Four young men were crowded around the television in the tiny, cramped common area of Milo’s campus housing suite. They were watching the game—as had been their tradition since they formed their little gang of troublemakers back in sixth grade.

Though space was limited, they had made themselves at home. One was on the loveseat, his back resting on one armrest and his legs dangling off the other. Two were on the couch, one sitting with his legs folded under him and the other with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Finally, the last was sitting on the couch’s armrest.

If anyone wanted to join them—Milo’s roommate, for instance—they’d have to sit on the floor next to the couch. Or not join at all, which suited the boys just fine. There was no love lost there.

Of the three, it was only Milo who actually lived there. But the others were over so often that they might as well be considered unofficial residents. It wasn’t all that uncommon to come home to find at least one—if not more—of the three conked out in the common room.

Clyde, Milo’s actual roommate, was a great guy. He was warm and affable, friendly to everyone he met. He was well-mannered, thoughtful, and gracious to a fault. And while his politics no doubt stood at odds with the prevailing beliefs in his hometown, he nevertheless practically radiated Southern hospitality.

He was the kind of roommate most people would kill for. But not Milo. And certainly not his friends. The very things that made Clyde a good roommate were the things that made him so hateful to the gang.

It didn’t help that Clyde was open and vocal about being queer. He was an officer for one of the LGBTQ student associations and made no secret of his political opinions and affiliation.

Indeed, it was perhaps Clyde’s enthusiastic advocacy and activism that put him on the wrong foot with Milo and his group from the first. Even the vague recollection of their first meeting was enough to make Milo bristle.

Things had started relatively innocently. Milo and his friends had gone home for the summer of their first year in college. The two months they’d spent back home ranked among the best summers they’d ever had. There was just one problem: they’d forgotten to make arrangements for their accommodations while away at college.

---

Although all four boys came from a relatively affluent neighborhood in their hometown, Milo was the undisputed king of the hill. Quite literally at that.

Milo’s parents were loaded. Some people said the fortune was a fluke of chance, others were convinced the money was illicit. No one said a word of this to their faces. They were that sort of loaded, at least as far as things went in their hometown.

All four of them had resolved to find some work for spending money over the summer break—even Milo, with his monthly allowance—and not a one of them managed to stay true to their word. Instead, they’d spent the months partying and having the time of their lives.

They only realized the problem a week before they were due back on campus: they hadn’t figured out where they were going to live just yet. Milo had the good fortune to have connections and parents that weren’t just alumni of the college, but also very important donors at that.

Much as Milo went to bat for his friends, there wasn’t anything that could be done so far past the deadline. All the dorms for their year were already occupied and the waitlist was too long to bump them up to the front of the line for no reason.

Milo was the only one that managed to get a room. Even then, it wasn’t ideal. One of his upperclassmen had backed out at the last minute, leaving a vacancy that a bunch of people were jockeying over.

Luckily for him, a small, “anonymous” donation made things all but a foregone conclusion. His friends, on the other hand, had to find accommodations outside campus.

Not that Milo was the kind to leave friends in the lurch. He knew they’d let him stay over at their place if he needed it, so he promised that he’d let them stay with him so they wouldn’t have to keep driving out of campus.

Milo unlocked the door to his new dorm. It was a suite, so there was a common area—much better than the individual rooms they’d all had last year—and all of the guys were excited to see what it was all about.

His roommate had already moved in—some guy named Clyde. And if he had to guess, it was the jacked, shirtless guy in the pastel blue compression shorts doing yoga in the middle of the common room.

“Oh. Hey y’all,” said the guy—Clyde, presumably—with a distinctive Southern twang in his voice. “Sorry ’bout all this. Wasn’t expecting visitors or anything. You’ll be Milo then, yeah?”

Milo was staring at the rainbow wristbands Clyde was wearing and took a moment to register what had been said. “Oh, yeah. That’s me. These are my friends Lyle, Tag, and Drew.”

