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2011/03/04

Acquired Tastes, Chapter VIII : Rednecks and White Trash

What is the allure of a mullet-headed, crappy-tatted, facial hair wearing, Marlboro-smoking, Pabts Blue Ribbon swilling, Nascar watching, confederate flag loving, gun toting, truck driving, Lynyrd Skynyrd listening, fried Twinkie eating, duct tape using, ignorant redneck man? For some, none, but this Acquired Taste is like a fine wine… scratch that – more like a bottle of Boone’s Farm; it must be tasted to be appreciated. And not unlike that bottle of Boone’s Farm, some will be repulsed at the mere thought of it, while others will become totally enamored.

White trash and rednecks do not necessarily have to come from the south, sport a mullet or live in a trailer park. Possessions, status, income, livelihood, political affiliations and beliefs aside, today I am talking about a certain look and attitude; one so potent you can almost smell it (and sometimes do.)

I come from white trash, albeit one with a decidedly Slavic slant, but trash none-the-less. I’m not sure I will ever be able to escape those trappings as those values are deeply hardwired into my being. That said, I’m not sure I would want to completely separate myself from that world or deny it’s existence.. In my case, it keeps me grounded. Sure, it raises hell with the self-esteem on occasion (a chip on my shoulder, the underdog, less than, blah, blah), but in no way would I ever want to disavow my trashy roots – some of that stuff is fun; like, say, that culture’s ideas about manhood and what constitutes masculine behavior. As a youngster, I shied away from it, hid from it. Growing up, it repulsed me, but now I see its charms and understand what Loretta Lynne and Patsy Cline were singing about. Yes, I understand and appreciate on some level the power that fueled all those seasons of The Jerry Springer Show.

Rednecks and White Trash

Scope of Activity:

Just the usual fucking, sucking and kissing. Nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, other than getting sweaty and maybe a little beer-soaked, I don’t think the sex could get more vanilla. Hell, if you try anything too fancy with these boys, like say, start nosing around their a-hole with your tongue and you could find yourself being shown the door. Or, you could open up one hell of a dirty little secret, as in, Junior really likes that sort of thing.

We ain’t talking about Cowboys here. They are a different (much quieter, stoic, and tasteful) sexy breed. And we’re not talking blue collar men, also a whole ‘nother level of sexy. And I’m not talking about the homogenized, sanitized version of a redneck that keeps threatening to take over Comedy Central in the form of Jeff Foxworthy, Larry the Cable Guy, etc. That’s not reality; that’s show biz; pandering, dull-witted, lazy-ass, appeal to the lowest denominator show-biz.

The Official Line:

From Wikipedia:

Redneck: Originally used in reference to poor, white farmers, redneck is a historically derogatory slang term to refer to working class Southerners in the United States It is similar in meaning to "cracker" (especially regarding Georgia and Florida), "hillbilly" (especially regarding Appalachia and the Ozarks) and "white trash". The most common American usage, referring to the poor rural white Southerner, is probably derived from individuals having a red neck caused by staining of their skin; a result of a mixture of sweat and the dust of red clay dirt common in the southern states. A citation from 1893 provides a definition as "poorer inhabitants of the rural districts...men who work in the field, as a matter of course, generally have their skin stained red and burnt by the sun, and especially is this true of the back of their necks". In recent decades the term expanded its meaning to mean bigoted, loutish, and opposed to modern ways. It has often been used to attack Southern conservatives and segregationists. At the same time, many members of the U.S. Southern community have set out to reclaim the word, using it as a self-identifier, and the term has also been claimed by individuals outside of the United States.
Psychological Aspects:

Psychologically, there’s a lot at play when you sleep with a gay redneck; so many conflicting emotions wash over me. I’m thrilled to be with him, because he’s got a touch of the forbidden about him and a touch of that “he’s a real man” thing. Let’s face it; there is something macho about that confederate flag thing, even if it stands for the kind of racial subjugation that normally turns our stomachs. But slap it on a trucker hat, a belt buckle or the rear window of a pick-up truck and you got yourself a twisted, gay wet dream of sorts. And those tats of theirs, usually pretty badly configured, are just this side of jailhouse tats which push all sorts of gay-fantasy-by-the-numbers buttons.

