R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 11

My Totally Unconventional, Completely Fucked Up (in A Nice Way) Christmas

My Totally Unconventional, Completely Fucked Up (in A Nice Way) Christmas

I knew l would be spending this Christmas weekend alone – just me and my doggies – and loved the idea. What family l had left, my sister, her husband and grown kids, were back on Long Island, and my ex, George at our home in PA had repeatedly rejected my offers to come down here to my Fort Lauderdale home for the winter. Do you think our super fight the last winter he came down two years ago which almost ended up in one of us landing in jail and the other in the morgue had anything to do with it?

Plus, why the hell would l abandon my sub-tropical surroundings for Ice Locker Snow Country?

Fuck that!

But, you think, what about all those hot fuck buddies you keep bragging about, Ray?

Well, A, my fifty something clone was tied up with a female house guest and long-time friend, in from Montreal; B, my 43 year old black Irish lover, who said he couldn’t live without me, was on vacation on the Left Coast with his hubby; Lover C, my 36 year old Latin stallion who said he would do anything for me and who l introduced to fist fucking, was visiting his folks in Venezuela; and Lover D, my 54 year old cutie who looks 35 and has an emotional maturity of a 17 year old, would be with his brother.

That is until Lover D found out three of his brother’s kids from two failed marriages would be visiting their tiny apartment. The last time they came over, they ransacked D’s room unannounced, went into a bag, pulled out a dildo, pranced up to him and asked, “What’s this Uncle?”

Pleading with me to take him in, Lover D was hard to say no to, considering he was the best cocksucker l had ever met in my 48 year professional career as a gay man. One time, he would have broken the Guinness Book of Records, if there was a category for the longest cocksucking session ever.

Ten hours straight. Scout’s honor.

I was also playing his mentor of sorts. as he tried to get his life back in order (probably for the fifth time) and find a job so he could afford his own place. I had taught resume writing during my years as a part-time adjunct professor at one of the leading universities in South Florida, and he brought his last resume for me to look at.

Okay, so D comes over Friday afternoon, we enjoy some horse play in my pool and he, or l should say his mouth, is just warming up when who texts me but Lover A, my clone and who could have been the love of my life if we had met at a different time in our individual lives, but was no longer relationship material, and who had told me he was going to play celibate while his girlfriend was staying with him. Who knows, maybe she had a boyfriend or girlfriend of her own in town, but Lover A, who was notorious for hitting me up last minute,  suddenly had the opportunity for some nookie, and texted me his very familiar line, “Wanna be bad?”

Now, l had invited D one time to suck both of us off and wasn’t happy when A was showing a little too much interest in D, but l two choices now: tell A l was preoccupied, knowing l might not see him again for weeks because of Girlfriend, or tell D that the show was over and to get the fuck out.

Not happy with either option, and with D’s consent, l said yes to A, and for a few hours we had a very amicable threesome. And when A who had gotten more affectionate over summer  while l was away with my ex at our home in PA, asked for more alone time with me, D very graciously complied and retreated to my other bedroom and watched porn. A few hours later, while A and l made some of the most passionate love in our two year relationship, D returned with some bondage positions he’d like to try on the two of us “hot daddies.”

Fortunately, Home Depot was already closed.

By 2 – a.m. –  A had played-out our ritual dance.and left, and by 4 D, after some more of his favorite past time, edging my cock, got me off, we both grabbed a few hours of sleep.

Saturday, however, instead of being a timeout, brought up the curtain on Act 2 with D reviving my cock and gjving me another award winning blow job.

I guess reviewing his resume will have to wait.

But not on New Years. C, my furry Latin stallion, will be back from his visit to his native country, Venezuela, and he claims ready for daddy, or maybe a new guy who l met a couple of weeks ago, a fifty three year landscaper with a tight furry bod from Philly who’s snowbirding for the winter and who agrees is my long lost twin, may be the one by my side sipping champagne when the clock strikes midnight 2018.

With a Christmas weekend like that, who needs Santa Claus?

