skin, his thumb stroking her arm in a slow, rhythmic motion that he knew made her wet. He was telling her about his truck, a lifted F-150 with a custom sound system and a pair of chrome testicles hanging from the trailer hitch, a symbol of his masculinity, his dominance. He was a king, and she was his queen, for the night, at least.
"You know, babe," he said, his voice a low, confident rumble that was laced with a thick, syrupy drawl he hadn't had an hour ago. "This country, it's the greatest country in the world. And you know why? Because of guys like me. Guys who work hard, who play hard, who aren't afraid to stand up for what's right." He took a swig of his beer, the cheap, watery liquid a familiar comfort. He was a conservative, a real American, and he was proud of it. He believed in the flag, in the troops, in the Second Amendment. He believed that a man's word was his bond, and that a woman's place was in the kitchen, or in his bed, whichever was more convenient.
He was dumb as shit, his mind a vast, empty space filled with nothing but sports stats, beer commercials, and a vague, unshakeable belief in his own superiority. He'd was barely passing his classes, only bullying nerds to do his homework. He hated college, unable to keep up with the "liberal bullshit" they were trying to force down his throat. College was for beers, bros and boobs not nerd shit.
He was the star quarterback at only 20, that was simple, straightforward, and allowed him to use his body, to feel the satisfying burn of his muscles, the sun on his skin. He was thick like a brick, his body a solid, unyielding mass of muscle and bone, his mind a blunt instrument, incapable of nuance or subtlety. He saw the world in black and white, in good and evil, in us and them
He was an obnoxious frat bro meathead douchebag, and he wouldn't have had it any other way. He loved the camaraderie, the shared rituals, the easy, unthinking misogyny. He loved the feeling of power, of being part of a group, of being one of the guys. He loved the feeling of a woman's body beneath his, the sound of her moans, the taste of her skin. He was a predator, and this was his jungle.
He leaned in close, his breath hot and foul in her ear. "You know, I'm a real man, babe. Not like those other guys, the ones with their fancy coffee drinks and their man buns. Those guys are pussies. They're soyboys. They don't know what it means to be a man." He punctuated his statement with a squeeze of her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh with a bruising force. "But I do. I know how to treat a woman. I know how to make her feel like a woman."
He was a disgusting pig, his words a crude, obnoxious litany of self-aggrandizement and casual misogyny. He talked about his ex-girlfriends, about how he'd cheated on them, about how they'd all come crawling back, begging for more.
He talked about his buddies, about their conquests, about their shared philosophy of "fuck 'em and forget 'em." He was everything she should have hated, everything her feminist sensibilities should have rebelled against. But there was something about him, a raw, unapologetic masculinity that was both terrifying and strangely compelling. He was a man. A dangerous, flawed, deeply flawed man, but a man nonetheless. And she was drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.
He saw the shift in her eyes, the flicker of interest, the subtle parting of her lips. It was all the encouragement he needed. "Come on," he growled, his hand wrapping around her wrist, his grip like a vise. "Let's get out of here."
He didn't wait for an answer, just pulled her through the crowd, his body a solid, unyielding force that parted the sea of people like a shark. He was heading for the door, for his truck, for a night of sweaty, meaningless sex, a night that would be forgotten by morning, a night that was just another notch on his bedpost.
He led her out of the bar, the cool night air a welcome relief from the oppressive heat and noise of the crowded room. He could feel her shivering beside him, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close, his body a solid, unyielding wall of muscle and warmth. He was a man. He was a protector. He was a predator. And he was going to have his way with her, whether she wanted him to or not. He was Blake, another dumbass straight meathead who only thought about beers, bros and boobs. A disgusting, farting 20 year old frat bro. And he wouldn't want it any other way.
Frankie sat alone at the sticky table, the melted ice in his cocktail glass forming a pathetic, watery puddle. The bar felt different now, the aggressive patriotism and the roving packs of straight men no longer a source of titillation or anxiety, but just… noise.
A dull, irritating thrum that vibrated in his teeth. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen, but the urge to type out his dramatic woes had vanished. Brad’s face, once a source of gut-wrenching pain, now just looked like… a guy. A kind of annoying guy, honestly. He felt a strange, hollow ache in his chest, but it wasn't heartbreak. It was something else, something deeper and more unsettling. A sense of profound, unshakable boredom.
He looked around the bar, at the laughing women, at the posturing men, and felt nothing. No envy, no desire, no connection. He was an observer, a ghost at his own party.
