By JEFF STEIN A few years ago a Washington, D.C. writer and his friend were driving through rural Virginia when their car overheated. They rolled into the parking lot of a lonely-looking roadhouse and decided to have a few beers while the engine cooled off. A few motorcycles slanted at the door. Inside, the jukebox banged out honky-tonk. Husky men in biker's vests played pool and swigged from Budweisers. It looked like a typical redneck hangout, in short -- until they noticed two men kissing in a corner. "Jesus, look at that," one of the writers whispered with a chuckle. Unfortunately for him, one of the men overheard the remark, stomped over to the bar, and lifted him off his stool by his shirt. "The only thing I like more than suckin' dick," he growled, "is beatin' the shit out of twerps like you." Redneck gays: Nothing could be farther from the media stereotype -- the bête noir of the Christian Right -- of sissified, ultra-liberal, urban professionals who have "chosen" a decadent "lifestyle." Far from San Francisco and New York, though, redneck gays have been a constant, if shadowy presence in the South since, well, since the South began. These construction workers, plumbers, electricians, security guards, and even U.S. Marines are not just a silent minority, however, they're invisible -- except to their secret lovers. They're not just in the closet, they're in the cellar. "We're finding that more and more of our church is made up of blue collar folk," says Mel White, a former speech writer for Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Oliver North and other Christian conservatives, who "came out" in 1991. "They're wonderful, salt of the earth people without a great language ability or influence." But "just like anybody else, they have to find someplace to go on a Friday night," White says. Unfortunately, that place usually is a furtive encounter in a car, the bushes, or the private home of a known gay man they've sought out. A gay bar is usually the last place you'll find them, not just because gay bars are scarce in the rural South, but because going to one would expose them to possible ridicule, and even danger. Worse, many of their partners say, it would be an admission to themselves that they like sex with men -- something most of these often-married men can't face. "Sometimes the guys I meet will say, 'I am not gay!'" laughs Sam Emory, a 35-year-old waiter in Fredericksburg, Virginia. "So, I'll say, I don't care if you're gay or not, I just want you to get me off -- I just want to have fun!" He laughs again. "I tell 'em I hate fags, I just want to have fun. I say I have a dog for love, and men for sex, let's get it on." Emory, an easygoing man with wavy black hair and plain plastic glasses, grew up in rural Virginia and enjoys having sex with rednecks, including Marines from the nearby base at Quantico. "They're like fresh milk, instead of pasteurized. They're so raw, they're fun. They say what they feel, and if they don't like you, they tell you." "The one thing they do have in common -- well, it's funny," he says. "They all like to keep their socks on. I guess they think they're not naked that way. But they always won't do one thing: If they kiss you, or if you have oral sex with them, then you can't fuck 'em. Or if they come into you, you can't kiss them. They always hold one thing out. I guess in their minds that makes them straight or something. I don't know. " He chuckles. "They never call themselves gay. And you never use that word, or you'll never get what you want." "One of my favorites," Emory goes on, "is when they constantly remind me, 'You don't know what would happen if people found out, blah-blah-blah.' It gets to the point where it wears me out! I mean, we've been having sex for six years. He gets so upset about it. He's just an alcoholic, drug addicted, partying redneck. He doesn't have anything, per se, except his image. He's a real rural, Spotsylvania County farm boy." Emory remembers something and smiles. "I mean, he said he started his sexual life with sheep, moved on to women, and then to men. I said, 'You're kidding!' He said, 'No, that's what happened.'" Joseph Merriman, 42, grew up gay in the foothills of southwest Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains. "No one ever classified themselves as gay, you know. In the early 60s, that's just the way it was. And the word homosexual definitely didn't register....It was just never stated, it was never brought up. They'd say, 'So, you going to be a bachelor?' Bachelor was always the word. Never gay." Virginia, like other southern states, puts a heavy emphasis on getting married young and having kids, Merriman explains. "They do it so young, and later on they realize, 'Hmmm, this isn't the cup of tea I ordered.' And so they come out later." If at all. Three years ago, after starting successful restaurants