Squirrel and Squirt
Andrew Jackson High 4
by George Gauthier
1.Squirrel
"Arrh" I grumbled, frustrated and exasperated as I checked my phone listings on-line. "They got it wrong again!"
"What do you mean, Squirrel?" Sprout asked me.
Sprout, aka William Pierpoint Tagliaferro IV, is my close friend, my roommate, my sometime lover, and the son of my host and employer William Pierpoint Tagliaferro III, WPT III for short, whom I refer to jocularly as Mr. Sprout. I am the Sprouts' live-in house boy and cook. Sprout's moms is no longer in the picture.
"What is so hard about alphabetical order? You would think the phone company would have that down pat by now. Serves me right for changing the listing on my cell phone and then trying to add my name to the listing on your dad's old-fashioned land line as well."
"I heard that!" Mr. Sprout called from the living room. He walked into the den, a grin on his face, where I was seated at the desk all us kids used. "So what is the big problem?"
I explained that changing my legal name to Brandon O'Rourke de Lyautey, to honor my benefactor, had caused all kinds of confusion, not only at the phone company but also with the DMV and the public library. Should my name be listed under O, L or even D. One lady argued that it really should be R, on the theory that alphabetical listings of names ignored such prefixes as von and de. But not O', as I tried to tell her. You look up O'Brian in the phone book under O.
Such minor tempests are really the worse of my pleasant and quiet life here with the Sprouts. Quite a change it is too from my days as a hunted fugitive, living in the woods, going around stark naked except for body paint as camouflage.
It all started with the accidental death of a murderous bully, the son of a 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.
Sprout and his boyfriend Zach are budding botanists and members of the Botanical Club at Andrew Jackson High School here in South Florida that we all attend. I am a climber of trees and everything else for that matter (Squirrel, get it?), vice-president and charter member of the school's parkour club.
I got a lot of notoriety out of that episode. Sprout too, to a lesser degree, who had offered himself as a decoy, changing his close-cropped corn silk blond hair to my auburn shade and running around starkers in another nature preserve to draw off pursuit by lawmen, bounty hunters, and contract killers.
The authorities did not know about my paint job. so Sprout au natural made a fine decoy. We look much alike, both of us very short and slightly built, deeply tanned from frequent outdoor nudity, two super-cute twinks of the walking wet dream persuasion.
But then so were Zach and Squirt. Zach, aka Zachary Taylor like the president, is the tallest of us at five-nine. A raven haired beauty with hazel eyes, he and Sprout are live-in boyfriends, one of them always on sleep-over at the other's house. Zach's moms had long since reconciled herself to the knowledge that Zach will not be giving her grandchildren. She consoles herself with the thought that at least her Zach has provided her with a good-looking son-in-law.
Then there is Squirt, aka Alex Conlon, towel boy for the swim team and nephew of the swim coach at Andrew Jackson High. Also award winning student journalist for his series in the school paper that defended me in the accidental death of Carlos Saragossa, the youth who had tried to rape and kill me.
In the end the mob boss Old Man Saragossa sent hit men to question and kill my foster father, Pierre Lyautey, the finest man I have ever know. He lost his life fighting to save mine, killing two of the mobster's thugs with his trusty varmint rifle, an AR-15. No too surprising for one awarded a Silver Star for his gallantry as an infantryman late in the Vietnam War.
Lyautey's folks back in Cajun country sent a strike force to avenge this murder of one of their clan. Thirty men with shotguns and AK-47s drove in small groups and by different routes and converged on Casa Saragossa. They surrounded the house, made sure the old man was inside with his bodyguards and moved in, guns blazing, killing everyone one and everything including the guard dogs, but they spared mama cat and her kittens. That was their way. That was their law. Cajun law. The best part is that they got away clean.
Now all is tranquil. Save at Zach's house, the four of us spend most of time in our respective homes and back yards in the nude sunning, swimming, reading, and playing with a Frisbee. Now there is a sport that might have been designed to show off the male physique, especially when the athletes are fully nude as we four usually are. Our evenly tanned forms dart here and there, bending and twisting, jumping and lunging, occasionally tumbling on the grass, then bouncing back up. It is a kinetic and sensual display of clean limbs, tight torsos, and taut buns, all to the accompaniment of laughter and cheerful young voices.
