Squirt
by George Gauthier
- Tryouts
"OK, for those of you who may have come to the wrong place, these are the swim team tryouts here at Andrew Jackson High School. I am Coach Conlon. Coach or Sir, for short. Get it?"
"Boys only, so if there are any girls from the other side of the campus under those shapeless outfits, better git, since you are all about to git naked anyway. Get it?
That's right, young scholars, nude, naked, starkers. Any of you beauties is body shy, you came to the wrong place."
After the boys had stripped and set their clothes aside, the coach explained.
"We don't want stage fright or culture shock on the day of our first swim meet, so we train you naked because you will compete in front of a large crowd in the skimpiest of racing briefs. As you will soon learn, they are made of form fitting fabric so thin, in front, as to leave almost nothing to the imagination, not the position, not the size, not the shape or your manly parts. And that is before the racing briefs get wet. Now despite the rumors you may have heard, the fabric does not actually turn translucent. It keeps its color, which is sky blue.
The school colors are white and blue, so the briefs are blue in front and white in back to cover your ass, or part of it anyway. And since the fabric hugs the curves of your bum, all those nooks and crannies and cleavages, well it hardly matters whether the fabric is white or translucent.
Anyway all of your bums is white except for those two fine looking fellows standing near the door to the locker room and not paying attention. Yes, I do mean you. What shall I call you two? Ah, I have it, Dumb and Dumber." Now as I am a fair man, you two will have a chance to prove yourselves at the trials, no hard feelings for your inattention just now, and maybe afterwards I will start calling you something else, maybe even call you by your names.
Remember young scholars. I allow each of you one big mistake, and those two fellows have had theirs.
"Now boys, and I can see now that you really are all boys, you will probably hear well-meaning folks tell you that Coach Conlon is not so bad, he's really a sweet guy under that rough exterior, tough but fair, a father figure or a big brother, if the truth were known, all bark and no bite, and such reassuring cliches."
"Wrong!"
"Make no mistake. I am a hard case. I can be a real SOB when I set my mind to it, or you make me. School Board doesn't like me to spell that out, so we will just leave it at that. I am here to work you. Work you hard. Anyone don't have the stomach for it, leave now before I gotta kick you out. I have high standards. No disgrace if you don't make it here. Just means you were cut out for something else. Go in peace and find out what that is. But please do not waste my time."
And so it went, basically the same speech every coach who wishes he were still an army drill sergeant delivered to the hapless kids freshly placed in his care at the start of the training season, which was five weeks before classes resumed in the fall. That's right. Not even August for a couple more days, and I was back in high school for my junior year standing around starkers in public, which can be a problem for a kid like me.
You see, I pack a really big one.
So what is the problem? Well to start with I am a little guy everywhere except down there. And my little guy down there isn't so very little. Me, I stand five foot two when I just hop out of bed and weigh in at 103 pounds after a big dinner and before a dump. My little guy, who isn't so little, well I never weighed him, but he is thick, heavy, and pendulous, a real swinging dick. Mine is one of those that doesn't get a whole lot longer when he stands up. He doesn't have to. Flaccid I reach nearly halfway to my knees, or so it seems looking down at myself. The ruler says eight inches, which is more than a lot of guys have erect. Even big guys, and I am tiny.
It doesn't help that I don't have a feather down there, nor anywhere else below the neck. Like a lot of young guys these day I got treatments with those new depilatories that put the hair follicles to sleep permanently. And put Gillette right out of business. Which makes what I got at the fork of my legs look that much bigger.
You can guess what problems that causes the little guy with the big little guy between his legs. Sounds like a river in Montana, doesn't it, like where that fool Custer got himself killed. On second thought, that would make it my little big guy, which doesn't make sense.
At least I didn't have to shave my arms and legs and chest to try out for the swim team. Nothing there already when they signed me up. Glabrous someone described it, and yes, I had to look that one up in the dictionary.
As for the coach's fractured English. It was all for effect. I have it on good authority (my father) that the coach has a Master's in English and speaks three foreign languages all of them fluently and with pretty good accents. Rumor has it he writes poetry or once did, but he would probably kill anyone he traced that rumor back to, so forget I said it. Anyway, his bad grammar is all an act.
