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TBOATYO by B.J. Freedman

Check out this wild cover art for TBOATYO by B.J. Freedman

“We’re all named Joe.”

A wild romp halfway around the world with an assortment of boys and their lovers. Passion,  idiocy and weather mix in a series of climactic events.

Our lovable but perpetually annoyed Bernie, now an aging 34, has written The Body of a Ten-Year-Old, but no one wants to publish it unless he adds five years and some pubic hair to the boys. After coming unexpectedly into some dough, Bernie sets off for distant lands looking for love or something close. He finds it, but there are complications.

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Bernie closed his eyes and his internal network began to broadcast the opening episode of a miniseries on the life of Bradford Strong – the name on one of his passports – rich and respected, an aristocratic connoisseur of beautiful, willing, international youngsters. Wealthy Mr. Strong, dressed in tan slacks, crisp white oxford shirt, navy blazer and silk ascot, relaxing aboard his well-appointed yacht, docked beside a torpid tropical resort, sips a gin-and-tonic on deck while his current boy, the faithful, highly intelligent, full-lipped, narrow-waisted, smooth-bodied, bubble-butted, olive-skinned, eleven-year-old Filipino rescued from a fetid, smoking garbage dump and subsequently scrubbed and educated, offers a tray of Brie, wheat crackers and Greek olives, unbuttons his white linen Greek sailor’s blouse, and sits down in the deck chair next to his beloved savior. After watching the burnished sunset, discussing with disinterest the African political situation reported earlier on the short-wave radio, they cast off and drift slowly to the middle of a glassine, shark-free bay, where they drop anchor and pants to take a refreshing nude dip while in the galley below deck the half-blind Sri Lankan servant stir-fries fresh Oriental vegetables bought that afternoon from a toothless island woman. Bradford and boy share a bottle of cool white wine with their moonlit dinner; then they drift below to enjoy languid, almond-scented, boat-rocking sex as dolphins jump in celebratory unison around the boat and the servant, crooning a Tamil film song, washes the dishes.

It’s a love story, he thought. That’s what he really expected from this new life. Love. Long-lasting, guilt-free, unadulterated love, for a fucking change. He wanted the Persian Boy smiling up at him as he dismounts (from his horse, not from the boy, ha ha – the Chinese flight attendant is watching him chuckle), he wants Boy and Cheetah greeting him as he swings across the river to share a banana; he wants a few choice students, like Socrates, maybe one special disciple to carry on his lofty traditions, whatever they are; he wants the little brown Ali that made Gide’s Michel stay at Biskra; he wants him, slim and smooth, lying at his side, loving Bernie without reservation, loving his fuzzy chest, his recalcitrant love handles, loving his annoyance (he’ll think it’s cute when he’s angry), loving his dick, for Christ’s sake, and its incessant need to be held, stroked, licked, and parked down between smooth thighs or up a tight, happy little asshole. Love. He was willing to give all he had, or at least a reasonable portion, to the one who would stand by him.


Actual cover art:

TBoatyo-Cover-Island-Bananas-BlogSays BJ Freedman: “I toned it down for Amazon, but they still didn’t like the actual written words… so I could have used the same two jumping boys from the front for all the good it did me. But the green bananas is a sort of inside joke, anyway, and keeps the mystery of the title. Naturally the original title was The Body of a Ten-year-Old but I was thinking that wouldn’t even get me past some agent or publisher opening the envelope. In fact when I sent an early draft of some chapters to an agent in NYC their response was “we couldn’t put it down” but also “who wants to read about a bunch of obsessed old men?” Well, it’s not just about the men, folks…

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