Guilt. We must address the guilt. A portion of the real redneck population suffers from buyer’s remorse almost immediately after orgasm when they lay with another man. They are a skittish lot, in general, when it comes to gay sex, but if you want to send them running for the hills just start talking about HIV, AIDS and safe sex; they just sort of fold into themselves and skitter away. And don’t talk about your feelings; in their part of the woods, men when it comes to other men are not supposed to have any of those.

Then there’s that part of you that recognizes that the redneck basically represents a lot of what we gays find reprehensible about society in general (and that feeling, I’m afraid, is quite mutual).. I’m talking about political positions, here, not tastefulness, although their politics are pretty tasteless. This is definitely a case of where we’re sleeping with the enemy (but then again, so are they).

There’s also that aspect of danger… you know, the whole ‘Deliverance’ thing? That’s hot and tasty in a real sick and perverted way. Right? It’s a type of degradation, and for some, that’s orgasm material. There’s a power imbalance there that needs to be examined. Ignorance is power. Power is sexy. When ignorant people, people you consider your inferior, have power over you that can be a sexually enticing circumstance.

We also need to look at that part of us that pities a redneck for being such a clueless mass of puppy boy/man. You want to examine his life and try to point out all the places he could have made better choices (that couch, that haircut, that tattoo) or at least point out the ones still left him (get your GED, go to college, educate yourself, better yourself). But then the whole idea of someone bettering themselves… isn’t that in the eye of the beholder? And possessing a lack of ambition… isn’t that what being a redneck is partially about? Who are we to judge their choices and lifestyle? Such judgments are all perspective and it’s all based on our personal biases. It took me a long time to recognize that; it’s presumptuous and disrespectful to assume otherwise.

Their dicks are highly likely (in my experience) to be uncircumcised, and that in itself is fetish material – it brings to mind poverty, as in too poor to be born in a real hospital where they take care of that sort of thing at birth. But that’s old thinking – today, gays wear their foreskin as a kind of badge of honor, there are groups of fetishists dedicated to capturing the uncircumcised in all their whorey-glory, and even those who attempt to reclaim theirs by stretching the skin just below the head of their circumcised penis.

My Experience:

My year in Iowa… a lot of sentences for this blog begin that way, which is kind of amazing considering how little sex I had during that time period. But I did have sex during that time and most of it was with rednecks.

My first redneck? He was a delivery guy who worked for this towel service. I met him out at that wayside rest with the outhouse. We played a tiny bit at the wayside rest, but he was too nervous and asked if I would follow him to his motel room. I agreed. He was short, slim, and smooth as a baby, except for that big old mustache that warmed his upper lip. He wasn’t unattractive, but he was one of the whitest dudes I have ever been with. There was something slimy about him, and that would be his redneck view of the world. Some of the things that came out of his mouth during general conversation were so fucking ignorant I winced. We shared a beer and played real coy with one another before getting naked and flopping around on the bed on top of one another. It was not great sex, by any means. There was no kissing. He probably would have let me fuck him, but I didn’t trust the cleanliness of his hole, so I passed. We did both manage to get off and almost immediately after I felt a door between us slam shut; he got all paranoid and mentioned something about his wife (wife?). I got the sense that he wanted me to leave as soon as possible, a wish I was only too happy to grant. It was a distinctly dissatisfying experience, and while I saw him around in the future, I never wanted to play with him again.

Another little redneck that comes to mind would be this super cute twink dude I met at a bar in Waterloo. He was shaved bald and always wore a pair of farmer overalls with no shirt at the bar (there was only one in Waterloo). Cuter than a bugs ear, I wanted to get naked with him the moment I laid eyes on him. Fortunately for me, the pickings in Waterloo were slimmer than Newt Gingrich’s chances of being President of the United States. I was fresh meat, so the odds were definitely on my side. We did a bit of courting at the bar for a couple of weekends without ever getting physical. Because Waterloo was like two hours from where I lived, I always left the bar before closing time, so I never did get to see him sloppy drunk, which would have significantly improved my chances of undoing the straps of his overalls. I loved those overalls; they left so much to the imagination while making what you were imagining so within reach. Just reach in there and….