That is not criticism. Just an observation. That is how a high school coach has to play it with what would otherwise soon be an out of control bunch of hyperactive teenagers. Hyperactive or horny which means the same thing for a sixteen year old high school soon-to-be junior. Actually I have a lot of respect for the coach, looking back on it all, now that I am about to graduate college and go into the Army. Be All You Can Be and all that good stuff. But that is now. Back to then.
"Alex! Get you ass over here and weigh in."
That's me, Alex Conlon. That's right, the great man's nephew. His hitherto scapegrace nephew, to be exact. Book smart but street stupid. Self-centered, bookish, even introverted, doesn't work and play well with others. Me, Alex Conlon. a.k.a. 'Squirt', which I will explain shortly.
Don't think going out for the team was my idea. It was either that or juvie hall. The authorities weren't going to let me bum around the rest of the summer on my own, especially with my dad away so often on business (he is a big contractor). Hence my participation in the swim team tryouts. Sure to make it too, if only as the towel boy. Call that nepotism if you like. I was going to be on the swim team one way or another, just like the coach had promised the judge so he could keep an eye on me, just like I had promised too.
You see, I got into trouble. Not big trouble and no, not girl trouble, not hardly. Not boy trouble either, though I would dearly love for some of that to happen. I am gay and pretty much look it. I am not out of the closet, not officially, but it's not hard to guess either. Small, skinny, and smooth muscled, comely as an angel, with a skin like porcelain out of the sun, and looking utterly fragile and vulnerable. Like, what else could I be?
An epicene youth someone once called me. I had to look that one up in the dictionary too. One definition was "effeminate", but I am sure that is wrong. My looks might straddle the gender divide and make me androgynous but I don't swish and I don't speak in a falsetto. My light tenor voice won me a place in the boys' choir, I'll have you know. I dress much like the other boys, nothing girly about it, and my undress uniform, as it were, is glaringly un-girly thanks to my big little guy.
Living in South Florida as we do and what with global warming and all, oops -- I mean climate change (Dad is a Republican businessman) -- I wear little clothing most of the time, and OK, I do favor the skimpy look, like chopped-off or no-midriff style tank tops or sleeveless shirts with a wide mesh, any of those matched with my five pair of onionskins. The tanks tops flatter my abs and my cute belly button (I'm an "innie by the way) and the latter flatter my tiny red tits, putting them on display. Yeah they are small, even in proportion, but they are almost constantly erect, and I love to finger them throughout the day. So what if they are small, my physique is more about quality than about quantity anyway.
If I run around scantily clad as much as I do, often without anything above the waist, the hips really, it is because I am proud of this trim taut body I have so recently grown into. It is a blessing and one that I am happy to share with my public. The gods must have made me good-looking for a reason. I like to think it was because they wanted the good folks around me to get a good look at me, so I help that along by not blocking their view. I don't lose any sleep because some folks do not much care for my insouciant approach to modesty. A whole lot more people like what they see. As well they should.
I mean the phrase "hard body" could have been invented for me. No one would ever call me soft. I have a wiry physique from all that running and swimming I do. My body fat is like two percent and I do yoga for flexibility. I took a class once and stuck it out even though I was the only boy there and got kidded about it mercilessly. The guys called me "yoga boy" and "twisteroo". At least I wasn't "ballet boy", the moniker they hung on a nice kid from across town who likes to dance, especially modern dance, but ballet is where you start out.
Also I know some aikido, because little guys like me occasionally need an equalizer with the bigger guys who pick on us, often just because we are little. The great thing about aikido is that is lets you use a foe's strength and weight against him long enough to disengage. That's a fancy word for making him let go of you, so you can take to your heels. Which is often a good idea before he engages you in the first place.
I am no coward, but I don't see how I can prove anything by letting some jock who masses 225 pound away at my own 98 plus 5. I can run pretty damn fast when I am motivated, and I am quick and nimble, able to dart and dodge better than any broken field runner. Catching me and then holding onto my four-fifths naked slippery and sweaty body takes some doing. I am good at parkour too, so I sometimes just climb up to where the big guy cannot follow, then make faces at him, even if that is juvenile. But if you can't act like a kid when you really are one, then when can you?
Back to my looks. Another guy once called me a gamin. I had to look that one up too. It's really just French for "kid", but in English it means a "street urchin". Rather quaint isn't it, like out of Oliver Twist or something.