At seventeen, we are the very picture of health and youthful male exuberance and completely unselfconscious about our nudity. Call us exhibitionists, call us oversexed teens, it is all the same to us. We frequent the nudie beach beyond the jetty. Sprout and I and often Zach go on those aforementioned botanical safaris. Just recently Squirt has come along. They take the low road and I take the high. On Sprout's and Zach's part these outings actually have a real scientific purpose, though science is not all that happens out there.
As you can imagine, with two or three healthy teenagers, their juices flowing, gadding about in the great outdoors, breathing in all that fresh air, exposed to Mother Nature and to each other's gaze, well things are bound to happen. We are all of us all young, cute, gay, and sexy and well aware of our charms, nor are we selfish about sharing them with guys we like.
So take your pick.
There is myself, Brandon O'Rourke de Lyautey, aka Squirrel. I am the shortest of our petite bunch of guys, standing five-foot zero (152 cm) and weighing in at 100 pounds even (45 kg). My coloring reflects my Irish heritage, auburn hair and eyes the blue of the sky with a peaches and cream complexion that does take a light tan as long as I am careful not to burn.
Mine is a wiry physique with a well-defined musculature that brings to mind the phrase "hard body". I am definitely no wimp or weakling. I have a surpassingly strong upper storey and large hands which help me when I brachiate through the trees. Like the rest of us I had treatments with those new depilatories that render the hair follicles permanently quiescent. Hence no beard or body hair anywhere, not even at the fork of my legs.
My face is arguably too pretty for a male, though a chiseled jawline and strong chin keep me from looking totally androgynous. I have spiky red hair cut short at the sides with long narrow sideburns reaching below the ear lobe. They help frame a cute face with a high forehead, straight eyebrows with almost no curve to them, sky blue eyes, and a perky nose slightly turned up at the end in keeping with my heritage.
Sprout's field of interest is botany, but that is not the origin of his nickname. You see, Sprout is another of us little guys, a sprout that stopped growing too soon at five foot two (158 cm). Only six extra pounds keep him from being that proverbial 98 pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. Except he is neither weak nor soft. A "hard body" if there ever was one, Sprout has a wiry physique from all the running and swimming he does. Like me his body fat is like two percent.
Sprout is athletic like all of us boys, with a slight build and an impossibly cute face, blessed with delicate features including a chiseled jaw line and killer cheekbones. He is a real green-eyed beauty, with lashes too long to have ever have been meant for a boy. On top, he can boast a head of close-cropped blond hair the color of corn silk. A person less long-winded than myself would describe him as "an earthly vision of youthful male pulchritude". Think Richie Stringini at seventeen.
Sprout's boyfriend Zach is your basic boy next door. medium height, 69 inches, medium weight, 128 (OK that is on the light side), hair so black it looks blue, cut medium length, of course, and hazel eyes. Zach has ordinary good looks; he is a nice looking boy with a pleasant face but not one to turn heads. Not like me. But his body is a gift of nature. Slender, smoothly muscled, with the shoulders and arms and tapering torso of the swimmer that he is. Zach is also by far the smartest of us all, an IT whiz who put his skills to work and saved Sprout from the clutches of a leather master who have enslaved him. Only Squirt is close to him in smarts, and that boy's talents lean toward the verbal and the artistic.
Squirt is the same height and weight as Sprout and has the same combination of blond hair and green eyes. His most outstanding physical characteristic is his big little guy down there. Thick, heavy, and pendulous, a real swinging dick, even flaccid it is eight inches though it looks much bigger on his small frame.
His boyfriend, the guy who took his cherry, is Paul Hansen, high school letterman, a jock in other words but with a artistic streak in him. He is a watercolorist. He is also a body artist, meaning he paints the nude bodies of other boys to fantastic effect. Check out the photos and videos of the four of us at the AJHS Halloween party. Entering in separate categories we all took the top prizes.
Squirt, portrayed as the Tree of the Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, with his cock representing the fore part of the Serpent, had the most original costume, Zach was the best match of subject and model. Zach's body is exactly like that of the original Superboy in the comics, standing five foot nine and weighing 125. Sprout's Harlequin was the best executed design, an argyle patterned masterpiece. As a living canvas for abstract art, my "costume" was the most revealing. The others looked like bright costumes with a nude boy underneath. I looked like a nude boy with daubs of paint on his otherwise bare skin.