Anyway, eventually I convinced him to step outside with me. We stood on the street corner where we hemmed and hawed (which isn’t as much fun as hee-hawing) for a half hour before going back inside. You have to keep in mind that at this time in my sexual development I was still quite shy. The idea of simply asking “Can I fuck you?” would never have crossed my mind, let alone my lips, although that was all I was trying to hint at. During our conversation I found out he lived on a farm out in the middle of no where and that he wasn’t likely to invite me back there. We also determined that I lived too far away for him to come and stay at my place for the night. So we left it there, returned to the bar, and went our separate ways for the rest of the night.

Well, I’m not sure what it was (probably my burning desire and need to have physical contact with someone), but on my next trip to that bar (which he always seemed to be at) I laid it on the line and told him I’d be happy to spring for a hotel room. He said sure and we made our way to the local Super Eight or Motel Six where I had one of the most uncomfortable conversations with a motel clerk ever. The clerk insisted we get a room with two twin beds and since I felt like I was in a foreign country and did not want to get gay bashed, make a scene, or get arrested, I just went with it.

We got to the room and fell into one hell of a passionate embrace. The kisses were deep and hungry and I had a great time undoing the straps of his overalls, letting them fall to the floor. He was so incredibly smooth and had such a cute butt. He was so cute and boyish that part of my brain that worries about being a pedophile (we were the same age) kicked in for a moment, but soon we were both naked enough and busy enough that such thoughts were pushed aside to make room for more grownup ones. We got incredibly sweaty (the sheets were so wet we ended up having to use both beds). I kept trying to move him into a position where I could fuck him, but he’d slither out and move onto something else. I shot my load for the first time all over his stomach as we nut fucked each other like a couple of third graders. Not that we were done. We messed around for three hours before calling a halt to it. I came a second time while he… he didn’t cum at all. WTF?

Initially, we couldn’t talk about it because we were both shy with each other. I wanted so for him to get off. Did this mean he wasn’t attracted to me? Really? Because his kisses said otherwise. Was it me? Did I suck that bad in the sack? Well, the three hours spent sort of ruled that out, too. Our bodies drenched with sweat, we took turns showering and then laid on the bed together. In talking around the subject, I learned that he never cums. Huh? Not with men, anyway. Apparently he has an ex-wife and a child he sort of forgot to mention. He tells me that he feels so guilty about being gay that he can’t have an orgasm with another man.

You’d think that would be the end of it for me and him, but keep in mind that we are talking about Waterloo, Iowa, where, in my eyes, he was the only game in town. I should also like to point out a little habit I used to have regarding tricks I felt sorry for – I would decide it was up to me to rescue them! Yeah. I know. Right!

So, we kept ‘dating’ and eventually he invited me back to his farm. I was to follow him there. There was a full moon that night. I remember it vividly for it cast an eerie glow over everything in the front yard as came up the drive. Walking toward the house, we had to wind our way around a myriad of rusting, spiky-fingered, ancient farm equipment. It was like a scene out of a Stephen King novel. Part of me kept thinking it would all spring to life at any moment. Entering the house, I immediately sensed there was something very wrong in this little agricultural wonderland. My little man was a class A hoarder. There was so much stuff stacked on other stuff, I had to duck and weave as he led me to the couch, around which there loomed layers and layers of clothing and miscellaneous stuff. There, in the vast darkness, were birds in cages, making noise and pecking away at their food, excited by the presence of an outsider.

We sank, side by side, onto the sagging couch and proceeded to watch a movie. After a few minutes, we started making out and I was thinking… hey, tonight’s the night. Instead, he announced that he would give me a tour of the house. That meant going upstairs, where there was not a single piece of identifiable furniture, but the floor was littered with clothing, toys, candy wrappers and empty soda cans. He showed me his bed – which was basically a sheet on the floor with a blanket and a dirty pillow. Then he showed me where his ‘friend’ slept. By friend, I think he meant partner, and that only registered once I realized I knew who he was talking about – the black-haired, curly headed DJ at the bar who I thought was such a cutie and with whom certain vibes had been shared (and whom, I am sure, I would have slept with eventually had I remained in Iowa beyond that year). I asked my little cutie if his ‘friend’ knew that I was there, with him at the farm, and my little friend said, “Of course.” The concept of an open relationship was foreign to me at the time and I felt weirded out big time.

