Squirrel, Squirt, and Sprout
Andrew Jackson High 7
by George Gauthier
- Squirrel
"So tell me, Squirt, why are you still working for the swim team as their towel boy? That job was supposed to be for just your junior year, imposed by the court as community service instead of a stretch in juvie hall. You did your time, and the judge sealed your record. Now you are completely in the clear."
"Er, don't tell Paul this, he thinks it I am helping out because my uncle is the swim coach, but I really like being the towel boy. It is a lot of fun watching my Uncle Fred assume his tough coach persona, always bad mouthing the swimmers, gesturing histrionically, wincing theatrically when they do something wrong, shaking his head at their mistakes. Sometimes he just rolls his eyes heavenward in a silent appeal. His is always a masterly performance, because I know what my uncle Fred Conlon is like in private, and he is nothing like that at all. It is all an act, part of the job and necessary really to keep a bunch of hyperactive teens under control."
"Also, I like being towel boy for the chance I get to show off this trim tight physique of mine. Coach insists on nudity at swim practice, and as towel boy I am always standing by the pool, out of the water, with my nude body totally on display for the whole team and any visitors, why I get to be the most naked one of us all!"
"How is that. You are all nude, aren't you?"
"Sure, but since I am never in the water there is no choppy water or shiny shimmer between me and any interested eyeballs. It is just me standing out in the open, as big as life."
"You mean as little as life!"
"You should talk, Squirrel. I have almost two inches on you. Ha! Forget Squirrel maybe we should just call you Chipmunk."
"Hardly. A chipmunk is a ground squirrel, whereas I take to the trees. Besides my hair is auburn like a red squirrel's. No, Chipmunk would be your department, Alex Conlon."
"How so?"
"Aren't you forgetting that time I saw you and Paul in the backyard near the rose bushes. Gosh you looked ever so cute, kneeling between the big guy's legs, blond head bobbing away, pouty lips closed over his shaft, sucking and slurping, circling the glans with the tip of your tongue, doing everything in your power to drive him wild with your 'buccal ministrations', as you call them."
"And then you shifted your attentions to Paul's balls, kissing and licking and sucking them, finally managing to get both of them into your mouth at the same time, cheeks packed, eyes bulging. The sight set Paul to laughing. I nearly choked myself trying to keep quiet. Kneeling down there you looked like nothing so much as a demented chipmunk!"
"Oh, very funny. Actually you are probably right. I can tell you this much, it made me feel incredibly slutty."
"Oh? And here I thought you had the swim team for that, the way the swimmers have you pulling a train."
Squirt reddened. "How did you hear about that? Our practices are closed."
"Maybe so, but people talk. Like about a certain incredibly cute towel boy, generously endowed, who entertains near half the swim team after practice and a larger proportion after a victory at a swim meet. I am only surprised that, as the investigative reporter for the Andrew Jackson High Intelligencer, you haven't written an expose about these repeated assaults on the virtue of our young athletes. Their parents would thank you."
"Fat chance of that. Anyway, it's only a third of the team, and if anyone's virtue is being assaulted it is mine. I mean it started as a joke, just normal teenage grab ass after practice, just comradely embraces, then kissing and touching. Soon though questing hands started to linger and to roam. I suppose I could have drawn the line then and there, but I was flattered with the attentions from so many sexy boys, all with shapely athletic bodies. So I let them fondle and pet me. Next thing I knew a guy behind me was pressing down on my shoulders. Automatically I sank to my knees to the shower room floor as they presented with their cocks for servicing.
What was I to do, all 62 inches and 103 pounds of me, kneeling submissively, surrounded by so many bigger guys, all of them athletes? They said I owed them for being such a cock tease, strutting my stuff all the time at practice. All right, with my exhibitionist streak, I suppose there was some truth in that. They pressed around me, so much naked boy flesh, all of that smooth and glabrous skin stretched over the tight musculature of young males with swimmer's builds. And their hands were everywhere, exploring, petting, stroking, and delving or holding me in place or spreading my limbs for access to my holes.
Not that there was any rough stuff. Not at all. They were team mates, my friends and my fan club. A group of admirers, who unlike so many others, did not have to look on from afar. I was right there with them, alone with them, naked and available for whatever use their libidos and mine could devise for such a situation. They told me how cute and sexy I looked, how much fun they were going to have with me, and how much fun I would have as their sex toy. My head was in a whirl, my body on fire, and my cock hard as a poker."