One thing though: I thought retirement was all about playing golf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Hate The Holidays

Why I Hate The Holidays

Don’t you love all that warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides this time of year? You know, the stereotypical family around the table (with a few blacks or Asians or even gay marrieds  – or maybe a transgendered aunt, huh? – to be politically correct), carving the turkey or ham or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, the latest iphone, xbox, or luxury car.

Why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers at least me is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that. Sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on scotch or cheap wine or brandy. For many years, my sister and I were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas.

I did my master’s degree at the University of California in L.A. and was perplexed how, around the holidays, all the North Eastern traditions, not Latin American since we were so close to the border immersed in balmy weather, dominated the season. I felt the same way when I came down to South Florida to find Christmas trees under tents so they wouldn’t dry up under the 80 degree sun. But now I realize why – people want to return to the Christamases of their youths and for so many of us the East Coast or Snowbelt was home.

But after some moments of bittersweet nostalgia, the other, less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind, and suddenly my mythical holidays vanish. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. And every time we’d go to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mom’s slightly bent younger sister would jokingly coax grandma’s two boxers to “sic ‘em, sic ‘em!” Meaning us.

Worse, living with my psychiatrically unstable mother, gone now twelve years, who usually hosted the holiday family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. We’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father, dead 24 years, (you had to be a saint to live with my Mother) making nice with everyone, when Mom’s sister would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo!

I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet.

Well, everyone’s dead and buried, and my sister’s back in New York with her hubby, grown kids and grand kids, and George, my ex, said he won’t be down for the holidays either even though I was willing to pay for his plane fare. Instead he’ll be all warm and cozy up at our home in PA that I still pay half the mortgage on. (Yes, he got the better end of the deal.) And he always has his adult nephew just across the border in Upstate New York who most likely will invite him over and George, Mr. Anti-Social, will most likely decline.

Me? I may go out with my neighbor and her mother for dinner though they’re Jewish, or just stay home with my doggies, quite content with my microwave dinner and some Pumpkin pie I can pig out on.

Merry Christmas, Raymond, Merry Fucken Christmas to you.

By the way, Jesus was born in August. The apostles, the best PR guys in history, moved the observance of his birth to coincide with an ancient pagan winter festival so that people could buy into this new Jewish cult called Christianity.

Yes, guys and gals, Christmas was bullshit right from the beginning.

Some things never change.

Why I Hate The Holidays

Why I Hate The Holidays

Don’t you love all that warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides this time of year? You know, the stereotypical family around the table (with a few blacks or Asians or even gay marrieds  – or maybe a transgendered aunt, huh? – to be politically correct), carving the turkey or ham or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, the latest iphone, xbox, or luxury car.

Why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers at least me is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that. Sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on scotch or cheap wine or brandy. For many years, my sister and I were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas.

I did my master’s degree at the University of California in L.A. and was perplexed how, around the holidays, all the North Eastern traditions, not Latin American since we were so close to the border immersed in balmy weather, dominated the season. I felt the same way when I came down to South Florida to find Christmas trees under tents so they wouldn’t dry up under the 80 degree sun. But now I realize why – people want to return to the Christamases of their youths and for so many of us the East Coast or Snowbelt was home.

But after some moments of bittersweet nostalgia, the other, less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind, and suddenly my mythical holidays vanish. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. And every time we’d go to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mom’s slightly bent younger sister would jokingly coax grandma’s two boxers to “sic ‘em, sic ‘em!” Meaning us.

Worse, living with my psychiatrically unstable mother, gone now twelve years, who usually hosted the holiday family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. We’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father, dead 24 years, (you had to be a saint to live with my Mother) making nice with everyone, when Mom’s sister would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo!

I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet.

Well, everyone’s dead and buried, and my sister’s back in New York with her hubby, grown kids and grand kids, and George, my ex, said he won’t be down for the holidays either even though I was willing to pay for his plane fare. Instead he’ll be all warm and cozy up at our home in PA that I still pay half the mortgage on. (Yes, he got the better end of the deal.) And he always has his adult nephew just across the border in Upstate New York who most likely will invite him over and George, Mr. Anti-Social, will most likely decline.

Me? I may go out with my neighbor and her mother for dinner though they’re Jewish, or just stay home with my doggies, quite content with my microwave dinner and some Pumpkin pie I can pig out on.