I would describe myself as an athletic boy with a slight build, impossibly pretty, blessed with close-cropped blond hair the color of corn silk, a chiseled jaw line and killer cheekbones, a real sloe-eyed beauty whose large green orbs are set wide apart under finely arched brows, with lashes too long to have ever have been meant for a boy. (I keep having to tell folks that no, I don't use cosmetics. My long lashes are perfectly natural.)
Now that is the long version of a good description of yours truly. More succinct versions would have me "a vision of youthful male pulchritude" or "a walking wet dream", take your pick, I like the sound of both. As you can tell, though I do have my faults, thankfully, false modesty is not one of them.
Now back to my tale of woe. I had cut through Old Man Lander's herb garden, the one he had just planted. We call him that though he is only in his fifties. Pretty fit and spry for his age too. How was I to know that the freshly turned earth was just planted? Do I look like a farmer? No signs posted or anything, although, all right, it was on his own property.
Anyway, instead of just calling it in to 3-1-1 and letting the cops handle a case of simple trespass, Old Man Lander took after me himself, to make a citizen's arrest, you see. Caught me too when I got hung up at the top of the fence. It was one of those el cheapo cyclone fences, all galvanized wire diamonds except at the top where the sharp ends of the wire poke up and can catch hold of your clothes or even cut you. The poor man's broken glass. You ask me, it ought to be illegal. Snip it off clean already.
Lander, he latched onto my midriff baring tank top, darn near ripped it off me entirely, did turn it into more holes than shirt as I struggled to get away. Would have left me next thing to naked in my badly ripped running shorts, onionskins they call them, made of parachute fabric, thin and very low rise and split all the way up the sides, allowing glimpses of the tiny white panties supporting my manly parts. They were pretty skimpy even before they got ripped on his fence. Those damn prongs had caught my shorts. Now my elbow caught him one in the cheek, entirely accidentally, I swear. All right, I was struggling but only to get clear. I would have got away except I didn't want to hurt the guy. Anyway the whole thing was his fault entirely.
They should have charged him with assault and battery, beating up on a little kid like me, menacing, for that nasty wire, and even kidnapping. I mean he literally dragged a sixteen year old kid half way across his yard to where he could lock me in his damn tool shed. False imprisonment too, maybe even child abuse. He had practically torn every stitch off me, exposing me and my ass and my manly parts to the gaze of the world, hadn't he, him and his fence. They should have thrown the book at him, not at me. All water under the bridge. I was stuck and not just for the next five weeks but for the entire school year.
And looking to get a lot more exposure the whole time. On this team, even the towel boy runs around naked, and he is out of the pool in plain sight with maybe a rolled up towel around the neck if that much, never around the waist, which wouldn't be fair to the swimmers. No choppy water or shiny shimmer between me and any passing eyeballs. Make that especially the towel boy.
Not that I am body shy. My moms is gone so I live with my dad, just the two of us. My dad isn't up tight like his brother Fred, pretty easy going in fact and an all around good guy. Not that he is a push-over. When he lays down the rules, we minions scurry to obey. What I mean in this context is that Dad doesn't mind, with just the two of us there, that I don't bother much with clothing.
That's not only inside the house, but also out in the yard, or by the pool, or in the woods out back for that matter, the "jungle" I had explored when I was a little kid. Our house is isolated, just one other house anywhere close and that is way across the grassy drainage field and past some pine trees. Two people live there. One is a doctor, and her husband is a nurse, so they are not likely to get all scandalized about a sixteen year old youth traipsing around in a state of nature.
Hell, this whole high school I go to was set up special to prepare kids for careers and further education in the health fields. Future proctologists of the world, that sort of thing. Some one has to take care of the old folks. Like the coach said, if you are body shy, you came to the wrong place. And yes, I do know the difference between a conjunction and a preposition. I was just channeling Coach there for a moment.
I did all right at the tryouts. I actually swim pretty good (well) for someone who cannot float at all. I just sink. Too skinny some say. I prefer to think that my body is too compact to float. High specific gravity is the technical term. I am all hard muscle and bone and sinew and such with an average density greater than that of water. I am not a soft bag of fatty tissue and retained water like some guys are. The only place those guys are dense lies between the ears. Don't quote me on that last part. Big bags of water and fat seem to have no trouble beating the tar out of high specific gravity types like myself.