It was only a few seconds later that Milo noticed Clyde was doing a split. How such a jacked guy could be so flexible, he had no idea. He just knew it was giving him sympathy pains in his groin.

Fortunately, Milo didn’t have to watch for much longer. Clyde got up from his yoga mat and approached Milo and his friends.

Clyde was taller than Milo had expected. And as faggy as that yoga shit was, clearly the guy knew what he was doing. The results more than spoke for themselves.

Milo didn’t think he’d ever looked as cut and muscular as Clyde. Not even when he’d been involved in high school sports and regularly went to the gym. Even less now that he’d not been as on top of those things as he might have liked.

Clyde held out a hand to the boys. “Nice to meet ya. Y’all can call me Clyde.”

The pastel blue compression shorts were a distraction. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, front or back. And he was pretty sure he’d noticed the base of something hard and round pressing up against the fabric from between Clyde’s sculpted ass cheeks.

Milo hesitantly shook Clyde’s hand. The others seemed even more reluctant. “Thanks…” he said. It took all his willpower not to instinctively wipe his hand off the moment Clyde released it.

It wasn’t that Milo had anything against faggots. If they wanted to stick things up their asses like fucking animals, they were allowed to. It was a free country.

Milo didn’t want them dead or anything. He just didn’t want to see any of it. It was just frankly obscene that it was everywhere now. There were rainbow flags everywhere and it made him sick.

The point of the whole pride thing was completely lost on him. He didn’t think being a cocksucking queer was anything to be proud of. It was a mental deficiency.

Milo didn’t understand why people were encouraging it. No one ever asked for retard pride. Or schizo pride. Things were much better when the fuckers were ashamed of themselves and at least tried to get married to women and live normally.

He was brought back to the present by Clyde pointing at the door on one side of the room. “Y’all can get set up in there,” he said, pointing to the door on the left side of the room. “Y’all wouldn’t need any help with that, would ya?”

Milo fought a grimace. “We’re good. Thanks,” he said.

“Alright. Well, if y’all need me, I’ll either be in here or over there—” Clyde pointed at a door on the other side of the room. “—Oh and does any of ya want a drink? Got some sweet tea, beer, a couple of soft drinks…”

“Oh, actually, I’d love a b—”

Milo glared over his shoulder at Drew. Tag elbowed him in the rips and pointedly looked at the door that Clyde had pointed out.

Drew clutched his side. “N-nevermind. I’m good.”

“Alright. Well, if you change your mind, let me know, yeah?” said Clyde.

The four boys swept into the room carrying Milo’s belongings among them. Lyle was the first to talk. “Yo. Bruh. Could you believe that shit?” he said.

Tag laughed as he hopped onto the bed. “Fucking gross, man.”

Drew shrugged. “Seemed nice enough,” he said.

Milo snorted as he checked the closet. It wasn’t good but it would do. “That’s how they get you, man,” he said.

Drew sighed. “I guess. I could pull so much pussy if I looked like that. Kind of a waste on a fag, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, well, those people are sick in the head,” said Milo. “It’s delusional they think that shit’s normal. They’ve got so many people brainwashed it’s disgusting.”

There was a knock on the door. Lyle, being the closest to the door, looked at Milo. Milo grimaced but nodded and Lyle opened the door to Clyde.

“Hey, y’all. Was just wondering if I could talk with Milo for a sec?” said Clyde.

“Sure thing,” said Milo. He finishes hanging a suit up before walking out into the common area. “What’s up, man?”

“I just wanted to let you know that the Lambda Alliance is gonna have a ‘Back to School’ social tonight. There’s gonna be some drinks. Some dancin’. Whole load of fun and a good time to get to know some nice folks. You could bring your friends if you like.”

Milo frowned. “Lambda Alliance? What’s that?” he said. He had some inkling of what it was supposed to be but he hoped he was wrong. Because they were going to have problems if he wasn’t.

“Nothin’ major. We’re just a small advocacy group. We fight for LGBTQ+ rights on campus and allies are always welcome too, of course,” said Clyde.

