Hey, there. My name's Marty. Marty's Construction.... that's my business. Built from the ground up. Well, yesterday, old Marty here collided with a stroke of great good fortune. Here's what happened.
I was walking around the east-side neighborhood that Carter from work told me about. I was dressed casually, but I still stuck out as a well-groomed suburbanite.
The east side is economically depressed. The whole place looked like it needed to be power washed. But I could see, on the other hand, that I was in the right place. All manner of smooth-skinned, pale, males walked past or leaned against buildings. It was the kind of neighborhood where you'd go to get a pretty boy to serve you, and on this day the wares were looking very good, indeed. As I looked into one face, then another, my cock got stiffer and stiffer. Many of them were cute with sweet red lips and disheveled hair. But good looks was not the only factor. The key quality to look for in a personal faggot is not easily discovered. This quality is a bit shy. But one time, in the passing parade of faces, you will see it (or detect it, really. It is subtle): An aura of utter need.
If you should come upon one of these individuals, you will soon see small signs of their discomfort, their craving: a twitch at the corner of the mouth, the suddenly dropped gaze when you make eye contact.
Now, these fags can be any legal age. I know of one, personally, who is 70 years old, and he's been serving his owner for nearly a decade. The owner is a younger man in his forties, an affluent businessman.
It's important, if you want the greatest benefit from the relationship, to find this quality of utter submission. My research has shown that these faggots possess a very deep feeling of unworthiness and self-effacement. And that is the foundation on which a Alpha man may successfully build.
I'd been heading over to the east side of town for the past month, maybe three or four times a week. I'd duck into a bar, have a drink, and just watch. There would be pickups, waifs following timidly behind their "dates". These I took to be fleeting, inconsequential meet-ups. Me? I was holding out for something deeper. Something further out and further down.
Last night I took a chance.
At first, because he was older, I figured the guy was there to pick someone up. But no, it was the other way around. And I saw it. We were at the same street corner and sometimes our eyes would meet briefly. When they did, this man colored a bit in the face. He averted his gaze from me after these awkward encounters. He was a slim older man with receding hair and a handsome face. I found his nervousness very appealing.
I sidled up to him. In the streetlight, I studied the side of his face, judging him to be in his late forties, early fifties. His skin was smooth, but crows' feet were in evidence.
"Nice night to be out." I said.
"Oh! Oh, hello!" the guy said, kind of jumping a bit as he did. "Yes, indeed, sir. Just right." he said, followed by a small nervous laugh.
While I thought about the matter of him addressing me as "sir", I looked down to see that one of his legs was shaking.
"Ah... there's a bench there." I said, pointing to a bench outsidee a deli..
"Come join me." I said, gesturing. I feared he might be unstable on his feet. We took our places on the bench. He turned slightly in my direction.
"I'm... well, I'm sorry. You see, I sometimes get quite nervous and..."
"What? That little shaky leg number you just did? Just a passing thing. See? You're fine now."
We sat in silence and watched the commuters hustle by.
"I don't know about you, but I'm here looking for someone." I said, giving him a glance. "You?"
Again with the nervous laugh and the hung head.
"Me, too." he said. "I'm...., I'm....,"
I could see the guy was struggling, and I wasn't sure what I could do. But then all decision making was dramatically swept aside in the next instant. He looked straight at me and spoke. Though he wasn't loud, his words came across with a muted ferocity.
" Mister, I am a faggot, and I am a loser. That's what I am, it's what I've always been, and what I'll be to the grave. And it's what I'm hoping a certain kind of man will find attractive."
He said these amazing words (which were sheer music to my ears!), then turned away. I could hear soft, controlled sobbing. My instinct was to give him an encouraging pat on the back, and I did.
"C'mon, now." I said, feeling that, if all worked out well, I could sweep this broken person into a bag and take the pieces out from time to time and rearrange them for.... Hell! I guess whatever reason I like. Or no reason at all.
I could all but feel the dankness coming up from the pit of fear and self-loathing I sensed myself sitting beside. I also felt a building hope, an increasing confidence that this particular loser was the one for me. It felt like I'd struck gold!
His seemed just the kind of damaged psyche I could shape to my needs. I know that sounds dry and pragmatic, but I'm not forgetting the great emotional vulnerability the faggot experiences in a fully developed relationship of this kind; the great risk that he must take.
He must, to succeed in that scenario, be a complete nobody. A worthless turd. And he must love it! Most importantly, he must love what he is. He must inhabit with energy and conviction a part of his psyche that few people venture into.
Just as an assist to the readership, I'll provide a brief but comprehensive definition of what a "loser" is.
The general personality type of the loser is dominated by timidity and self-loathing. He goes about the routine of his day quietly, in the shadows. He has no friends. Because he is devoid of any real worth, he will tend to worship strong, confident men, honoring them from afar.
The loser desires abuse from such men. In most ALPHA/faggot relationships, the man will administer punishment to the loser. A whip may be purchased for this purpose, though the Alpha's belt will normally suffice. The whipping must be severe and long enough to get the fag's attention. Through regular sessions, fear will be firmly established in the loser's heart and mind. This, combined with the his typical helplessness makes for a useful recipe, indeed!
But I digress. Anyway, I began to feel I knew what this guy had to offer.
He was dabbing at his eyes with a tissue and pulling himself together.
"It was very brave, what you said", I told him. "You called yourself a faggot as well as a loser. Sometimes you just have to take a clear-eyed, hard look at yourself and see what's really there, and you did."
"I know. It took me forever to come right out and tell MYSELF just how much of a loser I am and have it really sink in." he said in a shaky voice. "Yeah. I guess in some ways it's brave, but I'm still a nobody." he said. His hands moved in his lap.
"Sure. Sure you are." I said. "I mean, that isn't going away. But look... I want to level with you." I said, and gave his back a rub. A tremor ran through him.
"Yes! Please do, be honest with me! I'm so fucking tired of coming here and meeting people who are not serious, or who want to hurt me." he said, and he seemed on the edge of another cry.
"Okay, I will." I told him, "First, let me tell you what I'm looking for." I began "Age isn't a big factor. An older faggot like yourself will have over the years come to the conclusion that he adds up to very little. He will have wasted sometimes decades of adulthood in confused shame and angst over the perverted contents of his inner life. Anyway, at your age, I suppose you can look back and see the trail of waste you left in your wake. Looks like you're past that mile post, eh? How old are you anyway?" I asked.
"I'll be 57 next month, sir, and yes, I took a kind of inventory a couple of years ago. All my failed attempts at relationship, a long string of restaurant jobs that went nowhere. At the heart of it all, I failed in life because I'm a weak man." he said, his voice breaking.
