Pushed Too Hard

Lengthy intro time:

First of all, this is my first work posted under this user name.

I write most of my stories under a different nom de plume. I have a fine collection of H ratings on my stories, and only a few are trashed, most because of premise, some because the asshole didn't actually, you know, read the story.

Back to this handle:

I adopted it when I started going after some of the extremely lousy writing that began to show up on Literotica some years ago, and many of the worst offenders refuse to allow anonymous commentary. I reasoned if I pointed out some of the truly atrocious shit, and used my primary user name, my stories would be trashed by those I'd critiqued.

Don't get me wrong: I hate criticism as much as the next guy, but when a 'writer' cannot demonstrate basic command of the language, better for that person to remain a reader. I'm caustic, and I know it and when someone writes, "Your an idiot," I tend to seize up. Eh, I'm CDO. (OCD, but I was compelled to get the letters in the right order.)

Now, to the story:

*****

I don't give a flying fuck what people do in the privacy of their own homes, bedrooms, whatever.

That said, I find gay sex repugnant. Gay male more so than female — I am a straight male, after all — but all of it, really.

I am also very concerned about the growing Gaystapo, and the McCarthGAYism in this country. I can think the Yankees are bums, and pull for my beloved Rays; but if I have a friend from Noo Yawk, we can root for opposing teams and remain friends; or, I can believe one political party has its shit together better than the other, and my sister (I KNOW) thinks I'm a moron for that); but we closed ranks behind our Dad when Mom passed away.

See? It's about balance.

But you opine gay marriage is wrong, and all hell will break loose.

Happened to me.

Settle back, and let me tell you about it.

++++++

I emerged from high school some twenty-five years ago, salutatorian of the class, with not a single scholarship offer to be sniffed.

I had taken a huge variety of courses — science, English, French, history, PE, math, accounting — and I was either too generalized, or — more likely — too non-ethnic to attract the attention of the college recruiters.

So, with my parents' approval, I told them all to go fuck themselves. Oh, not in those words, certainly, and in any event they never heard me, not paying attention as they weren't; but I walked downtown to the local USAF recruiter and signed up.

I harbored a hope they would look at my French background and ship me off to DLI.

Didn't happen; but something else wonderful did.

I was trained as a company clerk.

Bookkeeping. What I'd studied in high school.

I attacked it with a vigor, gaining high marks within my flight. My company officer was almost on his knees begging me to re-up.

I politely declined, to his anger and dismay; but I was a free agent.

I took my new-found knowledge and education, plus the few college-level courses I'd been able to complete, and my GI Bill, and enrolled in a university to major in Business Admin and Accounting.

Three-and-a-half years later, I emerged, ready to take on the world.

As a bow to their sales skills, I fell under the spell of a Navy recruiter. I applied to, and attended, Naval Officer Candidate School.

I was commissioned at age twenty-five, just a couple years short of the maximum age, and a couple years over the typical.

++++++

I spent twelve years in the Navy.

I had intended to spend the bare-bones four-year requirement expected of an officer; but, they saw my abilities, and sent me to a rather prestigious MBA program. I appreciated it to the tune of staying longer than anticipated.

Finally, though, institutional military life wore on me. I tendered my resignation and became a proper civilian for the first time in way too long.

I took a month traveling, sunning, and just-short-of-hedonistic life. After, I hit the streets, looking for work, and found an excellent job paying almost double what I've made as an O4.

I settled in, once again attacking my work with great vigour, and worked my way to a place of prominence, attracting notice along the way.

++++++

Then came the gay uprising.

Suddenly, the subject of gay rights became a big fucking deal (pun intended). Civil unions, rights to be allowed with loved ones during times of hospitalization or (God forbid) hospice, wills and inheritance.

Again? Big mother fucking deal. Why did I care? Why WOULD I care?

But, no, not enough to be tolerant. Not enough by a long shit. Shot, shit, either way.

I was in my office one day, working on whatever it was i was working on. You know? Nose to the grindstone, honest day's work for an honest day's pay, what-the-fuck-ever.

Now, I say office, but I really mean cube. I worked in a cube farm, ubiquitous in these days.

A head popped over the side of my cube.

It was Dave, resident flaming fag and troublemaker. Hey, I had no problem with him, personally; but he was always trying to find a reason to be offended.

"Jeff, my MAN!" he gushed. I was *not* his man, and not even a particularly good friend, though I treated him as I would anyone else, with workplace respect.

"Sup, Dave?" I muttered, hoping he wasn't going to engage me in a long conversation.

"We're having a Gay Rights Rally down on the mall. Wanna come show your support?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Yes on Three next Tuesdee!"

Yes on Three was a gay initiative to allow gay marriage.

Not a fan.

"Nah," I replied, "not too excited about it. I'm gonna keep working."

I turned back to my spreadsheet and kept working.

I also noted he had not moved.

At length he said, "So, you one of those Bible-thumping shitweeds trying to force us back into the closet? You some kind of homophobic bitch?"

I turned toward him, very slowly, locking eyes with him. He did not notice my voice recorder as I slid it from my desktop and activated it.

"If I choose not to support something," I said, flatly, calmly, "It's not of your god-damned motherfucking business."

"You homophobic asshole!" he hissed. "You're gonna get your as fired!"

"For what?" I asked. "For making a pansy stamp his little feet?"

He lost it at that. He was screaming and swearing so loudly, security was called to remove him.

++++++

Might have thought that was the end.

Not so much.

A week later, I was called to my manager's office.

"He's made accusations against you," he said.

"I can imagine," I replied.

Long pause; then, "Gonna have to let you go."

I sat, stone-faced. "Reason?" I asked.

"Your homophobic remarks," he replied.

"Didn't make any," I said. I placed the recorder on his desk, and pressed PLAY.

My manager said, after a long introspection, "You cannot record a fellow employee's conversations without permission."

"So," I said, "that asshole can accuse me of anything, and I'm fired; and if I prove he's lying, I'm fired."

Another very long pause. "We can't afford to lose the business because of your attitude."

I sat there for a moment. "My attitude," I replied flatly.

I rose; then, turning back to my manager, said, sotto voce, "I hate to tell you you're on my personal to-sue list."

++++++

I sued everyone involved, including Sugarbritches Dave.

I made a couple hundred grand out of the deal, and put the business out of business, after the local media dug into the story 60-Minutes-style.

I found other work, and they didn't care about my political or cultural leanings.

Sorta the way it should be.

++++++

I still don't give a shit about the whole gay problem. Except, now: I hope they lose every time.

Fucking faggots.