More recently Paul painted us a completely different set of "costumes" for the Mardi Gras celebration. I will let Paul tell you about this new set of costumes.
So there we were over at the Sprouts' place, five good looking youths all of us seventeen and juniors at the school and Paul 18, and soon to graduate. Though no prude and rightfully proud of his body, Paul didn't share our clothes free life-style. Oh we could coax him out of his Speedos at the nudie beach or in the back yard, but he had no interest in bare-ass safaris. With grown-ups around he put on a pair of shorts, if nothing else.
Mr. Sprout listened to our banter and watched our uninhibited nude antics. He shook his head then opined:
"I doubt you kids could have gotten away with so much back when I was seventeen. I am certain it could not have happened in my father's day.
That would be P. William Tagliaferro II, so not one of the William Ps, though he did answer to Will like the rest of them.
"This has got to be the most unlikely clutch of youngsters ever to collect under one roof! We truly are in the twenty-first century."
You can see why we all like and respect Sprout's pops, Mr. Sprout.
- Squirt
OK. That's how things stand from Squirrel's point view.
Full disclosure for those who know me by reputation as Alex Conlon, the investigative reporter at the AJHS Intelligencer. I am now speaking in my editorial voice as the chief architect of this series about the students of Andrew Jackson High, which is a very real place, though the name given it in this series is fictitious.
Prosopography or collective biography has a long history as a genre. These autobiographical stories, taken together, constitute a composite portrait of gay youth in contemporary America. The student authors and I hope you have enjoyed their stories so far and will return as further installments are published.
All five of our main characters have now been introduced, To help our readers, I asked Squirrel to describe them in the first section of this installment. Use it as a reference to help you recall who is who, what they look like, who is sleeping with whom, and what happened to them in their junior year at AJHS.
Aside from the value of the series itself, my ambition as a writer is to someday capture the current zeitgeist in the United States in the Great American Novel, as it is called in literary circles. With these stories I am gathering material. I myself am still far to young and inexperienced to have the perspective to write such a work now. I will try my hand at it when I turn thirty and not before. No one wants to read the maundering of a callow youth, who as a writer is trying to punch above his weight class.
I am still with Paul Hansen, the boy who took my cherry. They call us the Odd Couple at school. He is six-foot three and muscular, a jock, and masculinely handsome. I am a foot shorter and with a face far to pretty for a boy, the androgynous look they call it. Whereas Paul is a letterman twice over, I am a nerd, a cute nerd, but a nerd nonetheless. Intellectually inclined, fascinated by all sorts of word play, call me book smart but street stupid, which got me put on probation for my junior year.
I was lucky Paul took me under his wing early on, long before we took our relationship to a new level. I had wanted him for so long but was afraid to ruin our friendship by telling him I had the hots for him. Then he made the first move, and I was ecstatic.
Paul is good people. He was there for me when I was in disgrace for my scrape with Old Man Lander, which nearly landed me in juvie hall. There he was, BMOC, a jock, girls hanging on his every word, yet he never snubbed me as you might expect. Instead he greeted me in the hallways or returned my greetings (and my texts and phone calls), like I was a real person. He put it about that I was good people, even if a bit fey. He made me feel welcome at AJHS.
The funny thing is that he still is mainly into girls, though he is down to only two girlfriends currently. The third one decided she didn't like where he put his cock when he made love with me, and she didn't want it up her quim, no way no how. Fine. Paul is not very upset. He knows there will no shortage of replacements. I really don't know how he does it, but he has them lining up.
We spend a lot of time over at the Sprouts' place. Paul's father is a good man, a lawyer who several times stepped forward in our defense, working pro bono. But he is still a little uncomfortable with all this gay stuff. Paul had sprung quite a surprise on him when he suddenly added boys to the list of those eligible for a Saturday night date with him. Besides, theirs is a small place. Hansen practices general law. No one ever became rich that way.
