Good Ol' Beasts 1: Disorientations.

Illustration by Pete Shorney. For more of his erotic artwork, visit https://peteshorneyart.co.uk/

​ Frat Boys | Self-Discovery | Outdoor Cocksuck

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This southern gothic piece combines suits & ties with a supernatural kink for muscle growth. No, there are no werewolves having sex. This is more about the destruction of the clothing. All of these kinks simmer in the background of a tale of manipulation, radicalization, and the dangers of becoming our bullies. ​

Content warning: The opening and closing scenes of this story consist of a situation in which a character is forced to out himself. If coming out was a traumatic experience for you, then please read with caution. (Or skip, if you wish.)

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Alabama. August, 1991.

Was it the birthmark on the back of Clint’s neck? Two circles, overlapping, pink as though they were old scars. Maybe that had something to do with it?

Or maybe Clint should tell the pastor about that weird dream he always had about once a month. He would find himself naked in the dark woods, and he would have this dread, always feeling like there was something hiding just around a tree, stalking him, hunting him. He would start to run, his pale, slim body slick with sweat. He would trip, scrambling through the pine needles of the forest floor, and then he would turn and look up. Sometimes the monster was a beast, rippling with hair and muscle. Sometimes the beast would look like a handsome weightlifting coach he liked to steal glimpses at in the high school locker room. Sometimes it resembled the musclebound captain of the wrestling team, who would tease him about his lisp and shove him against the bleachers whenever the gym teacher wasn’t looking, leaving him with rips in his school uniform shirts that he had to hide from his dad. Sometimes it wore the face of one of the barbaric beefcakes on the late night wrestling shows he’d watch when he would sneak down into the den, muting the TV. He didn’t know why it felt wrong or guilty, or why, in his dream, he would stare in fascination at the creature, its long-eared shadow hulking over him even though its face looked human, its body freakish with feral strength. He would wake up, and he’d have to hide his cum-filled boxers in the laundry and throw away his shirt. It would always end up torn wide open.

“Clint?” asked Pastor Ted Robinson. His voice was a soothing baritone. A voice that made Clint think of a warm, fatherly embrace.

Clint flinched. He couldn’t be thinking of a guy’s biceps folding around him, not right now. His heart ran icy. He was fighting back tears, because real men don’t cry, especially in front of other men. Clint hung his head in his hands, and he could feel his pulse pounding in his temples. He’d just admitted he was gay, too, so he was already less of a man than Pastor Robinson.

“Clint,” said the pastor, leaning forward at his desk. “Look at me, Clint.”

With a snort, Clint looked back up. The pastor’s eyes were steely blue, above a salt and pepper goatee, and a haze of a 5:00 shadow across his sculpted jawbone. His bald head gleamed in the fluorescent light of the office. Broad-shouldered, with mighty arms and a swelling chest that played tug of war with the buttons of his dress shirt, making the fabric pucker behind the pastor’s tie, filling out the lapels of his pinstripe suit.

“I . . . I don’t know, sir. It feels like they’ve been with me my whole life, these feelings.” Clint snorted, trying not to sniffle. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with an answer like that.

The pastor glared. “And you said you’ve had sex with one . . . homosexual . . . already.”

Clint’s heart shrank. It was like lead weights were dropping inside him, hearing those words in the pastor’s deep, rumbling voice. He had sinned with another faggot, so he was a faggot, too. The logic was plain as day. “Yes. Yes sir.”

Clint couldn’t keep eye contact anymore. He gazed at the floor, where he could see the pastor’s gleaming dress shoes. Cole Haan Bragano tassel loafers. Clint knew because they carried them in the menswear store where he worked. He really wished he could just talk to the pastor about clothes again, the way their first conversation went after he met the pastor at the beginning of the semester. Anything to distract Clint from this.

“Who was it?”

“I . . .” God help me, thought Clint. If he said the other student’s name, what might happen? The pastor would report them both. “I don’t . . .”