Milo didn’t miss Clyde’s sidelong glance toward the room. The implication was pretty damn clear. “What the fuck, man? You calling me a fag?” he said.

Clyde’s eyes widened. “No, no. We wouldn’t use that word! I just thought—”

Milo didn’t even bother to let Clyde finish. He was seeing red. “Let me make one fucking thing clear, alright? Just because I dress well and take care of myself doesn’t make me a fucking cocksucker. Got that?”

He’d known about the sorts of things that people whispered behind his back in high school. No one had ever dared tell him to his face because of his parents but since coming to college, people had been assuming that he was some sort of fucking fairy just because of the way he looked.

“Oh give me a fucking break,” said Milo when he saw the look on Clyde’s face. “What? Just because I care about the way I look, I have to be a faggot? Just because I don’t look like a massive fucking slob, I can’t be straight? Who’s fucking sexist now, huh, bitch?”

Clyde looked very much close to tears. “I-I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah. Whatever. Why don’t you just get out of my fucking sight?” said Milo. He turned sharply on his heel and walked back into the room, slamming the door behind him.

The guys were all doing their best to act natural. The little shits. A rock had better acting skills. “You guys heard that?”

Lyle shook his head. “The fucking nerve,” he said.

Tag snorted. “Don’t go acting like you’re on his side now, Lyle,” he said with a laugh. “What was it you said? ‘Goes to show him, that prissy little bitch. Maybe if he dressed like a regular guy people would stop thinking he’s a fag,’ was it?”

Milo gave Lyle a half-smirk. “That right?” he said.

“C’mon, bro,” said Lyle, who’d raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “You gotta admit, you’re impossible to take out for cheap.”

Drew piled on. “Can’t fish because your suit isn’t made for that sort of thing. Can’t hunt because you don’t want to look like a glowing traffic cone. Can’t go camping because it’ll make you break out in hives.”

Milo rolled his eyes fondly. “You guys are fuckwads. I don’t know why I’m friends with you,” he said. “Look, some guys are meant to live like barbarians and some guys just have more sophisticated tastes. Not like you’ve ever complained when I take you out to a nice restaurant.”

“Yeah, that’s because you foot the bill, blockhead,” said Tag. “And everyone knows free food is always better than homemade.”

---

“Yo. Bro. Come take a look! Look what this bitch Marissa posted on her Picster,” said Tag.

The other three leaned over to take a look. “Easy 9,” said Milo. “Nice tits. Who’s that 7 next to her?”

“Don’t I know it?” said Tag with a shit-eating grin. “Cassandra. Her best friend or something. Didn’t really care to ask. Not that she’d have been able to answer.”

“Damn, bro. You been banging that?” said Drew.

“Hell yeah. She’s a fucking freak. Gives head like nothing else,” said Tag.

“Great. Tag’s boasting about his magic cock again,” said Lyle, rolling his eyes.

“Not my fault bitches can’t get enough of it,” Tag cracked with a grin. “But that’s not the point. Look what it says!”

Milo leaned closer to read out the caption. “Anyone else going to Clyde’s birthday bash on Friday? Can’t fucking wait. These girls are ready to party!”

“Oh shit,” said Lyle.

Drew grinned. “You know, you haven’t paid him back for calling you a fag just yet, Milo,” he said.

“Yeah…” Milo had a thoughtful look on his face. “You know where it’s happening?” he said.

“Gimme a sec,” said Tag. He sent off a text to the girl in the picture and got a reply back almost immediately. “She says it’s at the Grotto.”

Lyle made a face. “Isn’t that a gay bar?” he said.

Milo rolled his eyes. “Who cares? It’s not like you can catch faggotry,” he says. “And besides. We’ll just be there to crash the party.”

“Dude. Shit. What you got in mind?” said Drew.

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” said Milo. He looked up from his phone, having done some research on the place. “Looks like we’re going to need some ID, though. Place is members only.”

