r/QueerWriting

I’ve been working on this novel for a while - it began as a challenge to myself to write a novel that is both VERY NSFW and at the same time real to some of my own experiences." I’m hoping that someone here will read the excerpt(s) and get back to me with constructive criticism,

The Title is Certificate of Birth. The chief protagonists are Troy Paul who is adopted and psychologically and physically abused at home and (eventually)finds his lover Paolo. It begins with Troy around age 12 discovering himself and follows him until about age 24-5 .If people find it interesting Ill post more - do not spare me - PLEASE and all thoughtful suggestions will be appreciated. I have tried to keep the narrator ( Troy Paul ) voice appropriate to his age at the point in the novel. The entire novel is shaping up to @ 300 pages.

Page 12 - 14

Around this time, I started to notice that all the guys were drooling after the cheerleaders during every game, but my eye was always going to Coach the teammate’s dads when they came to watch or pick up their kids. At first, I didn’t know why but my erection spoke to me - I was feeling exactly what those guys were when they talked about the big tits or round girl butt they wanted to get their hands on. You got it – dad basket and butt did it for me. I liked looking at men and I liked what they represented – authority, strength and hard muscular bodies. I also knew I couldn’t let that out to anyone.

By eighth grade I had turned into one horn dog of a kid and desperate to sneak a jack whenever and wherever I could. Most mornings I left for school desperate to get off after Mrs. Paul’s early morning ragging and warnings got my nerves all worked up. Some days I actually jogged out her house just to blow off the tension, not ‘cause it was part of my training like I told her. Along the way I’d find an empty alley, the back of a dumpster, some vacant lot, or any place where I could get one off and not get caught.

Could? No. HAD to get one off. Paying attention first period wasn’t gonna happen otherwise. I’d get myself off then race over to school sweating I’d be late to class, and she’d be called in. No, it wasn’t the best way’ta blow off the tension, but it definitely was a need and it pretty much worked. Maybe, it was also my own weird way of saying I needed a real dad in my life? Anyway, when I wasn’t studying or at practice I was preoccupied and distracted by my horniness. I walked around harboring a just about permanent erection in my pants with some kid’s hot dad or our coach on what I’ll call my “mind” for lack of any better word. Most days I’d scarf down lunch, help Manny with clean up, get myself off to the boy’s lavatory, hole up in one of the stalls – always a big risk since the dean liked to pop in to make sure no one was cutting class or malingering – and stroke a quick one off.

Way better than that smelly hole was the forest spot I found a few miles off the main highway from town. I could bike over, get in a decent no -chance -of – being- caught jack and speed myself back in time for whatever work Mrs. Paul had set for me. Not in the winter though, unless I wanted to freeze my dick off -though there were a few times it seemed the better alternative. That was about it in terms of no fear getting caught .

Any time I cycled home with a boner my tool went limp two minutes before I stepped through her doorway. And forget about jackin’ off anywhere there to get rid of the tension. If I was in the toilet too long, she’d bang on the door and then questions. Big trouble if I left a cum spot on her precious sheets. I did that a couple times when I guess I came in my sleep. She said I was a filthy little animal and beat me for it. “You’ll be pitched out if it ever happens again.” You might think I could maybe sneak a quick one off in the shower, but then it was all about her expensive hot water if I took too long. Anyway once I started seriously doing sports and getting in practice before classes started she mandated I shower at the gym “no need wasting my hot water every morning when you get it for free over there” and no way would I risk jacking off there.

Around that time I began having obsessions, I would focus on coach or some guy I saw in the street or even someone I thought up kind of putting them all together into one ‘perfect man.’ For a while I focused on one specific dad. This man– I never caught his name – stopped by practice to pick up his kid every Wednesday, usually around four. From the looks of it- shirt soaked and still perspiring - he was coming from his own workout at a nearby gym. This dad was hot, way hotter even than coach and definitely hotter than any of the other fathers. Just seeing him in a sweated-up tee clinging to his pecs and the gym shorts that set off his hairy legs gave me an erection.

The kid and his dad were super close too; they always left the field with dad’s arm slung over his son’s shoulder, the two of them sharing a protein drink or something. And for sure I envied that boy. Whenever I heard the son shout, “Hey Dad! We’re almost done” then, a little later, run up to his father who smiled and gave him a hug, a dark fantasy would cloud up my mind. I knew it was sick but I couldn’t stop myself from going there.

It would start with me making that kid my friend, going home with him and his dad after practice to play video games, talk sports and watch games. The two of us hanging out every day and me becoming that best friend who’s always invited to stay for supper and weekends.

Then I would picture myself making the dad like me. After scoring more and setting the kid up to fail on the field dad starts putting his kid down and begins liking me better. I’m the better athlete, have the better build, please him more.