in Richmond and New York City, the elegant, soft-spoken Merriman returned to Virginia and opened a "gay friendly" restaurant and bar in the historic district of Fredericksburg, a colonial-era village 50 miles south of Washington, DC. It was a gastronomical hit with the local gentry, but the back room was also the first place of its kind. It quickly became a magnet for all kinds of people, not just the area's surprisingly large population of gays and lesbians. Straights, blacks, Asians, and the occasional crossdresser felt comfortable here, too, from all appearances. On warm spring nights, a pickup truck slows down as they pass Merriman's, its driver in a cowboy hat and jean jacket swigging a beer and checking out the customers going in and out. He'll just circle the place a dozen times, apparently frozen by fear and indecision. "They're screaming 'faggot' out the windows," says Merriman, "when they're dying to get in here and take part in what's going on. But they don't know how to fit in, or what to say, or how to find someone. We've had many of that type come in, who are just ... they don't have their identity." Eventually, some do screw up the courage to come in, acting aloof or even hostile at first. Occasionally they start a fight, or vandalize a car outside. Usually, however, Merriman says, they loosen up after awhile. "All it takes it takes is just a few nice words. You sit down and chat with them, and then they calm down. They have this shell built up. They're very guarded, very careful." And often angry, especially when the prospect of sex is in the air -- their conflicting emotions crackling like heat lightning on a summer night. One rainy evening, Sam Emory recalled, a man got into his car. The man stared wordlessly ahead in the darkness for a few moments, and then whispered, "I feel like hurtin' somebody." Another time he watched a young man leave his house after sex and start a fight with somebody on the sidewalk. "They're not all angry," he says. "But one guy always says to me, 'They'll find you in a ditch sometime if you tell anyone.'" One of Emory's friends, Buddy Powell, 30, calls himself "a redneck gay, no doubt about it." His reedy voice has the country twang of a Tidewater Virginian. "I love to hunt and fish. I love cookin' over an open fire and hangin' out with the boys." Powell barely graduated from high school, and between troubles with alcohol, works as a carpenter. "I come out of Spotsylvania, in this redneck atmosphere," he said quietly. "It's been incredibly difficult ... You have to be very careful about what you say and how you act." "Discrimination does happen," he says. "They stereotype me. Then you don't get any respect or anything. You're a queer. But when I get discriminated against, I get all rednecked, I get mad." Few dare to taunt him outright, though. "They know I'd knock the shit out of them if they tried," he says. Few seek psychiatric counseling. It's just not the redneck way of dealing with things. It's also prohibitively expensive, outside of the local mental health clinic. "I don't see many rednecks," says Dr. Frederick Bram, a Stafford County, VA psychiatrist. "The reason is, they're not sophisticated enough to understand how things in their own lives contribute to their problems....It's always somebody else doing something to them. It's never their problem. It's as if they just landed on the wrong planet." "They're always conservative, conservative all the way," says Chris Bragg, 23, a sandy-haired, movie-star handsome bartender at Merriman's. Bragg grew up in Athens, West Virginia, the son of professional parents. Ever since he was 13, he says, he has sought out rednecks as lovers. "They're extremely principled, and extremely emotional," he said over a drink on a night off. "When they feel something, it's deep rooted, very passionate..." How does he know? "You can feel it." Most, however, are not political. Their alienation, often accompanied by heavy drinking and drug use, extends to boycotting the ballot box. They may not like Bill Clinton, but if they slap a Rush Limbaugh sticker on the pick-up, it's likely just another piece of camouflage, like cussin' and drinkin', says Sam Emory. If they ever came out as a group, says Mel White, it would certainly throw a spike into the Christian Right's stereotype machine. "The redneck gay carpenter is the same guy who fixes your house, but he's just living in a dark place," White says. "It shows the genetic accident can hit anyone" -- and that's not what the Christian Right preaches. Is "redneck gays" an oxymoron, or is it just one stereotype pitted against another? Tell us what you think inTable Talk. Jeff Stein, who lives in Fredericksburg, Virginia, is the author of "A Murder in Wartime: The Untold Spy Story that Changed the Course of the Vietnam War."

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