Merry Christmas, Raymond, Merry Fucken Christmas to you.

By the way, Jesus was born in August. The apostles, the best PR guys in history, moved the observance of his birth to coincide with an ancient pagan winter festival so that people could buy into this new Jewish cult called Christianity.

Yes, guys and gals, Christmas was bullshit right from the beginning.

Some things never change.

My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

It was supposed to be my last fuckfest before my departure for the summer to the vacation home in PA’s Poconos George and I had owned since our New York days. My beach buddies jokingly referred to my PA hideaway as the Betty Ford Clinic for Recovering But Unredeemable Lauderdale Sex Addicts and they were right: no bars to speak of, no sex clubs, no book stores or truck stops, and tricks on the web or phone apps were scarcer than coke at the end of the Winter Party.

So, having had two super star guys in just the last few weeks, Derek, and Brent, an ex-military, lightly muscular, lightly fuzzy fiftyish hump and a versatile bottom who had been trying to connect with Derek himself, my solution to the happy dilemma was to have a threesome at my place where I would underwrite the party favors – shots in the dick included. After all, both of them had been product-tested by me (I had even given one another great references when I played with them separately), and if I ended up on the sidelines watching them, shall we say, get acquainted, having two naked hunks in my bedroom with me, all of us high on smack, and with three dicks as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar – what more of a send-off to Nowhere, PA, could a boy want?

Brent arrived a few minutes early but I could see by the grin on his face when Derek came in that I deserved a finder’s fee. We dispensed with the pharmacological segment of the night by 10:30 (though their chat about their respective, repeated stays in drug rehab bothered me) and soon after we were immersed in undoubtedly the hottest threesome I ever experienced in my gay career. More times than not, I’ve been the sex toy to rekindle a stale relationship; in others, I’m the star as I play with one guy as the other plays voyeur. But this Friday night and this threesome were from a different planet. We were into one another almost equally, me tonguing Derek’s butt hole while he sucked Brent’s eight incher, or Brent fucking Derek while I fucked Brent. Hell, once, Brent and I had both our cocks up Billy’s butthole at the same time, a very first for even this jaded, around-the-block-a-few-times fag. We were in lust, incredible, utter lust in one another and it showed.

About the only bizarre thing that night – at least up to that point – was the nature of our conversations. Other guys in these strange Kama Sutra positions would be spitting out four letter words like a Porn Film Script Writing 101 thesis, but instead we chatted on in smack-speed-talk about the last political gaff or what was on sale at Target, all while we were eating dick and fucking ass in the most delectably decadent ways.

After going at for over three hours, Derek declared he was hungry (slamming totally killed my appetite for days,  somethimg l called the Tina fuck diet) and while I went at my third round fucking Brent, Derek left the room to order pizza. The delivery guy either took no notice to Billy answering the door in his jockstrap, after all this was Lauderdale, or was too homely to invite in. We soon were munching our slices of extra cheese and guzzling down Coke in my kitchen, our three hard cocks waiting to be served when both of them almost on cue announced they were done for the night. Brent said he was bushed, Derek that he would be semi-officiating the following afternoon at a Celebration of Life memorial open house for a 75 year old close friend of his named Tom, who had died just the week before of lung cancer, at the old man’s Coral Ridge– smell money – home. He even invited both Brent and I to come: “The Alibi will be catering and they’ll be an open bar.” And so at 2 am I was alone, two slices of stale pizza sitting on my stove, still horny.

And still hard.

Cynical me thought that they were actually planning a rendezvous that night to continue the evening’s fuckfest as a dynamic twosomee ( l found out later they hadn’t) but if so, so what? I had had my fun and my money’s worth even if it meant scouring the hook-up sites in the middle of the night to find one last ass to fuck before Mr. Peter thankfully called it a night.

I hit up over a dozen guys who were online and supposedly “looking,” but no takers. It was a Friday night, damn it, so were my hunches about the web correct, and most of these guys just on to dirty talk and j-o? I finally nailed a 39 year smooth Latin who was in Miami but wanted his Daddy bad.  “OK if I party?” he asked on his next to last email to me before hitting the road.  “NP” was the understatement of the night from me who was still flying high, real high.