Would you have guessed it. Those two kids Coach named Dumb and Dumber were among the best of the bunch and great sports too, fine looking lads with beautiful smiles. All those white teeth and black skin. So Coach, who was Dumb and who Dumber when all was said and done? To his credit, Coach mentored their school careers the rest of their time they were at Andrew Jackson High.
- Boy Trouble
I hope you take all this looking up in the dictionary stuff as showing that I am a brainy kid trying to improve his vocabulary rather than a clueless jock, which I most certainly am not. No jock for one thing. Just those tiny white panties in my spare sets of onionskins. And if I do dress in casual clothes like a T-shirt and bumming around shorts, well it's with no jock and no underwear either. I go commando. Don't care for sox either, not with running shoes, not with the sandals I wear on the street and to school. Anyway, who but a tourist wears sox with sandals?
I do dress up a bit for school. My usual outfit is a very loose-fitting sleeveless shirt, no collar and split all the way from armpits to hem at the sides. I like the way it affords glimpses of my entire chest when I lean forward and let it billow out. I wear the kind that has a breast pocket for pen and pencil and to clip my school ID to. Not really cool, but one must be practical. Unlike my bumming around shorts which have neither buttons nor zipper and are made of a stretch fabric, my school shorts are cotton poplin with a five inch inseam, so they show a lot of leg.
I put a lot of work into building up those muscle groups, and I like to get something back on my investment. My legs look pretty sexy, and I am not just saying so. I catch kids admiring them all the time. They sometimes catch me doing the same thing. So call me vain or self-reverential, and that is one I did not have to look up in the dictionary. Look it up yourself, if you have to. With a 'v' not an 'f'.
On to the good news.
It finally happened to me, thank the gods. Boy trouble, I mean. I got laid. By a boy. Hallelujah!
And not just any boy. It was Paul Hansen who did the deed with me. Tall, dark, and handsome, his hair in a Caesar cut, both a dreamboat and a heartthrob. And he is not really gay. Sorta bi, but he mostly likes girls. We have been friendly if not real friends for the last couple of years. Oh we don't hang out together, but I know he likes me well enough. More important he respects me, which means a lot coming from one to the top jocks in the school. Now a senior and a letterman in soccer and lacrosse, he sorta took me under his wing a while back.
Oh he wasn't my champion, facing down bullies for me or telling them to lay off. Nothing like that. That plot is for the movies. It was the example he set. He greeted me in the hallways or returned my greetings (and my texts and phone calls), like I was a real person. He never made cruel jokes at my expense and rarely at anyone else's and only when they had it coming. A big guy though not huge, he walked with the grace of the Florida panthers they keep in the zoo nearby.
He put it about that I was good people, even if a bit fey. If you needed help with your homework, any subject except shop and PE, then I was the guy to look up, for help, not to ghost anyone's assignments. I would never do that even for a friend and for free. And what could others pay me but a pittance.
My dad is worth millions and he gives me a generous allowance but not more than a kid my age should get. I respect his limits and never look to supplement what he gives me, except when I have a very good reason and ask for extra with an explanation. He always listens and often agrees because he knows I have a good head on my shoulders, that I have simple tastes and disdain extravagance. Hell, I won't those overpriced designer duds. Why should I pay twice what a shirt is worth just because it has some designer's name on it. Someone else's name. He wants me to be a walking billboard, then sell it to me at a discount or better yet give it away.
Paul had watched some of the tryouts from the stands while he was waiting for the library to open. During the summer, it operated on a reduced schedule. The doors did not open till eleven. I guess he liked what he saw, nothing new to him really. He had seen me naked in the locker room, but I made an impression that day. Next thing you knew, he texted me to meet him at the outdoor stands after I got dressed, which I did but only in shorts, I left my shirt in the locker.
Maybe I sensed what was coming, so I went barefoot too. All I had on were a pair of bumming around shorts that fit snug around my narrow hips. I emptied the single pocket to smooth the lines over my ass, then stretched the waistband as far as I could so the darn thing would slip off easier when it was time to get naked. Looking in the full-length mirror I saw a cute twink looking over his shoulder, a blue blend of cotton and lycra stretched over buns of steel. Does that make me a tease?