"So there I was kneeling on the tiles, as the first boy presented his heavy cock for service, clubbing my cheeks with his turgid member, knocking with the knob for me to open up. I parted my lips to explain that this was so sudden, maybe we should take it slow, maybe reconsider. I didn't get very far with verbal protests as he put the head of his cock in my mouth and told me to make him feel good. There I was, the head of a boy's cock in my mouth, another boy behind me, probing my bum with his fingers, penetrating my hole and spreading shampoo as a lubricant. I sighed and gave in to to the good feelings coursing through me, surrendering myself to the randy swim team boys, obediently sucking on any cock presented for service and/or taking it up the ass."
"Strong arms pressed me forward, making me bend over onto all fours, just as the swimmer behind me impaled me on his cock, entering me in a sudden swift impalement. As I gasped and struggled to accept his huge shaft, he fell into a rhythm of thrusts and pull backs, all the while his hands slapping my ass cheeks between thrusts. Other boys played with my body, tweaked my nipples, stroked my cock, weighed and rolled my balls and stroked my iron hard tallywhacker. So I was delirious from sucking cock and taking it up the ass at the same time."
"Just then uncle Fred came by the shower room, taking everything in at a glance.
"Hmmn, I see my nephew is preoccupied at the moment. Send him along to my office after you are done with him, would you? Oh, and I send me a copy of the stills and video from your phones. It is for the boy's scrap book, you understand. Memories of his time as the swim team mascot, as it were."
"When I met with the coach afterwards, I stood in from of his desk at attention, still stark naked, of course, as he told me his expectations from that point on. He did not criticize. He merely pointed out that after a scene like the one he had just witnessed I could not play favorites among the team mates. As coach he had no time for rivalries and jealous boyfriends on the team. From this point on he expected me to service all his boys cheerfully and enthusiastically, like any good towel boy should or quit the team."
"So that made it official. Thanks to the coach, I was now the team mascot cum boy toy. Now it is a regular thing."
"I don't see you running away in horror or quitting the team."
Squirt grinned. "You know me too well, Brandon O'Rourke de Lyautey."
I rode my bicycle back home. These days home means the residence of my close friend, William Pierpoint Tagliaferro IV or Sprout. His pops (WPT III) is an financial analyst and comfortably well off. Sprout is a millionaire in his own right, from his lawsuit against Sir, the leather master who enslaved him briefly last year.
I work in their home as a live-in house boy and cook. For that I get a room of my own with a half bath and the same allowance Sprout's pops gives him. He explained to me that blood ties did not change his estimate of how much an eighteen year old boy living at home ought to have at his disposal. I was deeply moved by his generosity. I do have a nest egg of my own from my late foster father' life insurance and savings. With the real estate crash he had lost whatever equity he had had in his house, so I got next to nothing for that.
I was left effectively an orphan after the killing of my foster father, M. Pierre Lyautey, the finest man I have ever know. He lost his life shooting it out with thugs whom a mobster named Saragossa had sent after me. It had all started with the accidental death of a murderous bully, the son of that same mobster, who had tried to rape and kill me. Knowing I would not be safe in custody or at home and would only put those around me in danger I took to the woods, familiar to all of us from our frequent nude botanical safaris.
The murder of my foster father lead directly to the resolution of the whole affair. Just as the wily old Cajun had predicted. Thirty men with shotguns and AK-47s drove all the way from Cajun country. In small groups, and by different routes the avengers converged on Casa Saragossa, surrounded the house, made sure the old man was inside with his bodyguards and that the servants had left for the day, and moved in, guns blazing. They killed everyone one and everything including the guard dogs, but spared mama cat and her kittens. That was their way. That was their law. Cajun law.
At home I found Sprout and his pops going through family albums of old photos all spread out on the carpet, choosing which ones to scan and digitize. They looked so good together, quietly harmonious, father and son, even if the latter was sitting cross-legged on the floor stark naked. The young Sprout was working with his tablet to record his father's verbal observations and reminiscences. Combined with research on genealogy sites, they were preparing a visual family history.
They talked in family shorthand about their ancestors, WPT I, PWT II. Sprout's pops and he were WPT III and IV respectively. Sprout should have been VI except a couple of generations switched the spelling to a more phonetic Toliver, even though it is nothing like the pronunciation in the original Italian.
WPT III chuckled.
"Ah, here is my great uncle, P. Thompson Tagliaferro. Tommy, to his contemporaries. Sir, to me back then as a very small boy. Anyway, he just hated Nixon and Watergate for ruining a perfectly good naming convention of using just a first initial. The middle name becomes your name of address. So many of these Watergate figures had similar names like G. Gordon Liddy or E. Howard Hunt or L. Patrick Gray."