“Don’t lie to me.” The pastor’s voice pounded into Clint’s ear drums like a jackhammer. “Who was it?”

“Jay. Jay Harden, sir.”

The pastor wrote the name down. “I don’t recognize the name. He must not be part of the BSU yet.”

“No, sir, he’s not. He . . .” Clint gulped, his shirt and tie constricting his neck like a leash. No sense holding back now. “He recruited me to join his fraternity, back during rush.”

“I will be reporting him, then. And you. Because that is the right thing to do. Do you understand?”

“I—I won’t get expelled, will I?”

The pastor clasped his meaty hands on the desk, cufflinks gleaming in the afternoon light that slanted from the blinds. “No, you will not. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Closing his eyes, Clint nodded, relishing the relief. “Thank you, sir.”

“Grace is never deserved,” said the pastor. Grace. The word sounded like a snarl. “This is the first step to overcoming this. Honesty. Shedding the light of truth upon your sin. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint heard himself saying. Something about the pastor’s voice challenged him. He would obey, because the pastor knew the word of the lord and Clint had strayed from the path of righteousness. That was what the pastor’s deep, sonorous, threatening voice was telling him. Clint would be scared straight.

“And you will confess this to your father, too.”

“Oh G—” Clint choked the word back. He wasn’t about to take the lord’s name in vain, not now. “Oh—no, please sir—”

“You must. I will give him a call, and tell him he needs to drive up here from Columbus. All three of us will meet here, and you will tell him. That is the next step to overcoming your . . . tendencies.”

Clint’s fists dug into his knees, crumpling his crisp khakis. He nodded.

“I will notify you when that happens.” The pastor wrote something else down. “Now. You’re in one of the residence halls, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Not in fraternity housing?”

“No, sir.” Clint recited the policy robotically. “I’m a first year student, and first year students aren’t allowed to stay in Greek housing.”

“Good,” said the pastor. His voice sounded softer now, the threatening edge gone. “That means you will be able to avoid unnecessary contact. If ‘Jay’ tries to talk to you, you will ignore him, or you will tell him to leave you alone. And if he gives you any trouble, you will come straight to me. Understand?”

Clint nodded, looking up at the pastor’s eyes again.

The eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. “Say ‘yes sir.’”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We can’t have him tempting you again. Not now. You have a long road ahead, and he is going to try to lead you astray.”

“Yes sir.”

“Now.” The pastor drew a line on his legal pad and wrote something down. “Tell me how it happened. How did he seduce you?”

Clint bit his lip, his hands squeezing his knees so hard it hurt. He closed his eyes.

Again, the threatening edge: “Look at me, Clint.”

It was like the words forced Clint’s eyes open. He nodded, trying to maintain eye contact. “Yes sir.”

“Tell me how it happened.”

*

“I like being in control,” said Clint with a shrug. It was the umpteenth time someone had asked him why he was so dressed up for Freshman Orientation. “You know, 90% of your body is covered by your clothing, so you get to control 90% of how you appear. I like being in control of that.”

“But it’s August,” complained his classmate. “Aren’t you burning up in that?”

“It’s not that bad out.” Clint shrugged, pretending that his pits weren’t oozing sweat beneath his blazer, shirt, tie, and undershirt. Layers of tailored wool and cotton on a brutal Alabama August day. “Besides, you never get a second chance at a first impression, right?”

“I guess,” she said.

Another classmate chimed in, “He told me earlier he works at a menswear store.”

“Oh,” she said. “That explains it.”

At the podium, an orientation coordinator called everybody’s attention. Clint’s posture stiffened. He took careful notes on his legal pad, with a fine pen that Dad had given him after high school graduation. His shoes were black laceups, polished like mirrors, just like Dad taught him to do. His slacks were gray wool. He looked like an ad from one of the menswear catalogs he perused at work: ivy league style, he thought proudly, now that he was actually on the verge of being a college student.

