Reclaiming Gay Pride: Fuck Bareback, Get Bred, and Remember What It Means to Be Free

Gay Pride isn’t about rainbow logos.

It isn’t about corporate sponsorships, drag brunches, or performative allyship.

Gay Pride is when we fuck raw.
When we open our holes and take cock bare.
When we let a man pump his sperm into us, on purpose.
No fear. No shame. No filter.

That is pride.

Because gay sex has always been called immoral.
And every time we do it anyway?
That’s resistance. That’s protest. That’s the parade.

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1. We Were Criminalized for Wanting Each Other

Our history didn’t start with celebration.
It started with arrests. Raids. Violence. Silence.

Two men fucking was a crime.
Loving each other? A sin.
Being seen? Dangerous.

But we did it anyway.
In alleys. In trucks. In bathhouses. In basements.

We met. We moaned. We leaked.
And every drop of sperm we shared was a middle finger to the system that said we weren’t allowed.

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2. Gay Sex Is the Core of Our Identity—Not the Shame

For years, we were told to make ourselves palatable:

• “Don’t be too sexual.”

• “Don’t talk about hooking up.”

• “Don’t act like a stereotype.”

But here’s the truth:

Our sexuality is not a side effect.
It’s the origin.

Stonewall didn’t start because we wanted to get married.
It started because we wanted to exist.
To fuck. To gather. To be loud. To be whole.

And every time we open our hole and let a man finish inside us,
we carry that rebellion forward.

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3. Breeding Is Revolutionary

You know what the world hates most?

Two men making each other feel holy
through a cock and a cunt.

When he pushes in raw, and you take it all—
when he moans and dumps his seed into you—
you’re doing something more than hot.

You’re doing something powerful.

You’re saying:

• “I’m not afraid.”

• “I was made for this.”

• “This is my identity, and I celebrate it through flesh.”

• “My body isn’t sinful. It’s sacred.”

• “I fuck the way I was born to.”

And that’s more radical than any flag.

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4. Every Hookup Is a Parade

The world sees Pride as a once-a-year event.
But for pigs like us?
Every hookup is Pride.

When you:

• Get on your knees for a stranger

• Ride a man raw in a backroom

• Take a load in your cunt and walk around with it dripping down your leg

• Swallow cum and don’t say thank you

• Get bred three times in a night and wake up sore, open, leaking

That is Pride.

It’s unregulated. Unapologetic. Untamed.

Because being gay isn’t about fitting in.
It’s about taking the cock, taking the risk, and taking up space.

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Final Word:

So this Pride season, do what matters:

• Fuck raw

• Get filled

• Breed or be bred

• Leak in public

• Moan louder than the music

• Turn your cunt into a protest sign

You don’t need permission to celebrate.

You are the celebration.
And your next load?

It’s more radical than any rainbow ever printed.

Field Report: “Door Unlocked, Face Down, No Loads Refused—That’s My Pride Parade”

Submitted by a pig who didn’t march—but still got absolutely filled.

I put the ad up at noon sharp.

“Face down. Door unlocked. No names. No condoms. No loads refused. Breeding all day.”

The Pride parade was starting just a few blocks away.
I could already hear the music. The cheering.
The chants about love and acceptance.

And I was in my apartment, naked, lubed, plugged, and ready for the kind of pride that doesn’t come with corporate sponsorship.

---

The first one showed up ten minutes after I posted.

He didn’t knock.
He didn’t ask.

He walked in, spit on my hole, and shoved in.

I moaned into the pillow, the beat of the parade thumping through the open windows while his cock beat something deeper into me.

He dumped a thick load and left without a word.

---

The second came while I was still leaking.
Saw the plug on the floor.
Pulled it out of my cunt like a key to a door he already owned.

I took his load too.
And the third.
And the fourth.

No condoms.
No hesitation.
Just men walking from the parade with hard cocks and a need to leave their pride inside someone.

And I was waiting for it.

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Around mid-afternoon, I bent over the railing of my balcony.
Still dripping.
Still hungry.

One man came up behind me, grabbed my hips, and bred me in full view.

But no one noticed.
The music was too loud.
The streets were too full.

And I let him pump his DNA into me while rainbow flags fluttered below.

The second came while I was still leaking.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.

And that’s when it happened.

Two walked in at once.

Didn’t speak to each other.
Didn’t look at me like a person.
Just nodded, unzipped, and claimed space.

One slid into my throat.
The other took my cunt.
Rhythms mismatched, breath caught, mind melted.

I couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t think.
I just opened.

One would cum in my mouth, then switch.
Another came in.
A line formed.

I stopped counting names.
Stopped trying to focus.

I was meat.
Wet, hot, stretched meat with a hole that served one purpose.

And the more they used me, the more I understood:

“This is my job.
This is my calling.
This is my Pride.”

No stage.
No speeches.
Just a body that stayed in heat until the last cock was spent.

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By the end of the day, I’d lost count.

Ten?
Fifteen?
More?

Some said “Happy Pride” as they came.
Some didn’t say anything at all.
Just emptied themselves and left, zipper still down.

My sheets were soaked.
My cunt was raw.
My belly was warm with seed.

And when I finally crawled to the window to watch the parade wrap up—
Still leaking. Still twitching. Still full—

I whispered to myself:

“That was my Pride.”

Because I didn’t march.

I opened.
Served.
Took.
And got filled by men who weren’t ashamed to leave it in.

That’s my parade.
That’s my celebration.
That’s my body—proud, used, and dripping.