Paul is the dominant partner when it is about sex. When he wants to play with my cock he directs me to stand in front of him, at parade rest, with my hands behind my back and feet a little more than shoulder width apart. It is actually much more comfortable than the position of attention, with your knees locked, back overly straight, and shoulders pulled back uncomfortably. Parade rest is so much easier. Easier also for Paul to reach between my legs and cradle my eight inches. He once told me"
"You know Squirt, I never really knew the meaning of the word pendulous until you described your dick with that word. Now, when I see it swing, I think of that word, and I want to reach out and arrest its motion, then play with it. You really have on of the best cocks in school. Believe me, as a jock, I have seen just about everyone naked in the locker room."
Just recently I started joining Sprout et al on their nude safaris. While they go off trail in search of plant specimens, I stay on the trails, sometimes loping along, sometimes sprinting. I ignore the way my big little one flops around, hoping the jouncing about won't look too silly to anyone I run into.
Exercise is only part of why I am there. The woods can be a place of assignation or better for targets of opportunity, myself as much as another male. More than once I have met a cute runner and got and gave a shag. Paul is not into anal sex, except as a pitcher, never a catcher. but a lot of other guys want my big cock up their ass. They want to look at it, to hold it, to feel it swell and get hard, the knob at the end turned to an angry purple, the piss slit opening and closing like a little mouth. They cannot wait to find out what it means to be impaled on a virile member of more than the usual proportions.
I like to take Paul and the others out to the nudie beach. We lock our clothes in the trunk of the old car my pops lets me drive, then make our way naked over the dunes and onto the beach. The only way you really feel naked is when clothing is entirely out of reach. We stretch out on straw mats rather than on blankets which we consider another form of clothing. (Bed clothes, get it?).
We all of us like to run along the beach, swim, and throw around a Frisbee, so we actually get a lot of exercise. It is not all just lazing around, reading or engaged in idle chit chat. It doesn't hurt that all our activity draws attention us toward us. I did say we were a bunch of exhibitionists, didn't I, except for Paul who affects the cool jock's locker room indifference to male nudity.
After a swim or a sweaty run, we conscientiously apply sun block to our skins. We are content with SPF 8, once we have established a base tan for the summer. Till then we use SPF 15. Folks who use SPF 30 or 50 are deluding themselves. Exposure with SPF 30 for two hours is like going unprotected for four minutes. Four hours, like eight minutes. Nobody needs that level of protection, except maybe an albino. A high SPF number is strictly a marketing gimmick, a rip off really, just a way to raise prices for an extra pinch of a chemical that costs a penny or two at most.
And no, sunblock is not just an excuse to pet and stroke each other's bodies in public. Who started that rumor anyway, a rumor so utterly wrongheaded? Just because one of us occasionally springs wood in the process.
So there we are, hands all over each other's bodies, spreading oils or creams, stroking, smoothing, squeezing and fondling, making sure not to neglect any of those nooks and crannies. More than once I have had to roll onto my belly for the sake of politeness, if you consider the display of a boy's bare bum the polite alternative.
I mean we are show-offs, but not blatant ones, not usually. Though I did make an exception one day. Sprout was going through taiqi routines, for quite genuine reasons, but he kept angling his naked body the better to display himself to a group of college guys next blanket over. Some were straight and others gay, but all had their eyes as this beauteous being executed graceful turns and bends, arms whirling as if in a dance. Then Sprout made the mistake of challenging me with a lascivious wink.
"Try to top that Squirt!" his look seemed to say.
Up for a challenge I essayed several yoga asanas to warm up. Then I lay on my back, curled my body, swinging my legs up and back, locking my ankles behind my neck to hold them in place. That put my ass uppermost, cleavage spread and flattened, my anal whorl crowning the composition. My genitals were laid out on my belly, balls tight to my groin, my long heavy cock lying there like some snake that might awaken and spit at any moment.
Best of all, my upper body was bent forward enough to look between my legs and my hands were in easy reach of those organs that made me a male human being. I scratched my balls and toyed idly with my cock, first laying it at one angle then at the other, as if intent on getting the most sun on the underside of my cock, normally out of reach of the direct rays of the sun. I even said so, mentioning I hoped for a similar affect for tanning my cleavage notoriously hard to get as tan as the rest of you.
Forget Sprout. Now all eyes were on me. I asked Zach to oil me up, paying particular attention to those parts raised toward the sun. He made a production about spreading oil on my buttocks and into my cleavage, then around my anal whorl, even poking first one then two oil slicked fingers into my nether orifice. Next he fondled my balls, rubbing them between his palms, gauging them between thumb and finger, using his thumb and index finder to cinch my sac tight and push my balls into a red plum which he rubbed with the palm of his had.