"Old Tommy, as I can call him now, actually stopped using the P for a while except for legal purposes. Well, he was a Democrat anyway, in the days just before the solid Democratic South turned Republican for reasons of racial politics. Something else to blame Nixon for."
By the way, Sprout once told me that the surname Nixon is a patronymic. It actually means 'son of Nicholas or Nick's son.
"Should I leave, Brandon? I can see you are just bursting with something to say to my son."
"Thanks sir. I guess you can read me pretty well now."
After he left us I went into full gossip mode.
"Did you know that Squirt was carrying on with nearly half the swim team. After every practice it is gang bang time."
WPT IV grinned.
"Why am I not surprised?."
"I wonder if Paul knows Squirt regularly pulls a train?" Sprout asked.
"I don't think he does. Just the other day he wondered out loud how a towel boy can come home so tuckered out after a practice session when all he does is hand out towels and wash the dirty laundry."
"So let's stir the pot and drop a hint."
"What? Me, gossip about friends?"
"Yes you."
We chuckled conspiratorially.
- Sprout
Pops is totally cool about with our perpetual nudity in and around the house. I mean there we sit, three naked boys, our cocks in full view, unconcealed, knowing that when aroused those same male members have thoroughly explored both my orifices. He sits there knowing that I have licked and sucked on their cocks, tasting their pre-cum, savoring and swallowing the milky white semen Squirt's and Zach nuts deliver to my eager mouth.
And I was the inspiration for our group's casual nudity. First it was just me in the garden but soon Zach joined me there then later indoors as well as out. Then Squirt and Paul as a couple joined our exclusive club. Finally Squirrel, Brandon, who has become more than a friend, almost a brother.
Squirrel and I really bonded after I risked my own safety playing decoy in the nature preserves, running around starkers pretending I was him on the run, the much sought after teenage fugitive who had killed the gangster's son. Then my pops invited him to live with us after his foster father got killed by hitmen. Old man Lyautey managed to shoot two of the mobster's thugs with his AR-15, his varmint rifle, he called it, a civilian version of the M-16 he had carried as a young infantryman in Vietnam. Out of respect and gratitude, Squirrel, that is Brandon, took the old man's name.
The five of us boys make for quite a tangle of social connections, but it works for us, without the petty jealousies you might expect. It helps that no boy belongs exclusively to another. The strongest personal and romantic bond between any two of us is that between me and Zach. He has been part of my life since kindergarten. I cannot imagine existence without him.
Paul and Squirt were level-headed going into their relationship. Paul accepted that Squirt would not be his exclusively, that he might seek other boys or they him, though he might not know about the swim team. Squirt knew that Paul would always date girls and that Paul's potential grandchildren were much less hypothetical than his own. I can even imagine Squirt as best man at Paul's wedding someday. I hope the girl he chooses to wed has an understanding nature. I am sure Paul won't give up boys entirely even after he marries, now that he knows what delights we offer.
Squirrel and I are close, living under the same roof as we do, and under the hands-off but firm supervision of my pops, a really great dad. We sleep with each other and with Zach, whether in threesomes or pairing off. When all three get in the shower at once, it is a hell of a lot of fun, though sometimes pops yells at us for using up all the hot water. It does take a while for the solar heater on the roof to refill the tank.
And since we spend so much time together naked, we are intimately familiar with each other's bodies. It must mean something that three of us are such little guys, all within two inches of five feet and no more than six pounds heavier than the proverbial 98 pound weakling. Only Zach is of normal height and he is still only five-nine. Myself and Squirt both have blond hair and green eyes. Zach and Paul are dark, while Squirrel's hair is auburn (making him a red squirrel, in his own mind).
We are all of us boys not quite grown into men, our mostly androgynous if wiry physiques and fine-boned features evidence that, even when we eventually mature, we are likely to fall far short of normal male standards in height, muscular development, and secondary sexual characteristics like beard and body hair, even if we hadn't used permanent depilatories.
Physicality aside, the five of us have compatible personalities. We fit well together. We laugh at each other's jokes and share many interests. All of us are brighter than average, frighteningly so in Zach's case with myself and Squirt not all that far behind. Paul and Squirt are into the arts. Paul paints and Squirt sings in the choir. The little guy is also an investigative reporter for the school paper. Except Paul who is a freshman in college, we all lead busy lives as seniors at AJHS. We all wonder whether next year will separates us. How will our close relationship fare in the years to come.