Well, information and stimulus overload took over. I wasn’t sure if he thought I was going to get naked with him in all that mess or not, but it didn’t matter as I made excuses and hightailed it out of there as soon as I could. As I fled the scene, I realized as much as I wanted to rescue him, I was more interested in saving myself. We never got naked again, although we did stay on friendly terms. It wasn’t long before his DJ boyfriend started batting his eyes and dropping hints. Yeah, if he’d come onto me today – I would have hit that, but at that time I still believed in fairy tales like monogamy and that sex should be, as George Michael had so eloquently put it ten years earlier, one on one.

I fell in with a different group shortly after that – the popular kids. They were reasonably educated, well-employed guys in their late twenties, early thirties – the movers and shakers of the gay community in Waterloo. Yeah, there were about six of them. Their sophistication level was a tad higher than the farm boys that surrounded them and in short order I began to fuck my way through their preppy, snobby ranks.

On one of my final visits to Waterloo, before leaving for La-la land, I got invited to an after hours party at this crazy-ass guy’s house. I decided to check it out. Our host was a tall, thin, dark-haired dude with a big smile and a very loud demeanor. I liked him – from a distance. The house was in a residential section of Waterloo, not far away from the bar. In order to get into the house one had to climb through the ripped up screen portion of the screen door. Inside… there was very, very little furniture, in fact, nothing to sit on at all. There was some heavy metal music blaring from a tinny stereo and everyone just sort of stood around in a circle in the dining room, as it was one of the few rooms with lights on. There was beer, but I didn’t get one as I never found the kitchen. I went to the bathroom at one point and was struck by just how un-party ready this dude’s house was… it was a mess. I thanked my host and bolted. Beer, heavy metal music and standing around in a circle? Not my idea of a party.

Needless to say, in L.A. there were no rednecks to run into. It wasn’t until I returned to Minneapolis and began prowling around some of the cruising areas that I ran into any again. One of my first encounters at the Prairie was with a redneck. He was in his late twenties, tall, thin, smooth and extremely white, save for the farmers tan on his arms. Not comfortable with fooling around at the Prairie, I followed him to his place – a farm out by Maple Grove. It was a nice, traditional spread. We walked around the farm naked, holding hands. In a picture postcard way, it was very sweet. Then we went into the house. Like the farm itself, the house was very neat and reminded me of a lot of the farmhouses I grew up in the Midwest – except this one felt like a movie or theatre set; like an approximation of a farmhouse. It was all a little too on the nose.

We played in his bedroom, which lacked any sign of a personality; which wasn’t surprising since my farm boy turned out to be lacking in that department as well. The sex was almost identical to what I had experienced in Iowa – lots of movement, lots of sweat equity with very little payout. It was frustrating. I came, he didn’t and there was no penetration. Is this something common with rednecks? Is the guilt of gay sex so overpowering that they can’t allow themselves to enjoy it? Then why bother? On top of the lackluster delivery, this dude could not kiss to save his soul, although the fact that he was willing was surprising – you have to give him credit for that. I ended up leaving feeling highly dissatisfied and a tad wistful, since the life I had envisioned for the two of us, living on a farm, wandering around naked, was not going to be happening.

So, I think guilt does play a role in inhibiting a redneck’s ability to enjoy gay sex, but only the Caucasian ones. Yes, there are indeed non-Caucasian rednecks – white trash of the Hispanic kind; a better groomed variation with clean, but cluttered houses. While guilt might inhibit their white counterparts, the Latino redneck has no problem diving in the waters of homo sex only to come rising back to the surface saturated and dripping with it.