He would have gone on from there, but Paul stepped forward declaring my cock to be his department. As indeed it was. So he took charge of me. Starting with a smart slap to my upturned rump he declared with mock severity:
"Shameless boy!"
Things deteriorated from there. Slaps and pinches to bare bottoms lead to tickle attacks and pretend rapes and general wrestling indistinguishable from sexual congress except there were no penetrations.
A good time was had by all.
We were chagrined when snaps and videos of our shenanigans from bystandeers went viral on sites beyond our control. Darn YouTube. Successful as our channel was, YouTube never let us put up the really good stuff. All those community standards. Instead it appeared on sites behind pay walls, and we never saw a cent.
- Paul
About time the little Squirt let me put a word in.
I mean, what am I, the potted plant in the corner? The bit player who never gets a line the whole movie?
Actually I adore my little boyfriend. He brought out a side of me I hadn't realize I had. I mean, me and boys? Whod'a thunk it? Yet there it was, an undeniable attraction. Out of nowhere I fell in love with a boy.
We had been casual friends for a couple of years. I had no problem with him being fey. I kinda thought it was cute, and that he was cute. I mean, just look at him. If ever a boy was meant to be gay, it was Squirt.
I had taken him under my wing quite naturally. We seemed to hit it off as friends despite our obvious differences. We did share an interest in the arts. I knew Squirt was a boy after my own heart when I heard him speaking disdainfully of oil painting. He called it a deeply flawed medium, scorning the artsy types who have made a virtue out of its main flaw. It dries out and forms thousands of tiny cracks called craquelure (instead of plain old cracking). Can't those critics see that old oil paintings are damaged goods? Their precious craquelure does not add character to a painting, it just makes it look old.
Squirt cracked me up when he said that craquelure looked like nothing so much as the guide lines in a paint-by-numbers paint kit. That got him permanently exiled from organized arts at AJHS, but I loved him for it. You see, I am a watercolorist, and proud of it. If you know anything about art, you know that there is little love lost between the practitioners of the rival media.
Another flawed medium I look down on is the art of the fresco. Why paint on a section of wet plaster at a mad pace trying to get as much done as you can before it dries. No time to do it right. You just do it. You are lucky to get in eight or nine hours before you have to stop. So you build up your composition, adding each day's work to the next, in sections called giornate (Italian for 'days'). Guess what happens with time when the fresco dries out? You got it, cracks in your fresco and not little ones like with oils. Big ones, cracks big enough to see from normal viewing distance.
But don't get me started. As you can tell, I am passionate about my art.
Passionate about my boyfriend too. It is so different making love to a boy. Girls are soft and round and clinging. Boys have hard bodies, all muscle and bone and sinew. Nothing is better than to wrestle a boy in bed, grappling with that strong body, so much like your own, to join with him in a passionate embrace (that is artsy talk for a hard fuck). A boy gives head so much better than a girl. He knows cock better than a female ever could. Gosh Squirt looks so damn cute when he kneels in front of me, all submissive like, hands behind his back like they were tied, and starts to work with his tongue and his lips.
He never has to awaken me down there. With him I spring into action, hard even as he sinks to his knees. Squirt always starts with a kiss on the head of my cock, a light peck, then a smooch. Then that talented tongue of his goes to work, twirling around the glans, poking the tip into my piss slit, tapping the knob with little flicks with the tip of his tongue, often targeting the sweet spot. Then he opens his mouth and takes the head in and lets it rest there for a minute, to let it get used to the sensations of moisture and warmth, to let my shaft feel his pouty lips close around it possessively, proprietarily. You would think he were in charge.
Actually he often is. I sometimes let him take the lead in our lovemaking. A sign of respect he calls it. Well, I hadn't thought of it quite that way, but yes, I do respect Squirt and in so many ways. Brainy, outgoing, athletic, and well versed in the amatory arts. What is there not to respect?
Except that I never let him fuck me. Oh, he can insert a finger or two up my hole when he is sucking me off, but his cock, no. Given our size difference sixty-nine is awkward. When I trade off with Squirt and suck him, it is usually with him lying down next to me. I still surprise myself when I am going down on him and say to myself:
"Paul, you do realize this makes you a cock sucker?"
