All you need to do is look at the cover of this book and know it's not going to be real literature. In the olden days, I used to categorize books as "subway ready" or not. This would have definitely been in the "not" category. "Frat Boy And Toppy" does not pretend to be anything else but a fun, smutty read, akin to a Harlequin romance, and that's well and good. For me, there is a time and place for this kind of read, and if it makes someone's day, then why not? But for me, this sometimes feels like reading about Ken dolls, because I sometimes need characterization and depth for the characters to fully enjoy their interactions. There is this huge sub-genre now in gay lit, these glossy romantic kinds. There's not much guilt in what these people are doing, and that's definitely a great thing. But I can't relate, though. I may be too old school for all this progress. But more power, though.