Take my experience with a hot dude out in Apple Valley – actually it may even have been beyond Apple Valley, but close enough. We chatted back and forth until I made up my mind to commit myself to the hour drive it would take me to get to his place. Distance is always an issue when considering whether or not to hook up, and I tend to waffle about committing to anything that takes more than 20 minutes (that’s true about the actual sex, too). He confessed early on in the conversation that he rarely got guys to visit, so I decided to man up and get behind the wheel. I arrived a little later than I had hoped, only to discover that he lived in a trailer park, in a trailer home. Not a big deal to me, I’m no snob. I took note of all the seasonal lawn decorations that littered his front tiny lawn and walk way. I felt like I was entering Santaland! He greeted me at the front door. In person, he seemed much shorter than I had expected – never a deal breaker, just surprising. Little guys can be very tasty. He had a mop of black hair that had a bit of a curl to it (done in a John Oates sort of mullet), a handsome, macho mustache, a beautiful smile and a bit of the devil in his eyes. Oh, I know – he looked like a short version of Jim Croce! Really!

The house was clean and neat, but stuffed to the gills. He led me down a narrow hallway, made all the more narrow by the mounds of stuff that lined one side of it. With just enough space to leap onto the bed, I made myself at home as my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. They grew wider the more they took in – dude had a serious home shopping network addiction. For the first ten minutes we sat side by side on the bed as he pointed out, with pride, his various acquisitions, which he referred to as art. Ah, art, like beauty and acquired tastes, is in the eye of the beholder. He seemed particularly proud of a touch lamp he had recently purchased – it had three light level settings, and was made of brass and glass!

As I lay on his Marilyn Monroe bedspread, staring at his collection of bedroom tchotchkes, that very familiar feeling of wanting to rescue this little well-appointed redneck swept over me. I shook it off and reminded myself that, for him, this – all this stuff – represented, not future kitsch, but achievement of the American Dream. At that moment, I looked over at him, his smile and eyes wide and alert like a delighted child, leaned in and planted a deep, hot kiss on his mouth. His mouth immediately responded, meshing with mine instantly and we were off to the races. He was a good kisser. And rimmer. And dick sucker. And arm pit eater. And ear licker. Oh! Oh, my… my ears! Passionate and good to go from the get go; I had a great time exploring his tiny frame and gigantic cock. Those short dudes, man… God may fuck them in the head by denying them height, but he frequently rewards them elsewhere. I think we spent 30 minutes alone just 69ing. We were at the 45 minute mark (I knew this because of the LED display lodged at the base of his Betty Boop Alarm clock on the night stand continually beckoned my eyes throughout the evening), when he hauled my legs up in the air and began to tease my hole with the head of his dick. After slipping on a condom, he dove in and proceeded to fuck me every which way but loose for a solid half hour. We kissed the entire time and when he was ready to shoot, I begged him to pull out, remove the condom and baptize me with his load. His load flying was a thing of beauty. My chest and stomach sufficiently glazed, I added my own load to his and ended up feeling like a fresh, warm, cum-covered Crispy Crème.

Unsurprisingly, after toweling, off, the romance was over, but the tour had just begun. I met his dogs, a couple of tiny, yippy Papillions, before being shown his plastic encased living room which was filled to the brim with what-nots and knick-knacks. Dude had a lot of shiny, new things. Not my taste at all, but more power to him. So what qualifies him as a redneck? Well, he’s not so much a redneck, as white trash. I guess it would be the trailer, the dubious taste level, the tasteful mullet, the hoarding tendency and overriding pride that kind of helps pigeonhole him. I thought he was really a nice guy, and a great fuck, but we never got together again. The overall experience was bittersweet, and I tend to avoid things that make me sad.

My Conclusion:

I believe that our roots have a lot to do with whom and what we seek out or appreciate in our adult lives. Preppy, suburban kids grow up unexposed to real white trash culture, so they simply aren’t able to relate to it. For them and those like them, ‘those people’ will always exist in another world, over there, as a foreign concept; a cliché, a cartoon. The more privileged an individual is the less likely they will be able to see the charm that exists in a man who embodies some of the baser, rural, backwoods qualities of Americana. Having come from that, it speaks to me. I have tried to better my lot in life, and succeeded up to a point, but not to the degree where I can deny that part of me that appreciates the masculine appeal of a redneck man. So, I’m thinking this particular Acquired Taste is something one doesn’t so much acquire, but is born into.

‘nuff said.

Next week: Size (Queens)


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