His profile said ,42, his pics said cute, but the reality that walked into my house at close to 4 a.m. was closer to 50, tired and loose. But no matter. After I had had the best of Lauderdale, even God would have looked like an also-ran.

At first Meeko really sounded like he was into it and my hard dick big time. (Gee, drugs will do that to ya, won’t they?) And we went at it for well over an hour. Not able to get off fucking him, I asked if he could suck me off to which he obligingly lay back and worked my dick tenderly with his mouth.  But I was beginning to get worried. I had remembered earlier how Brent had complained his dick hurt if I bent it at a certain angle, and now my dick was beginning to ache – bad. Derek had given us the shots in our dicks around 10:30 which meant they should have worn off (as they had my last two times I had done the needle with Derek by 4. But here it was almost 6 and my cock remained as hard as a thirteen year adolescent boy’s.

Something was wrong.

Realizing all the mouth action in the world wouldn’t get me off, I told Meeko very nicely that I had had it for the night. But instead of taking the cue to leave like most tricks would, he suddenly switched on some persecution complex, complaining how he had treated me right, had come all the way from Miami – high – and how I was an ungrateful bastard to reject him like this. He who just a year before had had major surgery for colon cancer (Now, that explained the Frankenstein scars across his abdomen – but he still liked to get fucked – odd, huh?).  All my pleas that it wasn’t him, it was me, went nowhere. I had only wanted a hole, not a live demo on psychoses. But I realized it was better to say nothing – why throw gasoline on the fire like bringing up his 20 year profile pics  – and finally, finally, he collected his things and left, continuing to mutter to the door what a real fuck I was underneath my cool veneer.

I played with myself another hour, watching x-tube til I came, but my erection remained unabated. I remembered when I had left Derek’s place last time how he had mentioned Benadryl was good at bringing the hard-on down, and in fact had given me two for the road. But I had no Benadryl in the house and instead devoured what cold med tabs I had lying around. I waited a half hour and when nothing changed I called a buddy of mine around 8. He knew all about what I had planned for Friday night. After all, what’s the point of having a threesome if you can’t brag about it to your friends?

“You got any Benadryl?” I asked when Sam picked up the phone.

“No, why?” he said, obviously still groggy-eyed.

“My dick won’t go down.”

“Shit. How long?”

“Derek gave me the shot 9 – no 10 hours ago.”

“Shit.” There was a dead pause in his voice. ”You better go the ER at Holy Cross. They – they might – have to drain the excess blood out of your dick. You – you want me to take you?”

“No, no, I got myself in this mess, I’ve got to face it myself.”

On my way to the hospital – 20 minutes away – I stopped at Walgreen’s drug store, bought a box of Benadryl and popped the tabs – eight all total –like candy on my way over, hoping for a fucken miracle.

There were only two people – an elderly couple – sitting in the ER waiting room when I arrived, dressed in baggy shorts and an oversize button down shirt I usually only wore to cover up my leather harness while I drove over to the Ramrod on a Saturday night.

I was coolly clinical with the perky black registrar at the desk and white-lied about suffering from erectile dysfunction, and how the pills did nothing but give me a headache, and how a friend had prescription medication injections for his penis and how I had asked him to try it on me. Only, only what should have been a six hour junket had turned into a 10, going on 11 hour nightmare. My dick hurt bad – real bad.

I repeated my tale for the intake nurse who said they would have to call in a urologist.

Then she led me to an exam room and instructed me to strip, leaving a hospital gown on the side of the exam table. Several other hospital personnel, a patent rep and a staff doctor useless for anything more than asking questions came in over the next 45 minutes while, still smacked out but getting dizzy from my Benadryl overdose, I sat, stood, sat, stood, trying to find a comfortable position for my aching dick but to no avail. Twice, I even ventured out of the room, oblivious to the bump under my gown, to ask if they had heard from the urologist.

“He’s on his way.”

From where? Bulgaria? I think they were taking secret delight in watching this stupid bastard suffer.