“I’m pretty good at BS, but I don’t think I can bullshit that hard,” said Tag with a laugh.

Drew clapped a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, bro. We can probably bribe someone to help us out.”

Milo snickered. “Can’t think of a better way to spend a couple hundred dollars. Fuck. Now I’m really looking forward to teaching that freak a lesson.”

---

Milo pushed the doorbell again. It hadn’t been two seconds since the last time but he was impatient. After another two seconds, he pushed it again—he wasn’t the kind of person that liked to be kept waiting.

The door opened. “You know, it takes time to get to the door,” said the man that greeted them—Steve, Milo assumed. He had a messy mop of hair and green eyes that shone from the lights on the porch.

“Sorry.” Milo wasn’t. “Wanted to make sure you heard.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe. “Right…” said the man. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his light gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips offered a tantalizing hint of what was hidden underneath them. “You’re Milo and his crew, right?”

“Yep,” said Milo.

“Gotcha.” Steve pushed off of the door frame and turned around. He beckoned over his shoulder and said, “Come in. Living room’s yours.”

Like Clyde, Steve was well-built. His bare torso was enough evidence but his sweatpants did little to dissuade the eye either. And judging from the way the heavy fabric dipped into the man’s ass crack, it was pretty clear Steve wasn’t wearing anything underneath, either.

“Make yourselves at home. I’m going to grab my equipment,” said Steve.

Milo and the other three went into the living room. It was pretty nice. There was a fireplace and a large TV. Gaming consoles underneath. A full sofa set. It was the kind of suburban home that movies liked to portray as the American dream.

“Total fag,” said Drew.

Tag elbowed Drew in the ribs. “You want to get shot? That’s how you get shot,” he said.

Lyle scoffed. “Like libfags would be caught dead owning a gun,” he said.

“You’d be surprised,” Steve interjected as he came into the room carrying his laptop and a camera on a tripod. He set the camera down facing a wall and moved a small table aside. The decorative vase and flower arrangement on top of it wobbled.

“Sorry,” Lyle said sheepishly.

Steve shrugged. “I get all sorts coming through,” he said. “You said you wanted some cards for the Grotto, right?”

Milo nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. Don’t ask why. Can you do it?”

Steve looked over his shoulder, with the flattest expression Milo had ever seen, as he logged onto his laptop. “My company makes hundreds of these cards every year for those places. What do you think?” he said.

Milo shrugged. “As long as you can do it, I don’t really care.”

Steve set his laptop down. “I can do it. Alright, who’s first?” he said.

---

Milo was the last to go. When the pictures were done he sat with the others on the couch. “Something you wanna tell us, Lyle?” he said as they collectively reviewed their photos. “You look way too happy to be going to some fag bar.”

“Fuck you, Milo,” said the boy in question. “You look like you’re about to shit yourself.”

“Alright. I just need one more thing from you guys. These cards get stickers on them. I just need you to choose one,” said Steve as he took the laptop to show them their selection.

“Dude, what faggy shit is this?” said Drew. A blown-up version of each of the stickers was being held up and modeled by a different guy dressed in a way that matched the sticker. They were possibly all members of staff at the club, but there wasn’t anything on the page except for their names.

Tag loudly and obnoxiously dry heaved. “I’m not picking one of those,” he said. “Isn’t there anything more manly?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s a gay club. What did you expect?” he said. None of the boys caught the dangerous glint in his green eyes. “Why don’t you choose for each other? That way it’s not gay.”

In the space of a moment, the boys went from scheming to silently plotting. To them it was the perfect opportunity to saddle each other with the sticker they’d hate the most and they took to the task with gusto.

“Alright. For Drew. Which one are you going for?” said Steve.

Milo, Lyle, and Tag all looked at each other. Their shit-eating grins said everything that needed to be said about their intentions.

“Three,” said Lyle, starting the countdown for the two others while Lyle’s brows knitted into a frown.