Dad starts leaving his son out while he talks just to me, goes on walks just with me, works out just with me. Then I start replacing his son at home, sharing game talk and protein shakes with dad.

Showering with dad after our workout. Then my mind would go into overdrive, and it’d be dad making out with me and taking me to his son’s bed. Now it’s me alone with dad. He calls me ‘son,’ calls me ‘son’ because I always please him. Yes. ME with MY dad. Then one day he has the kid sent to Mrs. Paul and left there, locked in the basement, lying on the floor all in tears after being beat.

That fantasy got me really worked up and there were times I was so afraid my erection was obvious I’d tie the team jacket around my waist. Yeah, I know, real nasty shit and I know you’re going to say, ‘Troy is one sick puppy.’ And I’d pretty much agree.

But on the real, I don’t get it, why did that kid get such a great dad while I was stuck with a bitch and no dad?

Page 14-19

Once the weather got warm again I’d cycle over to my forest whenever I could, drop the bike, slip behind my tree, zip down and just build up and build up and build up, blotting everything out. The jolt that finally ran through me made everything disappear and left me all sweated up but calm. Kind of like how you feel after you’ve been going at the punching bag -going at it like crazy for a long, long time - then you get tired so you stop to take a breather and a big stupid smile breaks out on your sweaty face.

Afterward I’d drift off. Just drift no ideas no thoughts – just off . When I came to, I’d wipe it on the grass, jump up and speed away afraid of being late. While my forest was an actual place with trees and grass and bugs it didn’t feel real - it was outside my regular life - so the short ride back to Mrs. Paul’s always felt too quick.

One steamy afternoon in August a sudden cloudburst turned my trip into a long muddy slog. That morning I’d lied to her and sped off saying I had practice – a risky move if I got found out - but I had a reason other than my usual horniness.

The day before’d been one where it was like she wanted to kill me- and for no reason I could figure out. I’m pretty sure it was ‘cause one of her investments had gone sour or she’d got caught out in some tax scam and the bill came due- but she’d said it was me cause I was ‘too stupid’ and ‘too lazy to do anything right and was costing her more money than I was worth.’

Seriously worried about being late and getting fifty questions -any one of which could land me back in deep trouble - I quick stepped through the now flooded kitchen to report for examination without thinking to change out of my soaked kicks and shorts.

“Have you lost your mind coming in here filthy and dripping mud all over my floor and carpet you little shit?” she scowled at me.

“No Ma’am. I got stuck in the storm and the streets are all flooded- I just wanted you to know right away the kitchen is flooded now too -it’s like a little lake in there.”

She took her hands off her keyboard and growled “So why are you here wasting my time and making the place filthy ? Idiot- Mop it up!”

“But ma’am the water is coming from the ceiling!”

She cursed and got up. “Then get a bucket, fool, and some old towels. Deal with it. I have work to do.”

“But it means there’s a hole in the roof maybe or something.”

“Oh – you’re a roof expert now.”

“No, but it makes sense. The water’s dripping off the light fixture and…”

I could see from her scowl this would escalate if I made any more observations, so I just got the mop and pail and set to work in silence.

“Her fuckin’ kitchen – hope she gets electrocuted and just washed away– nasty bitch,” I said to myself .

How I started to better know myself was, in fact connected to that storm and the flood in her kitchen.

Two days after the downpour I returned from practice ( legitimate this time) and eyed a ladder out front pitched up on the roof. You got it -right over her kitchen.

And up there was this smokin’ hot man hammering away replacing the tiles. All I could do was stare. His shirt was off and I could see he was ripped. I mean, every muscle and vein stood out like they were showing off. Not only that, the dude was jacked! AND the heat was raising a sweat, shining him up like he was made out of polished stone or iron or something. I was mesmerized. Coach and that dad were hot - yeah - but this man – he was at a whole ‘nother level.

Dude caught me watching him, but I didn’t check my gaze or anything and met his squarely. No shame in my game there and I think he got it.

“Hey kid!” he hollered down “Do me a favor buddy – there’s some bottles a water in my truck over there in a cooler. Could ya get one and pitch it up here, so I don’t have to come down?”

“Sure sir. Comin’ up !”

He caught my pitch, opened it and took a deep glug splashing some on his hairy chest and abs, “Hot as fuck up here !!! Helluva way to earn a living!”

I sat down on the grass and continued to watch– ogle – him. He was everything I liked in a man – defined, muscular and hairy - and what I hoped I’d look like some day.

“Hey sir – if you need anything just tell me -at least until Mrs. Paul gets back.”

He gave me a nod, and hammered away, probably glad to have some company to break the monotony of tile after tile.

“How come you call her Mrs.? Aint she yer mom?”

“Well technically, in a way– she’s just my foster “mom.”

He turned and looked down at me. “Been there like that kid. Not fun,” he commiserated,

“Hey, what’s yer name dude?”