He caught his reflection in the dark screen of his phone and barely recognized himself. The sharp, delicate features that had once been his pride seemed to be softening, blurring at the edges. A dull, persistent throb began behind his eyes, and he rubbed his temples, the gesture feeling practiced, habitual.
He felt a sudden, sharp pang of longing, not for a lover or a friend, but for something else entirely. For the quiet hum of a refrigerator late at night. For the familiar weight of a remote control in his hand.
For the scent of freshly cut grass. The thought hit him like a physical blow, a wave of such profound, soul-crushing normalcy that it made his stomach clench. It wasn't a memory; it was a compulsion, a deep, cellular-level yearning for the smell of gasoline and chlorophyll, for the rhythmic, mindless push of a lawnmower across a perfect green expanse.
A scream, silent and high-pitched, built in the back of his throat. No. That's not me. I'm Frankie. I hate the suburbs. I hate lawns. But the thought was a weed, sprouting and spreading, choking out the delicate flowers of his identity.
He knew, with a dull, corporate certainty, that he'd gotten a promotion. That's why he was here, celebrating with the other dads. But what was his title? The words were there, just out of reach, a string of meaningless syllables that made his own eyes want to glaze over. Senior Associate Director of Regional Operations? It sounded important, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. His body continued its agonizing metamorphosis, a slow, deliberate erasure of self.
Every inch of him was being sanded down, smoothed over, molded into the most generic, dull version of a human being imaginable. His sharp, angular jawline softened, blurring into a non-descript, slightly jowly curve. The vibrant, expressive hazel of his eyes muddied into a forgettable brown, the kind of color you couldn't describe even if you tried. He was becoming the man you couldn't pick out of a lineup, the guy whose face you forgot the moment he turned away.
Frank, or what was left of him, fought back. He clawed at the memories, trying to hold onto the glitter, the music, the feeling of a bassline vibrating through his chest.
He tried to remember the stage, the thrill of the spotlight, the way he'd shake his ass at Pride, a riot of color and joy and defiance. But the images were warped, twisted. The stage became a podium at a PTA meeting. The shaking ass became a lecherous, undignified shimmy. Pride… the word curdled in his mind, turning from a celebration of freedom into a disgusting spectacle. It's just wrong, a new, stern voice in his head declared. What it does to children, parading them around like that. It's perverse.
He was trying to start a family, for crying out loud. A real family. He was on his second marriage, sure, but the first one, that bitch Linda, had been a nightmare. At least Tiffany was young and pliable, and she had a nice, firm ass. Soon her belly would be full of his seed, and everything would be as it should be.
The pain was exquisite, a thousand tiny deaths as his soul was rewritten. Ideas of church, of pews and sermons and Christian Family Values, bloomed in the barren wasteland of his new mind. He saw himself as the head of the PTA, a vigilant guardian, making sure no dangerous books about gay penguins or transgender teddy bears got into the hands of impressionable children.
He felt a strange, pulling sensation in his gut, a slow, agonizing stretch as his body began to change. The lithe, slender frame that had once turned heads began to thicken, to soften, to settle into a comfortable, doughy middle age.
His waistline expanded, the fabric of his trendy jeans growing tight, then uncomfortably snug, as a spare tire began to form around his middle. His face, once a canvas of expressive emotion, began to set, to harden, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening into a permanent mask of weary resignation.
His hair, once a stylish, artfully messy mop, began to thin at the temples, receding into a sad, respectable comb-over. He aged, the process a slow, inexorable march towards mediocrity. 28... 35.
He was a leader. A pillar of the community. He even thought about running for mayor one day, a flicker of ambition that was immediately extinguished by a wave of profound laziness. But that would take a lot of effort, and he just didn't have a lot to spare.
"Fred! Over here!" a voice boomed, cutting through the fog. Frank looked up, his eyes struggling to focus. It was a dude, a guy who could have been his mirror image if not for the fact that his polo shirt was navy blue instead of beige. It was Richard, his younger neighbor, his partner in suburban drudgery. he contunied to age more, as if the suburian husbands were each giving him a year off their life...36..37...38..... 42... 48. A solid, unremarkable 48.
Fred made his way back to the group, his steps heavier, more deliberate. The other dads, a collection of khaki and pastel polos, teased him about being the oldest in the group. "Careful, Fred," one of them joked, "don't throw your back out."