The viewing stands were where he made his play for me, hemming and hawing at first, embarrassed to be seeking to take our relationship to a new level, but I quickly got his drift. In fact his signal came through loud and clear. Shucking my shorts in an instant, and stepping out of them, I pressed my naked body to his and hauled off and kissed him on the lips. You should have seen the looks of surprise, relief, and then of delight that crossed his face. We got giggly for a moment, rubbed noses like Eskimos, then French kissed, though I knew he really wanted to Greek me. OK, a bad pun, but better than none at all.
"Shameless boy!" he exclaimed in mock reproach. "Don't you realize Squirt, (he always called me that), we could be discovered here at any minute. And you with your body pressed to mine stark naked. Hell I saw how you kicked your shorts under the stands and way out of reach. Naughty boy."
He punctuated his reproach with a smart smack to my bum. It made me all tingly back there. I could hardly wait for him to fuck me. Nevertheless, we were still at the bantering stage of foreplay, and the ball had been passed to me. (Or is that too much a mixed metaphor?)
"Aah. Worried about your reputation, Paul are you? Or ours?"
"Hell no, Squirt, I just don't want any interruptions and I don't want an audience, not for our first time together. This is too special for me and I hope for you too."
"I'll say. I am a virgin."
"No!"
"Yes, Paul. You are the one who is going to pop my cherry, and I wouldn't have anyone else in the whole wide world do it."
"Look Paul, I know you won't be giving up on girls, and the two of us won't swish around like a sappy couple, which is just fine with me, as long as you are never ashamed of me and of what we have and do together. As long as that is clear, I am happy to be, what do they call it, one of your friends with benefits."
"And no, I won't announce our union on social media, or go all Norman Bates if I see you with a girl on your arm or in your car. Fact is that I have known you and liked you and respected you for years, and now I find I have fallen head over heels in love with you. I think you are just terrific."
"But I also know that I am a sixteen year old kid. So I am not looking for a lifetime commitment or an exclusive engagement. Hell, at our ages, our brains are not yet fully developed. Which is why we teens are so impulsive and so centered on ourselves and on the present moment, so everything that happens, every disappointment or rejection looks like the end of the world. No matter what happens, I want our friendship to endure. So when we show up on homecoming day years from now we won't have become strangers. Deal?
"Deal! Man oh man. I have been having wet dreams about you for months. My moms sees the stains on my sheets and asks who the girl is. Talk about embarrassing moments. I wasn't prepared to say, no moms, not a girl but this super cute twink at school."
"That is very flattering. Does she even know what a twink is?"
"Maybe not, but I do. And you my friend are my little twinkling star."
"Oh Paul, you do say the most romantic things."
I admit that last exchange was pretty sappy, but it was consciously tongue-in-cheek. Or couldn't you figure that out for yourself?
Well that was what we said on that joyous afternoon. We walked farther under the stands to a hidden corner where they stored tools, the space transformed by a blanket and some other gear into a site for a tryst. I was naked already and quickly got Paul out of his clothes. The next hour and a half was as wonderful as I had ever imagined it could be. We petted and sucked and fucked, but held ourselves back to make these sweet moments last as long as possible. Your first time comes only once.
I had no problem physically, taking him up my bum, I mean. He was actually bigger than me when erect by an inch or so, which was healthy for both our egos. Still he had a lot of fun playing with mine while I was riding his, straddling his hips. Gods his hands felt so good on my cock, stroking and pumping and sliding my foreskin back and forth, thumbing my sweet spot, making me shudder with delicious desire until I orgasmed explosively. He really knew how to work my big meat, and he was clearly glad to have so much of it to work with.
So my big little guy down there really came into his own that day, and helped his little big guy live up to his nickname.
Helped me, Squirt, squirt. Get it?
If you are shaking your head at this point, you just do not appreciate a good bad pun. And if all this is giving you a headache, take two aspirin and call me in the morning.
At one point he pulled my foreskin right over my cock head and pinched it shut, pretending to consider whether he should have me infibulated, as the Romans had done with their singing boys to keep their voices sweet and their hands and attention away from their cocks. When I protested in mock alarm, he told me that was nothing, reminding me of what the Church did to its choirboys during the Middle Ages. Ever hear of the castrati? And yes, it is exactly what you think it is, and no, you do not have to verify it in the dictionary.
Anyway I rode him to climax twice that afternoon, once straddling him while he lay supine, the second time seated face to face, like equals, our bent legs intertwined with my bum in his lap. Sure I was a virgin, but I had had some practice with dildos and anal beads, stuff I sent away for after reading up on gay sex in, what was the name of that book, "Gay Sex for Dummies." Their first X-rated offering, actually.