“Troy. Sir.”

“Woah – I’m Troy too - so that’ll be easy to remember - and you can cut the sir stuff; I’m just another guy.”

“Ok Sir ! I mean Troy.”

It felt weird to me calling someone else Troy – I was the only Troy I’d ever known and liked to think it was a special name just for me.

While we were talking the sky started to go real dark and a hot wind kicked up blowing leaves and dust around. Just a few drops fell at first, then lightning flashed and the sky opened drenching everything, flooding the street.

“Better get us the fuck outta here.” Troy called down. He pretty much hopped down the ladder. “Can I hole up in the garage back there ‘til this shit’s over?”

“Sure Troy” I responded, feeling a little someway odd about calling this adult man by his first name, kinda like I was taking liberties.

I ran with him, and we took shelter in the garage while it poured, hunkering down on some old storage tubs. Normally I’d have headed back into the house but I could see Troy was a friendly guy so I figured maybe we’d hang out. I took the coke Manny had given me out of my backpack.

“You want some Troy? “I flipped the tab and handed it to him.

“Thanks kid….Troy.”

He tipped the can up to his mouth, took a gulp, then handed it back over to me after wiping the lid with his greasy hand. I brought it up to my mouth and felt a little – I don’t know – maybe - sexy? It had been to his mouth and now mine. Anyway, I got hard. It felt hella sexy just sitting there next to him with all that muscle and hair, smelling his pits and the sharp work sweat odor.

This was the first time I’d ever been familiar or hung out with a grown man and it felt cool, like I was mature enough for him not to see me as just a kid and shoo me off or ignore me like most adults did. Pictures of me and him going at it passed through my mind real quick as we swapped the can back and forth, draining it while it poured outside.

We were nice and comfortable sheltered from the rain and lightning, my bare knee kind of rested against his. As I tipped the last slug back I glimpsed Mrs. Paul’s car pulling up to the driveway.

“Shit! Gotta split Troy. Mrs. Paul’s back.” Dropping the can I dashed on into the house. “Later.”

When Mrs. Paul got in she shouted for me to get over to her office.

“What were you doing back there with that roofer? You’ve got chores to do and just wasting time with that …..” “We were only talking ma’am . He asked me to get him a water from his truck and it started to pour, so we ran into the garage.”

Out of nowhere she pronounced “That man’s a queer” and I felt trapped like I always did when her hard, judging voice was directed at me. I didn’t know what she’d do or what to say.

It made no sense to me, the only “queer” I’d ever known was this kid Stephan in seventh grade, at least that’s what the other kids called him. He acted more like a girl than most of the girls, had a unicorn and rainbows back pack and wore things in his hair only the girls wore. The boys always threw nasty stuff at him - spit balls, chewed food and used tissues -calling him “queer” and “Stephanie.”

It got really bad when they caught him looking at one of them or even told them he thought they were cute and asked one of them to walk home with him after school. Then they would gang up on him.

Even I said some shit to him once. We’d been playing volley ball in gym class, I spiked it hitting him square in the face -by accident - and he started crying. I called him a fuckin’ little crybaby -but that was mainly ‘cause I couldn’t understand why a boy would start crying when he got hit by a ball. Anyway, I don’t bully someone who never did anything to me so I stopped off and just ignored him from then on.

Actually Stephan sort of scared me. What if the other kids didn’t like something about me, would I have to fight every day like he did? He took so much shit for what he wore and the way he looked and acted. In a weird way even though he dressed and moved like a girl I figured he was more of a man than any of the boys – he did what he wanted to and that’s it; he didn’t back down and he didn’t try to conform.

Whenever one of the boys wore or did or said anything different, anything, whether it was a word they used or their sneakers and jeans or the color of a jacket, the rest of them were all over their so-called friend -almost the way they were on Stephan- making fun of him and calling him a fa.--ot or worse.

Anyway I’d never let anyone know I was hot for coach -or worse -their dads. The things Stephan did or wore didn’t hurt anyone – not really. Maybe he looked funny like he was dressed for a play or something and even though he cried when my ball hit him he never cried when they said mean things or threw nasty stuff at him. Anyway he usually got back at them better when it came to insults and -for a minute -everyone would be on his side cracking up at his observations and snaps about their cheap kicks, hand me down shirts and busted haircuts.

It was only when a whole bunch of them ganged up and beat on him that they ‘d leave him in tears – and I thought to myself ‘they’re just a bunch of cowards, none of them ever fight him one on one. If he’s ‘just a girl’ like they say, why does it have to be five on one?’ besides, I thought to myself, “You supposedly like girls so how’s that an insult? Besides why ‘just a girl’ anyway? Most of the girls are way smarter and play sports better than you.’