But first we have to get to next year alive and free. Most of us have had to face danger or adversity: me as a leather man's sex slave, Squirrel as an intended victim of rape and murder by that young gangster and later as a naked fugitive in the woods, Zach and me as virtual sex slaves last summer in Haiti. Squirt got blackmailed and raped by that teacher. (I don't count what the swim team does with him as adversity.)
Paul is the exception. No reason to wonder why. Over six foot tall, sturdily built, a letterman in the tough sport of lacrosse, no one wants to cross him. He just does not look like a victim.
Unfortunately the rest of us do.
I wondered if maybe we needed an equalizer, some way to protect ourselves. I proceeded to inventory where we stood in the way of capabilities for protection and self-defense.
Zach has some martial arts training and both of us know a little stick fighting, but we usually carry sticks only on our bare-ass nature safaris. I practice taiqi and Squirt does the same with yoga, but that is for flexibility rather than martial arts training. With his parkour skills, Squirrel's best tactic is to climb out of reach. That is about it. Not much really.
I asked around. Coach Conlon knew just the man and put me in touch with him. I expected another Coach Conlon type, but this man was very far from that stereotype. He was a little under middle height, say five-eight and lean, about forty, his close-cropped brown hair had a touch of gray at the temples. His name was Sam Arden. We set up an appointment.
He asked that all four of us to ride over on our bicycles rather than drive. He was waiting for us at the door of his dojo, gauging us appraisingly as we pulled up. He could see that we were sweating freely but were still peppy from the ride over of about eight miles. He could see most of our bodies since all we had on were bicycle shorts and sandals or shoes. With a nod he turned and lead us inside.
"My name is Sam Arden. Today is a get acquainted session, mostly for me to find out if I really want to train you boys at all. Some boys go sour after they get some training in the protective arts, become over-confident, with a chip on their shoulders. In the early days, some turned into bullies. I am more choosy now about my clients. So I am going to put you through your paces and let you know my decision in a couple of days."
"All right, you boys are more than three quarters naked already, so strip off those shorts and footwear and put your gear in one of these small cubicles, then step out back."
Not being body shy, we did as he asked and soon found ourselves standing in the open our feet on composite matting. Along two sides of a square were the wings of the L shaped building. On the other two were hedges that provided privacy for naked athletics. The man took blood and urine samples then made us hold out our hands fingers extended. He examined our hands and arms closely. Then had us put up our feet up on a bench, one at a time, and scrutinized them."
"No puncture marks, so you boys don't inject drugs. What about smoking or ingesting? Tell the truth now. Lab work will show if you are lying. You don't ever want to lie to me boys. I have no patience with it."
"Nossir, we chorused. "We never do drugs. No way."
"Our bodies are temples." Squirt volunteered.
"Yes, temples with many worshippers, as I heard it, Haitian boys, half the swim team, and sundry others too numerous to mention."
We all blushed. Obviously our reputations had preceded us.
"I don't even like caffeine." Squirrel ventured. "I drink decaf."
"Nothing wrong with a robust cup of coffee boy, but I won't hold your preference against you."
"I am not here to teach you to be a fighter. What I teach is how to be a survivor. Sometimes you fight; sometimes you run; sometimes you talk your way out of trouble. Mostly you learn the signs of trouble brewing and either defuse the situation or extricate yourself from it. The best way to deal with trouble is not to be there when it happens."
"With me you will learn much more than fighting skills. You will learn to maintain situational awareness, methods of escape and evasion, improvised weaponry, and how to see trouble coming and how to negotiate your way out of it. As for fighting skills, you will learn mostly about how to get into the clear, using agility and opponent's size and weight against him, to throw him to the ground while you take off."
"I don't want to ever see a student of mine going around with a chip on his shoulder daring anyone to knock it off just so he can show off the neat moves Sam Arden has taught him. I am not training bullies. I guess boys your size already know what it is like to be on the receiving end. Well turn about is NOT fair play. Understand?"
"You boys are just the right physical types for my training. It isn't really appreciated that in the US of A and in the NATO countries generally Special Forces don't recruit big muscular guys. Their training puts the emphasis on endurance rather than sheer strength. That is why they recruit a lot of small whippy guys like you, guys built like marathon runners or swimmers or acrobats, all sinewy and lean, and have them run forty miles a day with full packs."
