It was summer and that meant that school was out and I needed a job to pay for the next bout of tuition in the fall. An advisor recommended that I work in construction as those sorts of gigs tended to pick up in the summer and would help me get a different perspective on major. I thought why not? I sure would love to build some muscle and return fall semester looking a bit less twinkish.

I started work with a road construction crew led by a Mr. Svendsen. Mr. Svendsen was a big Viking of a man with a strong, grizzled jaw and broad barrel chest. He was rather old-fashioned and insisted that everyone one refer to him as “sir” at all times.

Many of the workers, who were all tanned and muscular from working in the summer sun, were attractive, but Mr. Svendsen was the most striking of all. I often caught myself staring at his biceps or massive bulge as he worked. I couldn’t help it. I imagined what it would feel like to have him hold me in those big arms. To have him pin me up against one of the machines and have his way. I wanted it so bad.

One day, while the other workers were on lunch break, Mr. Svendsen called me over behind one of the trucks. Being a man of few words, he took one look at me, spat, looked me straight in the eye and asked: “You a faggot, son?”

I, a bit taken aback, couldn’t think straight. “W-what?” I stammered.

“I said,” he replied, raising his voice so that I was sure the other workers could hear him, “Are. You. A. Faggot.”

“Look,” I manage to respond, “you can’t just—”

“Son!” he bellowed, “you will call me sir!” he threw down a hammer he had been hauling and it landed with a mighty crash.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good, now tell me: you like the dick? I seen you looking at us while work—I’ve caught you gaping at my crotch seventeen times over the last three days. You want it or not?”

So he had seen me staring. It’s just that—I couldn’t help it, I just couldn’t—

“Boy,” he screamed, “yes or no?”

“I—I mean,” I guess honesty is the best answer, “yes. Yes, sir I do want it.”

He smirked and leaned in real close to my face so that his stubble tickled my cheek. He cupped his hand under my chin so that his thumb pressed against my lips. He smelled like sweat and dirt. “Prove it then.” He whispered. “I’ve been looking for a cute little twink pussyboy like you and I know you want it. So be a good boy and I won’t use anything bigger than this jackhammer here.” He motioned to a jackhammer on the truck—I hoped he was joking. “Hell, if you’re good enough I might even share you with our friends over there.” This time he gestured to where the others were quietly eating lunch. I guess if they were okay with this happening on their lunch break, well, I hadn’t gotten laid in a while… “On your knees, pussyboy!” he placed his gloved hands on my thin shoulders and pushed.