We all knew this kid in grade school, a borderline (if not outright) homophobic bully who was going to grow up oozing testosterone while simultaneously terrifying and exciting our pre-pubescent bodies in ways we didn't quite understand at the time. My own tormenter—let's call him Squire—while never getting physical with me, loved hurling "faggot" in my direction whenever we were out of earshot of any adults. This went on for years, and while it tapered off when we got to High School, it never ended completely. Thankfully by this time our paths seldom crossed, with him pursuing sports and me avoiding them.
And—of course—we all know what became of most of these school bullies, don't we?
Yup.
I ran into my own go-cart racing, faggot-spewing hellion in one of my favorite gay clubs about three years after we graduated high school.
He was there by himself, and looking quite studly in the jeans-and-generously-unbuttoned-flannel-shirt uniform of the day. In fact, he initially caught my eye for that very reason—until, of course, I realized who it was. We locked eyes, he got up from the bar stool he'd been sitting on, and in a flash was gone. I never saw him there again. I was quietly chuckling the rest of the evening, while thinking, "That explains so much!"