One by one the speakers introduced themselves onstage. Then the representatives of each of the sororities and fraternities did so, as well. Clint noted with disappointment that the fraternity presidents were mostly in polos and khakis—except one.

“Hey y’all,” said this differently dressed man. “I’m Jay Hayden, and I’m here to represent Kappa Sigma.”

Jay was tall, broad-shouldered, with a chest full of workouts and sculpted arms to match. Kind of like the wrestling team captain who used to slam Clint up against the bleachers in high school—but Clint banished that thought. That was all behind him. There would be no sweaty, hairy, musclebound bullies here. This was college, and everybody was an adult.

Clint noted Jay’s oxford collar button-down shirt, paired with khakis. Clint didn’t approve of the boat shoes. Those were casual shoes, and the rest of the outfit didn’t go with them. But Clint’s eyes wandered over the contours of Jay’s arms. His sleeves were rolled. His pectorals filled out his shirt, tenting the fabric around his nipples, tensing the buttons. Clint thought in part that wearing a shirt two buttons open like that was inappropriate. Shouldn’t a president of a college society be in a shirt and tie, especially on orientation day? First impressions, he thought. First impressions.

“Kappa Sigma is dedicated to turning boys into men,” Jay went on. “Gentlemen of class and distinction. That’s what my big brother told me when I first joined. I might have come here on a rugby scholarship, but Kappa Sig gave me direction and purpose.”

Rugby scholarship? That must explain this man’s physique. Clint didn’t want to admit it, but he kind of liked the two open shirt buttons, the way the open collar spread open just enough to reveal the cleft between Jay’s pectoral muscles, the slight cock of his hips. There was a certain devil-may-care quality about this guy. But no, Clint wasn’t nearly muscular enough to pull off this kind of bravado. You had to earn this attitude, Clint thought, and the way you earned it was by slaving away at the gym. A man who had earned the right confident in his own skin.

Clint looked up from his clipboard, and noticed that, just before Jay stepped down from the podium, his eyes locked on Clint.

The presentations went on from there, but Jay kept glancing in Clint’s direction. Finally, when the assembly was dismissed, Clint made his way through the crowd towards Jay. It turned out Jay was doing the same.

“Hey,” said Jay, offering a handshake. “Jay Harden.”

“Clint Anderson.” Clint gave a firm handshake, just the way dad taught him. “You said you were here to represent Sigma Alph—”

“Kappa Sigma,” Jay corrected, reaching across and stroking the lapel of Clint’s blazer. “You look like just the kind of guy we’d go for.”

Clint wanted to pull away, but hesitated. “Thanks.”

Jay let his hand rest on Clint’s lapel. For half a moment, Clint felt the man’s knuckles against his chest, through the layers of undershirt, dress shirt, and wool jacket. Clint’s memory jumped through all those times he would sneak into dad's closet and try on dad's shirts or slip on dd’s loafers, feeling the crisp fabric fold over his body, the warm leather swallow his feet—too tingling, too pleasurable. He couldn't stand the feeling, which was why he always wore undershirts, hiding himself from that strange arousal. And now Jay, without an undershirt, his body only one layer away. “I wanted to try to make a good impression.”

“I think you did,” Jay smirked, reaching into the pocket of his snug button-down shirt, producing a business card and sticking the card in Clint’s breast pocket, right behind his pocket square. There was a mischievous gleam in Jay’s eye. “Call me. We’ll have lunch.”

The notes on Clint’s legal pad grew sparser after that. Clint found himself ruminating about that moment the whole rest of the orientation. Something about Jay—that huge confidence of his, just reaching over and stroking his lapel like that. If anyone else had done that, it would’ve seemed rude. But Jay just pulled it off so easily, so smooth, with such bravado and . . . control. That was the word Clint was searching for. This was a man who was perfectly in control.

Or maybe this was a man who knew when to let go.

*

‘So do you have a crush on him?”