"I will trust you to maintain a decent level of fitness and stamina, whether on your bikes or running or swimming. Don't ever drive over here. Come like today or on foot. I like to see my boys sweat."
"And you all should take up the sport of parkour. It is the best way to get out of a tight spot. If bad guys corner you in an alley, you scramble up a drain pipe and out of reach, and leave them gaping. That sort of thing."
"Join the parkour club at your high school. I understand one of you is already a member. That would be you Brandon. No offense but I cannot bring myself to call a boy near grown into a man Squirrel or Squirt, or Sprout. So to me, you are Brandon, Alex, Will, and Zach. Is that understood?"
"I train you naked so I can see everything your body is doing whether still or in motion. Also, it teaches you to rely on just yourself, your unaided physical powers for defense. Anyway, as I hear it, you boys spend a whole lot of your time in the nude. Later on we will get to the use of your clothing as an improvised weapon, say tossing a baseball cap into someone's face as a momentary distraction while you kick him in the balls. Or how to slip out of a shirt someone has grabbed you by and leave him looking stupid, standing there with an empty shirt in his hand and no boy inside it."
"Oh. Let's settle one thing right at the beginning. I am not blind. I can see that you are all walking wet dreams with a strong appeal to those in your own demographic and to misguided females hoping to convert you. Fine. Live and let live I say. Just understand. No matter how much I might touch you during training, no matter that I insist on nudity for most of your training, I am sexually indifferent to young males, even ones as impossibly pretty as you are. Understand?"
"Yessir, and fair enough."
"Good answer."
He then put us through some yoga drills to gauge our flexibility. Then came pretty normal calisthenics. He had us pair off in impromptu wrestling matches not to judge our technique but our physical capabilities. Then he let us shower and take off. Two days later his phone call confirmed we were Sam Arden's next batch of students.
- Squirrel
By artful hints, I led Paul to figure out, on his own, what Squirt was doing with the swim team. The revelation had the poor kid blushing furiously as he stammered out his confession to Paul, about how he had been pulling a train for the swim team. For his part, Paul was unruffled at the news. As I had expected him to be, knowing the guy as well as I do.
"What? You kept quiet because you thought I would be upset or jealous. Just because you were having some extracurricular fun? You know me better than that, Squirt. I am not the possessive type."
"It would be different if they had really forced themselves on you. Then I would angry, with them, not you. In which case, I would expect that some of their chins would soon connect, quite accidentally of course, with my big right fist. Just like with old man Chambers."
Squirt was so giddy with relief it was comical. Actually he was a good sport about the whole thing, smiling abashedly, hugging Paul, but shaking his finger at both me and Sprout in mock menace.
A week later, something happened that I thought was payback but turned out not to be at all.
I should mention that Squirt and I sometimes use the pool at night, after hours. He has the keys after all. We like to have the Olympic size pool all to ourselves. It is so private there with the overhead lights out. Just some underwater lights and whatever comes in through the glass brick from the pathway lighting outside. It feels great swimming naked, with a lane to myself when I do laps but with a friend in the next lane when it comes time for horsing around.
I looked over at Squirt and found him trying to float on his back as coach had taught him, chest high, lungs inflated, head bent back awkwardly. It is the posture you assume when you really cannot float, and Squirt could not. Squirt had to scull with arms and legs constantly to keep the rest of his body from sinking. Only his thick cock floated naturally toward the surface. He saw the way I was looking at it and splashed water in my face.
"Look at it this way." I said, "If you start to drown, I'll have a good handle to grab and haul you to the side of the pool."
"Oh very funny."
Whe were relaxing, holding onto the slop trough along the side of the pool after a long swim when he heard the voices of young males in the corridor outside. The overhead lights sprang on and half the school's wrestling team filed through the door, all of them in their wrestling jerseys. Their captain Luke Edwards addressed his boys.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here? Gentlemen? It seems we have two skinny skinny dippers skinny dipping in our school pool. And correct me if I am wrong, but I do believe these two skinny dippers are none other than the notorious Squirt and Squirrel, neither of whom has much use for clothes in or out of the water. Just as well they are naked."
"Clamber out of there you two, miscreants."
Wrestlers took hold of our arms and held us firmly in place. Edwards nodded at me but stepped in front of Squirt, looking him up and down appraisingly. Really down and down. Squirt stands only five-foot two after all. I saw how worried he looked. How could he not be intimidated by the height and size and strength of the wrestler. Sometimes it is real disadvantage to be a cute little twink, aka walking wet dream. Like when you are stark naked, totally vulnerable, and surrounded by half the wrestling team.