Finally, finally he arrived, looking like an absent minded professor, gawky, egged head, with dark horn rimmed glasses. He spent the first ten minutes that felt like another eternity going through some fucken medical history form – Jesus !  Then he had me lie on the exam table as he and the nurse – female nurse – took a gander at my never–quit pecker.  I was still high from last night’s slam, but quickly brought up all the Benadryl I had swallowed which seemed to work as a good cover story to explain my erratic behavior and non-stop gibberish.

Now I confess I’ve had my share of Nazi sex fantasies, you know, being tied to a cross bar butt naked while hot, young, blond, blue-eyed German soldiers play with my privates under some evil commandant’s orders. But this – this made my fantasies look like a Shirley Temple flick.

After scrutinizing my dilemma, Herr Professor sat down beside the exam table and uttered his pronouncement.

“There‘s blood trapped in the chambers of your penis. I will first have to drain the excess blood, then fill the chambers with saline solution. Hopefully that should diminish your erection.”

Then without a pause, he added the kicker: “This procedure will leave you permanently impotent.”

Crazy as it sounds, I actually felt half relieved by his life sentence. I could finally free myself of my addiction to the hook-up sites and hang up my jock-strap. This insatiable hunt which was only leading me into darker and darker realms of depravity would finally come to an end.

He had shaved my pubes, dick and balls and my upper thighs (remember, I’m a hairy guy) and was ready to numb up my dick for the “final solution” when it happened.

“Well, you’re a lucky man,” he proclaimed genuinely happy about what he saw. “It looks like it’s going down. We may not have to perform the surgery after all.”

Had the Benadryl finally kicked in?

Thank God for Walgreen’s.

For the next hour, I lay there, an icepack on my crotch, as I contemplated the insane merry-go-round ride I had been on the past few weeks, recognizing that if this phallic fiasco wasn’t a wake-up call, I was dead. But through all this doom and gloom of what might have been, I still got a chuckle when I overheard the nurse who had been in the room mutter to her cohorts at the nurses’ station just outside my half open exam room door, “He’s got a nice one.”

Back home later that morning, I called my buddy Sam to let him know I had avoided the knife and what the urologist had described would have been a “bloody, very bloody procedure,” then  went on about finishing up the preparations for my trip up to the Poconos and George. I had planned to leave the following morning – Sunday morning – and now it looked like I still could. I first thought about canceling a rendezvous with Terry, my furry 45 year old “boy” in Jacksonville but then thought I would use the opportunity to test whether King Peter was still King, having suffered the most hellish night of his realm. And if he didn’t perform his royal duties, well, so be it. I deserved it.

Cleaning up my bedroom from the fuckfest of the night before – it seemed like it had happened centuries ago – I found that Derek had left behind a pile of accruements –  cockrings, leather gloves, and my favorite oddity, a gas mask for inhaling his home made poppers – and I e’d him, without divulging my little episode in the ER, that I’d bring the shit with me later that afternoon to that Celebration of Life for his old pal, Tom.

The house was loaded with older gay men like me when I arrived about 6, and Derek made it a point to give me a hug when he saw me. Interestingly, Brent never showed, but I wasn’t about to open a can of worms and call him to see if he had suffered a fate similar to mine.

I didn’t want to know.

A large blow-up of the late Man of The Hour stood on the fireplace mantel. I instantly recognized him and soon figured out from where.

After chatting  with a few brittle types,  I was  finally able to retrieve Detrek from the maddening crowd and asked if we could talk privately. We snuck out to the empty patio where I relayed to him my tale of terror. He seemed unruffled by what the urologist had said to me about the procedure rendering me permanently impotent as if he had heard it all before.

“I gave you and Brent 2 cc. Next time, I’ll cut it back to 1.5.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I lied. I had vowed to myself I would never play with fire again. If Viagra couldn’t cut it, so be it.

Back inside, a tall, thin older guy with a mop of hair that was a cross between Einstein and Harpo Marx, asked if I went to the Zoo, the old Gold’s gym. No, I replied, I went to LA Fitness, but the query had served its purpose as an icebreaker.

We soon drifted as only gay men could to what our preferences were in guys. Ernie liked ‘em hairy and built and pointed to his partner three conversations away. I took that as a cue to hold up my polo shirt.