“Mom! That’s gross.” Clint squirmed on his bed, twirling the phone cord in his fingers. “I—uh—you know I’m not a homosexual or whatever.”

Clint’s mother gave a smug chuckle on the other end of the phone line. “You know, you really should have applied for college out here. In San Francisco, I see gay men holding hands all the time.”

“That is abominable and it’s against god’s law.”

She sighed. “You need to learn about other people, Clint. You can’t just listen to your dad all the time. And it’s clear to me that you’re not getting a girlfriend anytime soon—”

“I’m trying to focus on my studies, mom—”

“—so maybe, just maybe, you should try exploring . . . other things. That’s all I’m telling you. College is a time when you can explore. Just give it a try.”

Clint frowned. This was the reason why dad and mom got divorced when he was in middle school. Mom started buying into all this weird liberal feminist stuff, while Dad listened to Rush Limbaugh. They’d get into horrible arguments about politics, and, when Mom became one of those awful atheist hippies Dad divorced her. At least, that’s the story that Dad told.

After the pause, Mom spoke up again. “Are you still there, Clint?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Another sigh, this time deeper and more disappointed. “You sound like your father.”

“Thank you.” Clint sneered. Wounded. Why would she dare question his choices in life? Clint stared up at the Golden Arrow of Leadership award plaque on his wall, the award plaque he won months ago, the last night he saw his mom before she flew out to California. Clint was a leader. Clint was his own man. He wasn’t trying to be a Dad clone. “I try to.”

“Your father was homophobic too, you know.”

Clint remembered his SAT words. “It’s not that I’m afraid of homosexuals. That’s what the phobic part of that word means. I’m not afraid of homosexuals. I’m just not one of them. And I think they need to repent. Love the sinner—”

“It’s not a sin,” she snipped back.

“Says so in the Bible, mom.” Clint balled the phone cord into his fist. “If you’d just read the Bible you’d come around.”

“Alright,” she said. Clint could hear her eye roll. “I’ve got to get going. Please call me again next week, alright?”

Failed again. Clint never made any progress getting his mom to change her stubborn mind. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I love you.”

He paused. Those words always hurt the most. He gulped, then said, “Bye mom.”

There was a click, then silence. Rolling over on his bed, Clint hung up the phone, then climbed over to his desk and pulled open his history textbook. Same thing: revisionist nonsense. Not like what Dad told him. This textbook kept trying to talk about what women did during the Civil War, or how bad slavery was. Who cares? It was about states’ rights anyway. Dad was a lawyer. He understood his legal history.

Mom was a lawyer, too.

And Clint sure as hell wasn’t going to swallow that feminist kool-aid she kept trying to sell him, he thought as he flipped through his notes. Every one of his weekly conversations with her was like that. She’d ask him how it was going, and then she’d try to needle him, try to convince him that maybe he should have moved out to California with her to finish high school. Dad wanted Clint to stay in Alabama. Mom wanted Clint to decide for himself. And so on. And so on.

Clint glanced over at his calendar. He’d be having lunch with Jay tomorrow. That was something to look forward to.

*

“Oh, me? I was really more of a reader in high school.” Clint dipped one of his fries in the ketchup, avoiding any risk of staining his crisp white shirt cuff. Or—worse—his tie. “Mom and dad were always on me about my grades. They wouldn’t let me watch cartoons or Wrestlemania or anything like that.”

“Wrestlemania?” Jay slurped his soda between mouthfuls of burger. “Dude, I was totally into that.”

Clint laughed, blushing. Should he tell him about all those late nights he’d spend watching wrestling on the TV in the den, too scared to turn up the volume past the lowest setting? Felt dirty and guilty, all those late night moments. Taking a swig of coke, Clint thought he’d ease into it. “I—uh—I wanted to be. I mean, there was one time, when my parents let me stay at church overnight for a lock-in. Late at night, one of my friends snuck in a bootlegged pay-per-view tape of Royal Rumble.”