“Two,” said Tag, looking like he could scarcely contain his laughter.

“Oh fuck you guys, I know what you’re going to do to me,” said Drew. He looked at Steve and said, “Why’d you have to pick me first?”

Steve shrugged.

Milo laughed. “One.”

All together, the three boys pointed to the same sticker. “That one!”

Each of the stickers was stylized to look cartoonish but with clean, crisp lines. The one the boys had chosen for Lyle was a syringe containing a swirling mix of white and shiny rainbow fluids.

The needle was stuck into the round end of the male Mars symbol, shooting its contents into the bulb of the symbol. It was pretty damn clear what the sticker was suggestive of.

And if the imagery of the male symbol being penetrated by the syringe wasn’t clear enough, squiggly lines around the outside of the icon and the hearts flying off of the arrow-shaped end were pretty damning.

“You’re gonna be a fucking needle bitch, bro!” said Lyle as he reached over and ruffled Drew’s hair with a laugh.

The rainbow needle wasn’t the only reason the three had chosen that particular sticker for Drew. At least part of it was owed to the guy modeling the sticker.

Of the four of them, Drew had always been the one fascinated with bodybuilders, gains, and getting bigger. The guy posing with the blown-up version of the sticker was pretty much that.

The guy—the name underneath suggested his name was Bruno—was a brute. So swollen all over with muscle that it looked obscene. And yet there wasn’t a single hint of hair on his body. If anything, he seemed to shine as if his skin had been oiled.

All the guy was wearing was a bright, metallic red poser thong. It was clearly meant to show off his tree trunk thighs. Because it wasn’t showing off anything else. If anything the bulge of the thong seemed disproportionately small compared to the rest of the guy’s body.

Milo figured it was the result of steroid abuse. And if he had to guess, that was what the needle represented. And since Drew was the kind of guy who put a lot of stock in natural bodybuilding, he’d probably figured it out and hated it.

“Fuck you guys!” said Drew. “Guess at least it’s not that one. But I’m still gonna get back at you fuckers, just you see!” he added with a laugh.

“Next. Which one for Lyle?” said Steve.

The other three didn’t even need a countdown this time. They all pointed at the same one.

Steve laughed. “Wow. You guys are on point,” he said. “Been friends how long?”

Milo shrugged. He didn’t want to be making small talk with some fag they were never going to see again, but while they were in Steve’s house, there was no reason to be antagonistic. “Long as we can remember, to be honest.”

“Gotcha.” Steve nodded. “So I guess you’d know each other pretty well, huh?”

“I mean, duh,” said Drew.

The corner of Steve’s mouth curled into a little smirk. “Better than you’d say you know yourselves?”

Tag draped his arms over the backrest of the couch. “Hundred percent,” he said. “These motherfuckers are the worst shitheads in the world, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t share with them so yeah. They probably know me better than I know myself.”

Milo got the faintest inkling that something wasn’t quite right. Steve was acting a bit… off. And Tag wasn’t the kind of guy to be so open about such things. He felt as if he was on the brink of figuring it out but Steve’s voice brought him back to the present.

“So. Alpha bearpaw sticker for Lyle. Right?” said Steve.

“Yo! Bro! What the fuck? Why do I have to be that?” said Lyle, pointing at the showcase for his sticker. The sticker itself was pretty simple. It was a stylized bear paw with a capital Greek alpha on the central pad.

The model, on the other hand—Rami according to the name at the bottom of the picture—simply stole the show. Posing with the blown-up sticker was a heavy-set and muscular man of potentially Arab descent. His beastly physique and muscle gut suggested that he juiced but clearly it was used to enhance his genetic gifts.

He had handsome features, dark eyes that looked like they could pierce into a person’s soul, and a baseball cap on his head—backward, of course. His chin was covered by a full, luscious beard, and a thick pelt of hair covered his entire body.

