I was talking to my brother a few days ago at an Arby's. We're both in our late 50s, but at different points in our lives. I'm happily married with adopted children and he's singe, hasn't been in a relationship for years, and although he also exclusively dated men when he was younger - it's such a privilege to grow up with a gay brother ;) - he's pretty much A/S now. I think it's because he hasn't aged well: we're both overweight, and we've struggled with eating problems throughout our lives, but he's bald, flabby, and dumpy, and a strict bottom. I think he's invisible in the gay community, so he doesn't really identify as gay anymore. I'm a chub, but thankfully I found a husband who's into that and likes his housebottom with a bit more meat!
So anyway we were talking and I realized we had totally different perspectives on our childhood memories. We could be talking about the same event, and he'd say one thing happened, and I either wouldn't remember it, or say it was something else. This got very frustrating very fast, and the conversation got a bit terse. Still we had a couple of roast beef sandwiches each and by the time we got round to ordering some dessert it became obvious that a lot had been lost down the memory hole for both of us.
While I don't need to worry about money anymore (I'm a housebottom, and my husband will retire soon with $3 million in his 401K), we had a tough time growing up in rural Montana. We were both chubby, effeminate, and definitely not masc or sporty. We were subject to endless abuse by our classmates and even the teachers at school. The jocks would torment us mercilessly, and on occasion physically and sexually assault us yelling homophobic and misogynistic slurs at us. These were real rural jocks: square jawed, aryan good looks, huge biceps and massive pecs. They physically and psychologically dominated us inferior, sissy faggots.
When my daddy discovered we was being pushed around at school, he flew into a rage. He beat us severely with a bike chain, and used deplorable, degrading homophobic blame language to demean and humiliate us in front of our sadistic, giggling sisters. He beat us shitless, and mounted us, and fucked us up the ass, and put loads in us, and then made us fellashe his gun-oil greased rod of pain and, yes, sometimes pleasure. We'd get hard form all the masc hormones in the air, and that would make our daddy double down on the beatings. To punish us for being queer buttboys he made us wear our sister's gingham dresses and patent leather shoes and fuck us up the ass and parade us around in public in town on Main Street with the passers-by gawking and laughing at us, and degrading us with blame language, and some of the masc truckers and cowboys even jacked they dicks in our directions, calling lewdly. My daddy once fucked me in the bar, and I moaned homosexually while his cheesy unwashed shaft busted my pleasure ring and invaded my filth trench. His cock was thicker than a fag's wrist and