Every one who saw me at work used to think I was Mr. Clean, Mr. Respectable. I work in advertising and I used to model my appearance on the sort of guys you find between the pages of GQ. Very American, very preppy. I was a nice middle-class boy with a nice expensive haircut and a nice expensive suit. I went to an up market health club to keep my body in peak condition. I'd even dated a nice girl from time to time. So you'd be right in thinking that I was a bit of a closet case. I used to pass a gay bar on my way home from work; in the summer the faggots would spill out over the pavement and ogle me as I jogged past. I wanted nothing to do with them and no way did I feel part of them. Don't get me wrong - they didn't bother me and I wouldn't badmouth them; I just didn't feel that I could relate to them. So I guess you could say I was an arrogant son of a bitch.
Well, I've changed now. Sure as fuck I've moved on and you wouldn't recognise me. And I don't just mean my appearance though God knows that has changed, too. No I'm talking about the real me, the me inside that was always there but needed a real tough black skinhead master to bring it out.
It's a giveaway, isn't it, speaking so contemptuously about 'faggots'? I thought I was not just Mr. Clean but also Mr. Macho. So perhaps if that bar had been a leather bar, I would have changed sooner. I also used to jog past a building site and I sure slowed down a lot as I went past. A dozen or so workmen were always hanging around, smoking and chatting rather than working, and although some of these were the usual overweight, slack-jeaned type, there were a number of tough young hard-bodied lads as well. Of course, my arrogance meant that I imagined that I acted subtly, that I was able to size up the workmen without them noticing me doing so.
Until one evening, arms working like pistons, breathing heavily, my blond hair flopping sexily over one eye, I heard a voice say, "Here comes the faggot again.” To which another instantly added, "Nah, she’s a sissy.
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