The densest of it—at least as far as the picture showed—was around his chest. Not all of it was visible, just the top part between the two corded slabs of meat that were his pecs. The rest was obscured by the bright red tank top stretched near to breaking over those pecs with the word “Dumbbell Daddy” printed on it.

“Cos it’d be fucking hilarious,” said Tag. “Just think about it. Bouncer takes your card. He sees this sticker. He probably knows who posed with it. And then he sees you lanky-ass twig motherfucker standing in front of him.”

“Ha. Ha. Funny. Let’s see how you feel about yours, bitch,” said Lyle. “That one’s Tag,” he said, pointing to another of the stickers.

“You two agree?” said Steve.

Drew nodded.

Milo grinned. “Hell, yeah.”

The next sticker actually had two things on it—well, one thing from two different angles, now that Milo was thinking about it. It showed off one of those masturbator toys, the ones that looked like realistic lower bodies.

This one included the bottom part of the torso—stopping just above the belly button—and the rounded stumps where two legs should have been. It had a nice fat shiny ass with a tramp stamp that said “Just a hole” with an arrow pointing to said hole, and a tally in black ink on one of the ass cheeks.

The other angle showed the front of the toy. There was no cock, just a smooth round bulge with a keyhole printed on it. Just above the bulge was a tribal tattoo centered around a heart-shaped decal that went from just above where the base of the toy’s cock should have been, to just under its navel.

“Yeah, let’s see what the bouncer thinks when he sees you with that sticker now,” said Lyle with a smug grin.

Tag was the biggest of the four boys. In effect, Tag was living out the body that Drew could only fantasize about having. He’d been quarterback of their high school football team for a reason.

The model for the sticker the guys had chosen for him couldn’t be further. The guy, Mykee, was nothing short of diminutive. Tag would have easily stood head and shoulders over the guy—and maybe more besides.

And where Tag was buff and muscular, Mykee was slim. He wasn’t skin and bones. He had some meat on him. But his general figure was softer. More effeminate. And the only thing he was wearing while posing was a tiny little speedo with a weird imprint in the front—as if there was some sort of hard shell over his cock.

Milo realized with a start that he was the only one left. And there was only one other sticker on the page. One look and he hated it already. It was almost as if the four stickers represented the gay stereotypes they’d hate the most.

“Guess that leaves the cop to Milo,” said Steve with an inscrutable glint in his eyes.

“Hell yeah. Officer Milo reporting for duty,” Drew teased.

“Gross,” said Milo with a grimace. The sticker was fairly uninspired as far as he was concerned. It was a police badge with a leather police cap and a baton.

None of their reasons for hating the models for their stickers were particularly deep, but Milo was pretty sure his was the most superficial.

The man—Andrea—wasn’t a bad-looking silver fox. He had a bit of body hair, but not the forest that Rami had. And he was muscular, but not to the point of looking absurd like Bruno. He had a thin salt-and-pepper beard, green eyes, and a handsome smile but the worst part was the outfit.

“It’s just so fucking tacky,” said Milo.

Andrea was wearing a leather police cap on his head. He had a leather vest with a police badge on the front left breast and a harness underneath. He had leather gloves and a riding crop.

He was wearing ass-less chaps and army boots. And perhaps worst of all, he was wearing leather underwear of some description. It had clasps!

Milo could only assume those were for easy access.

The outfit was an affront to fashion, to sophisticated dress, and to the eyes of God, Milo was convinced. And nothing anyone said could possibly change his mind.

“Aren’t there any other options?” said Milo.

“Sorry. Those are the ones you gotta choose,” said Steve.

“Hey,” said Tag, lightly smacking Milo on the upper arm. “Just because you’re the rich kid doesn’t mean you get to choose,” he said.

“Yeah!” said Lyle. “If we gotta live with the ones you chose for us, you gotta live with the one we chose for you.”

Milo scowled but eventually relented. “Ugh. Fine. It’s for one night.”

Steve chuckled. “Alright. Well, that’s done. I just gotta get these printed. Back in a few minutes,” he said as he carried his laptop away.