I know what you're thinkin, but it wasn't half as bad as some of you might expect. You see, the Great Plains is an unforgivin country. A man must do what he must just to survive. It don't matter if he's gay or not. Ranch work is hard and wears you down. Not much time for leisure except for fightin and drinkin. I done growed up in Nebraska in the 70s. My daddy was a cattleman. Came from a long line of ranchers., like his daddy and his granddaddy before. I guess I figured I was queer when I was eight or so. Didn't want nothing to do with cooze, but loved to watch the shirtless Chicano farmhands get lathered up with sweat and dust. Now people out West are more perceptive than a lot of folks might guess. They knew what was goin on. If you is effeminate, or likes to do unmasculine things, then you is queer. They smell it on you like you got a scent or something. My daddy knew early on. I wanted to help my mama (fat, gross, landwhale who wasn't givin him any no more) to do the cookin. That enraged him. He knew I was queer. My brother was the same, too. He had two faggots in the household. He started doin it to me when I was 8. No lube or forewarnin. He just worked his huge, beercan thick cheesy cock up my boypussy and dropped his load. This was when I got home from school. Then he beat me with the butt of his gun until I done passed out. He was a huge man - 6'3" and 280 pounds of pure beef and muscle. He had a full handlebar moustache, and biceps that was thicker than my thighs. He smelled of sweat and leather and tobacco.
This began to happen often. Beatings and assaults was a daily part of my life. He'd always get chubbed when watchin the wrasslin or the rode on the TV, so I knew that was when it was gonna happen. He'd grab me, his breath stinkin of whiskey, pull his cock out of his old, faded Levi's, and work it all the way up my butt while I screamed and begged him to stop. My puny, inferior, faggot cocklet got so fuckin hard on account of all the masc pheromones in the air, and that made him even madder. If I got hard from gettin fucked up the ass that meant I was queer and it enraged him to have queer sons. To punish us for bein queer he would dress up in our sister's gingham dresses. Our sisters was cruel bitches, and they would often giggle and laugh at us bein paraded around town. They would loudly call us queers, buttboys, and other misogynistic and homophobic slurs.
The folks down in town mocked and abused us when we turned up in our dresses. My daddy would walk us down Main Street in our dresses and passers-by would compliment him on what beautiful daughters he had, all the while winking and laughing. My daddy would roar with mockin laughter and pull the hems of our dresses to expose our inferior cocklets. The townsfolk was mainly ranchers, truckers, and hobos, and they'd take to laughin at us and humiliating our puny peckers. We was so humiliated!
When my uncles and granddaddy came over, they used us as communal sperm tanks. In ranches in Nebraska, dad/boy abuse is extremely common. Almost all boys get done at some point, but dad's usually stop doin it when the boy gets bigger, say 13 or 14. Because we was f@ggots, they kept doin it to us. I ran away at the age of 17 to hustle truck stops out in Idaho. The beatins and rapes got worse as my momma got the diabetes and so couldn't give my daddy no strange no more. At school, the principal and coach were big, ultramasc men built like shit brickhouses. They didn't have no time for no queer boys. They done beat us bad for bein effeminate, and joined in the throat rape. They would watch and jerk off while the jocks forced us to chew on their dirty jocks and gym socks before pissing on us. My mouth became a washing machine for the used, nasty, piss-stained jocks of superior masc jocks.
When I looks back sometimes I still gets mixed feelins though.