Frank forced a laugh, a hollow, grating sound. "Fuck you guys," he grumbled, a new, coarse crudeness replacing his former wit. "I could still bang any chick in this bar." His eyes scanned the room, a predator's gaze, and landed on a pretty young 22-year-old with short, spiky hair and a defiant look in her eye.
She looked kind of dyke-ish, and that's exactly how he liked his sluts. A little project. Something to break. To show them how to act like a real woman.
A surge of confidence, ugly and toxic, washed over him. "I LOVE THIS BAR!" he yelled, slapping his hand on the table, making the drinks jump. He looked at his bros, his comrades in mediocrity. "You guys better be at my Fourth of July BBQ tomorrow! The wife's making her famous potato salad!" He winked, a greasy, conspiratorial gesture. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to take that lesbo at the bar to Poundtown."
He stood up, his chest puffed out, and strode towards her, a man on a mission. He was Fred. He was a man. He took what he wanted. He got closer, his heart pounding in his chest, a primal drumbeat of conquest. He could smell her perfume, something cheap and floral. He opened his mouth to say something smooth, something dominating, something that would make her melt.
But then his phone buzzed in his pocket, a shrill, insistent vibration. Tiffany. The name was a bucket of cold water. He fumbled for the phone, his bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. He answered, turning away from the girl. "What?" he snapped, his voice already irritated.
"Fred, where are you? You said you'd be home by eleven! The garbage is still out, and I can't get the new smart TV to work. And did you remember to pick up the fertilizer?" Her voice was a high-pitched, nagging whine that grated on his last nerve.
His face hardened, the mask of the suburban husband dropping to reveal the angry, resentful man beneath. "Tiffany," he said, his voice low and stern. "I told you I'm out with the guys. Figure it out. And listen to me. When I get home, you better be wearing that underwear I bought you. The red lace. Tonight's the night. We're getting pregnant." He didn't wait for a reply, just hung up, jamming the phone back into his pocket.
The lesbo at the bar was forgotten. The mission was clear. He rushed out of the bar, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the hot, urgent hum of his hormones. He drove home like a man possessed, the sensible sedan a blur of metal and rubber.
He burst through the front door, his tie already loosened, his face a mask of grim determination. The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator, a sound that was both a comfort and a condemnation. He took the stairs two at a time, his footsteps heavy and purposeful on the beige carpet.
This wasn't about pleasure; it was about procreation. It was a duty, a chore, another item on his to-do list, right between mowing the lawn and fixing the leaky faucet in the guest bathroom. He found Tiffany in their bedroom, the master suite with the neutral-toned comforter and the matching throw pillows, a room as devoid of personality as a hotel showroom.
She was on the bed, a nervous, hopeful fawn in the cheap red lace he'd bought, the fabric a garish splash of color in a sea of beige and taupe. He didn't see a woman, a partner, a person. He saw a vessel. A warm, willing receptacle for his seed, the final piece of his suburban masterpiece.
He was on her in an instant, his movements efficient, devoid of any tenderness or foreplay. There was no kiss, no whispered words of affection, just the rough, impatient tug of her panties and the mechanical positioning of her body.
He entered her with a grunt, his mind already on tomorrow's BBQ, on whether he'd remembered to buy enough hamburger buns. The act itself was a passionless, rhythmic pounding, a dull, repetitive task like hammering a nail or chopping wood. He closed his eyes, not to heighten his pleasure, but to block out the sight of her face, to retreat into the dark, quiet cavern of his own mind.
He thought about his promotion, about the new golf clubs he was going to buy himself as a reward, about the pristine, perfect green of the 18th hole. His body moved with a generic, uninspired rhythm, a physical act completely disconnected from any emotion, a stark, brutal symbol of his new life.
When he finished, it was with a shuddering, final thrust and a guttural sigh that was more exhaustion than release. He rolled off her, his body slick with a sweat that smelled of cheap beer and quiet desperation. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of their breathing, his heavy and hers, a shallow, disappointed whimper. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, at the textured swirls of white paint, a perfect, meaningless pattern.
He felt a sense of completion, of finality. The last vestige of Frankie, the glitter-encrured twink who had once dreamed of love and art and passion, was gone, extinguished in the dull, passionless flame of his suburban conquest. He was Fred. He was a husband. He was a father-to-be. And as he drifted off to sleep, the image of a perfectly manicured lawn, a waving American flag, and a brand-new barbecue grill filled his dreams, and he was, for the first time all night, truly at peace.