None of it made any sense to me. So I just avoided them and they did the same with me - probably afraid of a beat down I figured.

Anyway, Troy to my mind acted like a straight up man, so I didn’t know what Mrs. Paul was going on about or what to say.

“You couldn’t tell he’s a queer?”

“I don’t know ma’am– no. He doesn’t act like a sissy. He acts like – normal – ya know like Mr. Paul.”

She paused for a moment ,“Yeah – well – take it from me he’s a queer and you need to stay clear of him. If I see you talking with him again, you’re gonna be put up in the attic. Got it ? Now get to work, it’s not going to do itself.”

####

The next day was one of Mrs. Paul’s work-from -the- office days so I figured I was pretty much in the clear and free from her for the next eight hours or so. Soon as she left, I got the laundry going and headed over to the where Troy was working, hammering away shirt off like before, when I called up to him .

“Hey sir – er – Troy.”

“Mornin’ Troy – none of that ‘Sir’ stuff, right?”

“Okay, got it - ya need anything ?”

“I’m good.”

There was a pause as he banged in a few tiles.

“You want to see what the neighborhood looks like from up here on the roof ?”

“Sure – you gonna let me climb up?”

“Yeah – unless you can fly.” he chuckled .

Troy came down and hitched a rope to my waist running it around my waist, then under and between my legs. I sort of shifted my crotch feeling a little uncomfortable from the tightness. His touch down there felt super exciting and gave me a boner right off. We locked eyes for a second, then he patted my butt. “Well, up ya go, Troy, enjoy the view.”

He pulled on the rope and in less than a second I was on the roof. While I was taking in the scene, scanning down into the neighbor’s yard, watching people work and go about their business, then peered over to the school’s baseball diamond where some guys had a game going, I spied Mrs. Paul’s car coming up the avenue.

Why she was coming back so early I had no idea, and it threw me into a panic. I tried to bolt but the rope held me, I gave it a nudge thinking I could make it slide over the other side and slip myself through a window up under the eaves. But it stuck and I was trapped up there like a fly in a web.

“Troy – Sir – get me down – Mrs. Paul is coming – get me down! Get me down!”

“What’s the panic buddy? You’re safe up there all rigged in.”

“Get me down! She’s gonna kill me if she sees me with you.”

“Okay Troy – but man!!”

He paid out more rope and I squirreled down the ladder. When I reached ground he took the rope off me and looked me straight in the face.

“What’s the deal Troy? She said you and me can’t talk or something?

I stayed silent and he asked me again.

“What’s the deal Troy?” He sounded sort of annoyed.

I didn’t want to say anything and stayed silent looking down at the ground.

Again, he asked me, “What’s up Troy -she say something about me ?”

Finally, I burst out, “She said I gotta stay away from you ‘cause she says yer a queer. But that aint true. Queers act like sissies and you act like a man. She’s lying. ”

Troy shook his head, a wave of sadness passed over his face. And then angry annoyance, “That woman called me a queer to you ?” I nodded my head but still said nothing. “Fuck man – it’s always the same. She must have heard from one of the neighborhood jaw flappers that I’m married and that my spouse is a man.”

He unfisted his hand, “See this ring Troy? I’m married to a man. I’m married to a man and have been for five years. Some people call that queer or f-g.”

“But you act like a man Troy.”

“That’s because I am a man. How do you want me to act?”

“But queers act like sissies – so you aint queer.”

“People act all kind of ways, Troy. That’s their right and their own business, no point putting a label on them like they’re a can of soup. But usually – now I don’t want you to think I’m pissin’ on your foster mom or anything like that – but usually the ones who call us queer or f-g or whatever have twisted shit of their own they’re dealing with - you hear me? Don’t let them do that to you put their own shit on you. Ok ? You know what I’m sayin’ right? Don’t let them do it. Ever*!”*

I didn’t reply, just skittered back into the house and down to the basement where the wash was almost done. When she called me, I quick stepped upstairs and got the third degree about the laundry and what I’d been doing “all morning.”

“Nothing ma’am. Just the laundry and some of the assigned reading for September.”

“And you had nothing to do with that queer out there, right? I should have fired him when I learned what he was – I don’t need garbage like that around here - but I already paid for half the job before he started work and wasn’t about to go to court or lose my hard-earned dollars. Better not go anywhere near him y’ hear?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I’d known from when I was really small that it wasn’t smart letting her know anything about me ‘cept what she had to know. She looked at anyone or anything even a little different like it was a comment about her or even her way of life. She’d say they were wrong, perverted, dangerous, and sprang out to erase, disable or eliminate them.

So, anything about what I liked or who I was, I figured was best kept to myself. Now it was confirmed. She’d beat me or lock me up in the attic, maybe even kill me, if she found out I was just like she said about Troy. That I was a queer*.”*

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Certificate of Birth