Jay slapped the table. “Oh man. Did you see what Sgt. Slaughter did to Randy Savage, back in January—”

Why was Clint blushing? Thinking about those sweaty bodies wrangling together.

Jay was still going on, about this body slam or that maneuver. Since Clint never listened to late-night wrestling at an audible volume, he barely even knew the wrestlers’ names, let alone the whole storyline around each one. It bothered Clint a bit, the way Jay didn’t wipe his hands when he put down his burger. In his excitement Jay started describing one wrestler dethroning the other louder and louder, banging the table a few times. So much for the whole “gentlemen with class” act. But maybe Clint could teach Jay a thing or two about manners?

After reviewing the fourth or fifth match, Jay tugged at his shirt collar. “Geez, man. How do you wear a blazer and tie all the time in this heat? I’m sweating like a pig.”

Clint shrugged. “You get used to it. Maybe you should try wearing an undershirt?”

“You mean adding another layer? I don’t see how that’ll help.” Jay fidgeted in his seat, fanning out his shirt. It was two buttons open again. He wore it with khakis, socks, tassel loafers, and a blazer of his own. A step up from last time, thought Clint, though not perfect. “I’m sweltering as it is.”

“I think . . . I think you look very handsome.” Clint watched Jay finish his burger. He could hear mom’s voice in his head: do you have a crush on him? Maybe you should move out to California, where homos hold hands in public. This wasn’t a weighted complement, not at all.

This was just hypnotic—no, wait, that wasn’t the word. What was the word? Platonic. Yes. This was just a platonic complement. It had nothing to do with Clint being hypnotized by that glimpse of Jay’s chest through his shirt, dusted with virile hair. Clearing his throat, Clint reiterated, “It’s a casual but refined look. Though two buttons is too far open for business casual.”

Jay wiped his mouth with a napkin, then fanned out his shirt again. “Really? I mean, I know you told me you prefer to dress respectfully and all, but it’s just so hot out.”

Why did Clint secretly want to see Jay button his shirt? Or unbutton it? No, it wasn’t a crush. It couldn’t have been a crush. Clint was straight. This was . . . just admiration. Admiration for a man who clearly spent a great deal of time, energy, and dedication on his (beautiful, muscular, athletic) body. “Well, it is permissible to remove one’s jacket while dining.”

“Oh thank god,” said Jay, struggling to get his blazer off. His shirt clung to his chest and nipples, small blots of sweat soaking through. “You seem to know a lot about this whole menswear thing.”

“I’ve been learning.” Clint thought about how Jay should have wiped his hands before handling that fine wool blazer, but he kept that to himself.

“Which is good. I’ve been trying to elevate the image of our frat chapter. Class it up, you know?”

“Well, maybe we could have the whole chapter come in and get measured for suits?”

“I’d love that,” said Jay. He paused for a moment, then reached up to that third button of his shirt.

Clint’s eyes zeroed in on it. That tantalizing third button, which Jay was pinching.

Just admiration. That was it. Just admiration, of one man for another. Admiration was not homosexuality.

Jay locked eyes with Clint, then slipped the button through the hole. He draped his arms over the back of the chair, letting the shirt spread wide open, giving Clint a wide view of pectoral muscle. “I’d love for you to measure me, too.”

Admiration. Just admiration for someone who clearly worked on his body. Clint didn’t realize he was tugging at his collar. His tie felt snug all a sudden. “We should set up an appointment.”

*

When Clint first met Pastor Robinson, it was the Sunday after orientation. The pastor was holding a service at the Chapel of All Faiths on campus, and his voice intoned the scriptures, reverberating throughout the chapel.

It had been a whirlwind of a week. Clint was just barely getting his footing at his new job at the menswear shop. Orientation felt like drinking information through a firehose. He was grateful his dad shelled out the extra money so that he had a single-bed dorm of his own, rather than having to share a room. In his “Sunday best” navy suit, Clint sat with his hands folded in his lap in the pew. Next month, he’d splurge on a new suit to increase his wardrobe. A gray suit, like what Pastor Robinson was wearing.