Well that is what I am. What I want to be with this wonderful boy.
Actually, virtually everything either of us knows about making love with another male we cribbed from that dandy sex guide: "Gay Sex for Dummies", which I understand is their first X-rated offering. It was an instant best-seller, especially least the e-book edition, which buyers could read without the tattletale cover.
Anyway, with the head of my cock in his "buccal chamber", God does that kid have a vocabulary, the sucking begins. He sucks on my cock like he must have sucked on his mom's tit back in the day, trying to draw out the milk he craved. One difference is that my baby has teeth. He likes to use them to nibble on my shaft, to titillate and to tease me, to threaten me with a frisson of danger to my pride and joy. Then he wraps his tongue around the shaft and slurps it as more and more of it slides in till it reaches the back of his throat. Now the first few times he had trouble with his gag reflex, but that problem is long gone. These days he can deep throat me like a pro.
What am I saying? Like a pro? How would I know? I have never been with a pro. Pay for it, me, tall, dark, and handsome Paul Hansen, high school jock extraordinaire? No way.
You have no idea, unless you have tried it yourself, how it feels with your cock deep in the boy's throat. The walls are moist and warm and wet. They squeeze and clutch at you, and grab at you as you slide back in preparation for another thrust. The only down side of deep throating is lack of special attention to the head of the cock. If only boys had another tongue down there!
I have Squirt keep his hands off his own cock when he is rendering oral service to mine, but as I get closer to orgasm, I nod to give him permission to stroke himself. We like to come simultaneously if we can time it right. Squirt can bring me to so strong an orgasm that my knees go weak and I can hardly stay on my feet. Which is why I usually have a table or desk or some such just behind me, so I can drop back onto my buttocks for support.
I make sure my last few spurts hit him in the face, leaving gobs on his nose and chin and maybe across an eye. I use my softening cock as a paint brush, spreading the goo on cheeks and forehead, marking this delightful boy as my own, with a very personal form of body art.
Speaking of body art, I would now like to describe the costumes I did for the boys for the Mardi Gras blow out, held on the grounds of Andrew Jackson High though not an official school event. Local business sponsors paid for tents, lights, and refreshments (non-alcoholic, of course). The school provided the setting, power, sanitary facilities, and the loan of the school band. As we walked in, Principal Degnan took one look at our exiguous costumes and rolled his eyes. This time though, he did not try to run interference.
As for myself I went as the Count of Monte Christo in an costume rented from one of the upscale shops. Unoriginal, I know, but I could not really paint myself a costume, now could I. My garb was rich but understated, almost entirely black to match my own dark coloring, except for the white ruffs and shirt collar. Nothing gaudy about it. The only hint of the count's fabulous wealth was an opal the size of a pigeon's egg, deep green with flecks of gold, suspended on a chain at my neck. The tight coat with a high collar and hip hugging trousers flattered my physique. I am so glad folks back then had abandoned the knee breeches of the old Regime. To top off my look, I wore a dramatic black cloak.
Actually I have always hoped that capes and cloaks would come back into fashion. They are so characteristic of the Romantic Age. Sprout pointed out that outerwear of that kind worked fine on horseback but is much less convenient in the seat of an automobile. Too bad. Still, for that one evening I could swirl (or swish?) a long black cloak and let the wind let it billow out, like a pair of eagle's wings.
I cannot tell you how thrilled I was as a teenager to learn that the places and people I read about in the novels of Dumas pere were very real. Monte Chisto is a small island in the Tuscan Archipelago in the Tyrhenian Sea off the eastern coast of Italy. The Chateau d'If does in fact loom above the waves on an bleak island not far from Marseilles. I never doubted the historicity of Cardinal Richelieu, but did you know that Dartagnan was a real person too?
For Sprout I chose green as a color theme. What better for a budding botanist? Hmm, that is a pun isn't it, budding botanist? I'll lay that one on Squirt and see if it meets with his approval. Anyway Sprout looked fully dressed "wearing" a painted-on green and yellow tunic with a black belt, white tights, black boots, and green gloves. His balls were the white of the tights, but his cock the yellow of the trim of the tunic. Very naughty.