When we were through, Paul collected his blanket and things. More stains for his moms to wonder at. I couldn't find my own shorts. There I was stranded under the stands, stark naked. Paul hustled over to the locker room and got me a pair of his own shorts, which were so big on little me that I had to grab the waistband to keep them from sliding right off my narrow hips. Hell, I should have just stepped into one leg and left it at that. Anyway, we drove around for a while, talking excitedly but sensibly about our future together.
No, we were not going to run off to Las Vegas and get married. No, he was not dumping any or all of his three girlfriends. Yes we would resume our normal lives, though with our new relationship as an important part of the mix.
I did ask him about those multiple girlfriends he had mentioned. He thought for a moment then quoted one of his favorite singers:
"John Denver's song 'Berkley Woman' concludes with:
A woman is the sweetest fruit that God ever put on the vine.
But I would no more love just one kind of woman than drink only one kind of wine.
Words to live by." he intoned sententiously and only half in jest.
I jabbed him in the ribs and told him. "Very poetic but a woman would translate that into plain English as 'Men are pigs!'"
"Probably right, Squirt."
I love hearing that endearing nickname from his lips, it is just so me: diminutive, cute, charming. Squirt.
We both agreed that we would not keep this from our folks, though we probably should not tell them right off. Let them see us in each other's company from time to time and start to put it together. That would ease the surprise and shock, if any. I didn't expect much of that from my dad. I am sure he knew even without the big announcement. Meanwhile word would spread among our friends, especially once classes resumed in the fall.
The march of events turfed us out of the closet that very evening. Here is what happened.
Paul dropped me off at home. I had no keys, but the lock operated with a keypad anyway. I went through the door and found Dad in the living room with Coach Conlon, Uncle Fred that is. They looked me over, eyebrows raised, not at my near nudity but because the shorts I held clutched around my waist were clearly not mine. The hickeys and the love bites clearly were.
Coach smiled over at me evilly. He motioned with a finger for me to let my borrowed shorts drop to the floor. What the hell. He had seen me nude for hours earlier that day, and on many days prior. Which was even more true for Dad. I did it, stepped out of the borrowed shorts, and kicked them out of sight, hoping they would not realize whose name was on the tag inside. I really thought they wanted to examine the rest of my body, maybe check for bruises strong fingers might have left grabbing my butt cheeks, which indeed there were.
Coach sauntered over to where the discarded shorts lay under a side table. He read the label.
"Paul Hansen" he announced.
My Dad nodded. "Figures."
Coach then held up another pair of shorts, tiny shorts, my shorts, the ones that had disappeared from under the stands. They had a tag too, with my name on it.
"I thought these looked familiar. Not many pair around would fit mini-flyweights."
That was me all right. A mini-flyweight, the smallest weight class in boxing. Under 105 pounds.
They burst out laughing, laughing so hard their ribs hurt and they had tears in their eyes. Dad motioned me into an embrace. I was relieved and very very happy.
Afterwards I did get back a little of my own.
"So Uncle Fred, I guess I can call you that, here at home anyway, it seems Coach Conlon really is not so bad after all. Turns out, he's a sweet guy under that rough exterior, tough but fair, a father figure or a big brother, if the truth were known, all bark... "
He cut me off before I could finish.
"Tell that to anyone, and I will hold your head underwater, Squirt."
So that is my story. If I skipped around a bit in the telling, mark it down to the natural flightiness of us gay guys, especially super cute twinks like me.
Author's Note
This story just poured out of me. I had the first draft written in less than twelve hours, including four for sleep. I went to bed at one am got back up at five, my mind bubbling with ideas, and finished it before breakfast. It is my first pure comedy and the story I had the most fun writing regardless of hunger pangs and loss of sleep. I can only hope that inspiration strikes me like that again and again and again.
Meanwhile, good news for readers disappointed at how few stories I have published of late. Folks, help is on the way. I am writing my first novel-length story, which is already at 95 thousand words. Mostly I publish novelettes of 10 -15 thousand words.
The novel will be in the genre called heroic fantasy. Like so many stories in that genre it will be set on an imaginary world in an imaginary universe 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 bet you never read a tale that featured a 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 tales in a modern setting, 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.