The pastor was reading the scripture of the day: “‘Think not that I have come to bring peace to the world. I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.”

Clint watched the way the man’s suit moved over his body, the way his arms filled out the sleeves of the snug jacket. Snug, like he’d been working out too much and was starting to outgrow it.

“For the word of the lord in holy scripture we say, ‘Thanks be to god.’”

Clint repeated, “Thanks be to god.”

As the pastor walked down the aisle past Clint, Clint swore he saw the man’s nostrils twitching, as though he was carefully sniffing the air around Clint’s pew.

Throughout the sermon, Clint had to keep banishing two memories from his head. One was about all of the times he’d sneak down to the den to watch late night wrestling on mute, with his cock pitching a tent in his PJs, fascinated by slick and powerful bodies pounding against each other. The other was all the times he'd wait until dad was out of the house and sneak into his dad's closet, trying on his dad's fine clothes. The aroma of wool, the texture of silk, the buttery softness of fine leather drew him into there again and again, had him anticipating each time his dad came home with a bag from the menswear store, full of new purchases for Clint to relish in secret. And how it made him so hard, finally, the first time dad took him in to get fitted for a suit of his own—this suit—after all those years of feeling his cock plump against the smooth wool in his dad's suit trousers, he could finally fill out a suit of his own. He brushed and steamed this suit before and after each wearing, putting on underwear and undershirts to keep it fresh, and because he knew he’d get horny at the sensation of smooth wool against his balls, so he had to protect the suit and himself. And now here was this pastor, who seemed somehow to combine both memories in the flesh.

After the service, a line of churchgoers shook the pastor’s hand, saying their farewells on the way out. As he waited in line, Clint studied the pastor’s features. The man must have lived at a gym. Even the man’s neck was somehow muscular, swelling in his shirt collar. His suit jacket was tailored to within an inch of its life, describing the hourglass V shape of his torso and thighs. Veins bulged all over the backs of his hairy hands. His nose seemed broad, too, with deep set eyes, a spark of wildness. He was bald, but, around his salt-and-pepper goatee, Clint detected the haze of stubble, as though the man’s beard refused to be contained.

Clint clapped Pastor Robinson’s hand in a firm handshake. Bold, assertive, the way Clint’s dad taught him to do. “Clint Anderson, sir.”

The pastor gave a sonorous chuckle. “Pat Robinson. You must be a first-year student.”

“Yes sir. I really enjoyed the sermon, sir. You know, about how true Christians are warriors.”

“Burning at the heart,” replied the pastor with a smile. The pastor’s nostrils flared as he drew in a deep breath, chest swelling against his snug shirt and tie. “We must be soldiers in god’s war.”

“Yes sir. I—uh—don’t want to sound rude, but,” Clint lowered his voice. “I really think my professors are trying to convert me to atheism. You know?”

“That is something that many students feel.” There was a deep vibration in the pastor’s voice.

“I was hoping you could help me stay on the straight and narrow, sir.”

The pastor chuckled, nostrils flaring. A hint of sweat gleamed on his forehead as he licked his goateed lips, purring, “This is a dangerous time in your spiritual life. You must stay your course when all these people spouting their ‘politically correct’ nonsense try to lead you astray.”

“That’s . . . that’s exactly what I’ve been worrying about this whole time.” Everything that the pastor said sounded like music to Clint’s ears. But Clint noticed that dozens of other students waited behind him in the receiving line. “Can we please talk more about this?”

“Certainly.” The pastor’s nostrils flared again, drinking in the air around Clint. “You know where to find me. Leave me a message and we’ll set up a day to speak in private.”

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Good Ol’ Beasts 1 (werewolves, frat boys, seduction, southern gothic).