I must say that I am so glad boys go smooth these days. From a body artist's point of view, a wiry tangle of pubic hair would spoil the lines of the composition. Poor Sprout. I am afraid I could not resist the temptation to add to the original concept. That meant a green spiral painted on his ass, centered on and leading inexorably to his nether hole.
All of the boys I paint have the small nipples I prefer on a male. You want the aureole of a boy to be just large enough to lick. His nipples should protrude just enough to tongue and to nibble on. It's not like you are trying to nurse at them, after all. A boy tit is like a beauty mark which calls attention to the face as a whole rather than to itself.
THe glory of the male chest is its physique and musculature: the spread of the shoulders, pectorals, the chevron of the ribs., A boy's chest is essentially flat though with delightful corrugations like pectorals, midline, ribs, and abs and those tiny tits. To borrow a phrase from the Bard, with a boy's tits, a little more than a little, is by much, too much. (I actually got that from Squirt.)
For the other three boys, I went with a minimalist approach, which had the advantage that these "costumes" were quicker and easier to paint than those I did for Halloween. That had been a challenging assignment, and I had almost not finished in time. So I cut corners here, leaving a lot of flesh bare. With the prior set of costumes, you saw the costume first almost before you realized there was a naked boy underneath.
The set of three that I did for Squirrel, Squirt and Zach, you saw a nude boy first off, then noticed his painted decorations. Basically those boys went nude to Mardi Gras with only splotches of color here and there to distinguish them from a boy who had just stepped out of the shower.
Once again, the reception we got from the crowd was enthusiastic. True, some of the girls ran out the door, but most filtered back soon enough. One or two fainted, though careful to fall into the arms of their escorts. The guys were beside themselves with laughter. More than a few slapped us on the butt in appreciation. We were a hit. And we were sure to get great coverage in the AJHS Intelligencer under Squirt's byline.
Even the principal came over and graciously congratulated us on our originality. Though he did remind us:
"No erections!"
With his raven locks, Zach was our Yanomamo Youth, named after the fierce tribe of Indians in the Amazon Rain Forest. I wanted him to get a bowl cut like theirs, but Zach would not let me touch his hair.
I started at the top with war paint: two white stripes on either cheek, another on the bridge of the nose (like a lifeguard at the beach with zinc oxide) plus a short stripe on the point of the chin. Next a simple yellow stripe around the upper arms, reddened aureoles and whitened nubbins plus a few stripes on the ribs. On his back and butt I painted a total of maybe sixty dots, white, red, blue and green with a few more on the upper thigh. A thin dark stripe around the middle of the thigh, a shield on the knee caps and a blue lattice six inches long just above the ankles completed the ensemble. Finally a white strip along the ridge of his cock.
Squirt got even less coverage. Yellow bands around neck, upper arms, wrists, thighs, and ankles. Also a faux chain belt of yellow interlocking circles around the waist. That was it except for a light reddish wash for his cock with the head rather more purple than the rest. Basically the boy was totally naked, letting it all hang out, which, with Squirt and his big little guy down there, is saying quite a lot.
Squirrel got the abstract art look. Dark swirls, chevrons, wavy lines, spots and bull's eyes covered just the right side of the trunk from shoulder to knee, the design extending over the belly as well. Nothing at the groin, just the natural look, allowing the subject to present himself in all his glory
I am only surprised all four of them weren't arrested on the spot!
Actually the authorities are liberal about such things these days. The times they are a'changing. Public attitudes toward nudity have changed much of late. The next generation may well see the end of the old nudity taboos. There were any number of clothing optional beaches around now with nude beach volley ball competitions, nude swimmers, and nude runners. The larger parks in major cities even have a few (still very few) sections given over to nude sunbathing.
Besides the cops did not want any harm to come to a bunch of rambunctious youngsters who weren't causing any real trouble, except palpitations of the heart. They knew what would happen to the boys if they were thrown into the lockup overnight. The cops don't provide prison uniforms till you are arraigned. Till then, it is come as you are. And everyone knows what happens to sweet young innocents who are thrown into a cage with horny and hardened criminals.
I am sorry to disappoint if you expected further action and adventure in this installment. Instead you got a description of us during ordinary times, no trials and tribulations. That is us, real boys with real lives, not action stars in the movies.
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 fourth in an emerging 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 am writing my first novel-length story, which is already at 110 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 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 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.