Shane went to Adelaide for a conference and met a nice Spanish boy. They had a nice time. They spent the weekend together.They had a long Sunday together, before Shane had to fly home late that night.
They were walking hand in hand, late Sunday night, on their way back to Shane's hotel room, for him to pack, when they came across a bunch of drunk straight boys, drinking outside a local pub. The lads yelled comments, dirty poofters, filthy faggots, arse fuckers (like that's an insult?) fudge packers, you know the lines. All that testosterone wrapped up in fear. It would be hot, if it wasn't so ugly.
"Was there one who was yelling the loudest?" I asked. There usually is, with fear and torment in his eyes.
"Yeah one," said Shane. "Who was louder, more anxious and more obnoxious than the rest."
He's the one with the dodgy straight gene and he knows it, depending on how truthful he is with himself.
"It's sad that he just can't ask a nice gay boy to calm him down with a good headjob."
Another nice girl's life potentially ruined.
"It's so obvious," said Shane. "He wanted it so bad."
Apparently, he was at the back of the pack, practically climbing up on his mates backs to spit his insults with his flushed, red face.
"How come his buddies don't see it?" I asked. "You know, we think you protest too much. It won't be long, straight boy's are evolving too. They'll see it, eventually."
Shane shrugged. "He was also the hottest too."
"Isn't that always the way."
Shane and Spanish boy kept walking, hand in hand. Heads up, no fear. Gay boys have strength now, safety in numbers, powerful in wider acceptance.
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