Edward's right hand reached out and tugged and twisted Squirt's nipples, always one of his most sensitive erogenous zones. Fingernails dug in hard, bringing a hiss of pain from the little guy. The wrestler smiled.
"You strike me as one of those pretty boys who likes it rough, a submissive twink who likes to be dominated by big guys, ordered about, spanked, held open spread-eagle as real men work your holes."
His hand closed over Squirts nuts and gave them a hard squeeze to establish his dominance. Squirt moaned as his legs buckled, but his captors held me up, ready for further torments.
As I stood there on the tiles, scared, nervous, and worried at my own fate Luke Edwards clapped me on the shoulder.
"Don't worry Squirrel you are in the clear, and thanks for letting the news out about how the towel boy has been pulling a train for the swimming team. That got us wrestlers wondering if he might like to wrestled with us, so to speak, take on the wrestling team as well. How fortunate that he is here alone naked and ready for us to play with. So my little red squirrel, as a reward you get to leave unmolested while we have some fun with your pal Squirt."
"What! Squirrel, you betrayed me? How could you do this. You practically set me up for a gang rape!"
Instantly I was contrite, cut to the quick by his plea.
"Oh Squirt. Forgive me for being such a blabbermouth. I had no idea the wrestlers would find out and want in on the deal."
"Luke, this is a very bad idea. Can't you call it off. You can see that Squirt is not interested in you guys."
"Call it off? Now? With six horny wrestlers impatient to jump his bones. That is asking a lot."
"All right, then. Take me instead. I give myself to you freely. Only don't hurt my friend."
"You would really do that for your friend? Let us fuck you? Maybe rough you up as well? You're not a pain slut, are you?"
"No, I am not, but yes, do whatever you want with me. If that means pain and humiliation, I deserve it. Maybe it will square things between us, me and my friend. This is all my fault. Sq... Alex is more than just a friend. I love him with all my heart and with all my body as well."
Edwards shook his head.
"Squirrel. You make me feel ashamed, and you really got us pegged wrong. From what we heard, we just assumed that we would be fulfilling one of Squirt's sexual fantasies with a round robin fucking. I mean, we are decent guys, when all is said and done. We are not into rape. No way."
"As for you, Squirt, I and sorry for the misunderstanding and the hurts I inflicted on you. Come on fellas. Let's leave these two lovebirds to patch up their relationship. Good luck with that, the both of you."
We both stood there silent for the longest while, myself in anguish with my guilt, uncertain what to say in such a delicate situation. When I finally started to speak, Squirt put a finger to my lips.
"You don't even have to ask, my love. There is nothing to forgive. You were my hero tonight, offering yourself to spare me. How can I not love you in turn? As I always have."
We embraced, cheek to cheek, and held each other close for a very long time then lay down on a gym mat for a slow, tender, and sensual evening of lovemaking. I cannot tell you how much I love that little guy. I am so lucky to be sharing my youth with Squirt and Sprout and Zach and Paul. No one knows what will happen in later life, but for now, we are together, the five of us.
Author's Note
If you have enjoyed this story and others like it, I hope you will consider making a donation to the Nifty Archive. It is so easy. They take credit cards.
This tale was inspired by my recent story 'Squirt' and is the seventh in a series set in and around a fictitious Andrew Jackson High School in South Florida.
Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I have written my first novel-length story, some 125 thousand words. Mostly I publish novelettes of 10 -15 thousand words.
The novel is in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in that genre it is set on an imaginary world where wizards and druids and others work real magic, a world populated by several sentient races including humans, elves, giants, and dwarves. Unlike most such worlds, this one has an awful lot of cute young guys running around in the skimpiest of costumes or even nothing at all, and taking every opportunity to hop into bed with each other and to switch partners.
Sorry, no dragons, but I'll bet you never read a tale that featured a naked teenage druid leading the charge of a herd of brontotheres against an army of Amazons. What is a brontothere? Look it up, but not in the dictionary. Try the Wikipedia instead.
Look for publication of my very first novel this summer on most of these same stations.
Readers who like this story might want to try my two series 'Daphne Boy' and 'Naked Prey' in the Gay/Historical section of the Archive or my 'Jungle Boy' series of Hollywood tales, posted in the Gay/Authoritarian section. Also available are my older 'Track and Field' stories in Gay/College and my 'Mer-Boy' stories in Gay/Beginnings. For links to my stories, look on the list of Prolific Authors on the Archive.
Comments and feedback welcome.