“Think I qualify?” I asked.

His eyes lit up as he scanned my hairy chest and abs.

“Sure do,” was his reply.

“So how do you know Derek?” I asked innocently, dropping my shirt. .

“Oh, Derek gets around. He and I and my partner Bob have played a few times. He’s one hunk of man.”

“Sure is.”

“And you – how do you know Derek?” he asked in a half patronizing, half probing tone.

My response came out of my mouth like butter melting on a hot corn on the cob.

“Oh we’ve played too, in fact, he and I had a threesome with a mutual hottie just last night.”

Ernie, obviously hiding his stunned reaction, suddenly excused himself to the bar.

A few minutes later as Derek and l left in his truck so he could drive me to my car a block away and discreetly retrieve his toys, I voiced my opinion that I had recognized Tom from his picture and that I was sure we had fucked around in the bath house years before.

“No surprise to me, “said  Derek. “Tom was a pig. Capital P-I-G.”

As I handed him his goody bag from my car, Derek bid me farewell, and added, “Text me when you get to PA. I want to know you made it in OK.”

I nodded I would. Funny coming from a fuck buddy I thought. Or did he feel just a little guilty about my penis crisis? But I was an adult male and had nobody to blame about what happened than myself.

My Jacksonville web bud, Terry, whom I connected with the following evening, had once been something of a heart throb. We had met on the web and first played a year ago on a similar trip up to PA. We were clones – short, nicely built and very furry – and I invited him down for long weekend where people instantly took us for lovers. This time, though, the blush was off the rose. He had gained weight and looked his age, 45. But with a Viagra coursing through my loins and hope in my brain, I was determined to make him feel good, and happily fucked him awhile til Mr. Peter began to fade, more I think from the long drive and the fact I was, well, bored with Terry, who in the end was just another bottom who did little else but shove his ass in my face, than from the ordeal my dick had gone through a mere 36 hours before.

Two days later, settled in PA, George already nitpicking me about leaving a half empty water bottle from my trip in the frig and complaining for the two hundred fifth time that our next door neighbor was running a meth lab that was slowly poisoning us, I texted Derek a non-committal message.

“Hey buddy. Arrived in PA yesterday, Hope all is well with you.”

Next day, I got my reply.

“Was waiting to hear from you.  Glad you’re OK, See you soon.”

Derek and l played only once more, briefly, when l returned after Labor Day,, and a few months later he moved to Portland with some new love.

As they say, you can’t go home again. The same applies to the hottest man in your life.

 

My Life as A Gay Man: Derek -II

My Life As A Gay Man: Derek – II

A few weekends later it was my birthday and Birthday Boy, with no George around to berate me about my advancing senility, wanted to have some fun. It looked by mid-week I had lined up a potential five guys altogether off the hook-up sites who professed their lust for me and availability that weekend.

Well, guess what.

Two, in the last stages of our negotiations, asked if I “partied,” and when I responded with my stock answer, “No, but you can if you like. If I party, my dick ain’t  gonna keep your butt  happy,” they vanished from cyber-space like space junk burning up in the atmosphere.

The third I met on a quiet Wednesday night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, and was actually someone I had casually chatted with in social circles there and at other places. A little taller than me, sexy balding, with a scruffy beard and a nice tight body, my dick always twitched a bit when I saw or spoke with him. But nothing more ever came of it til that Wednesday night when he approached me and without much provocation confessed he had had his eye on me for years but had always felt intimidated. (Huh? Little 5’6” me.)  After we casually explored one another’s chests with our hands – I was shirtless, he had a T on which I lifted to find, as  remembered, he was fuzzy too – he punched in my number on his smartphone and we agreed to get together sometime Friday late afternoon or evening.

Great.

Early afternoon on Friday, I got a text from him that he wouldn’t be able to connect because he was “tied up with friends from Kentucky.” OK, but when I texted him back and asked if he had any time over the weekend, nothing came back. Game player?  Cockteaser? I’m tired of playing Freud and trying to figure out potential tricks and why they act the way they do.

The last, a 37 year old Portuguese hottie with a matinee idol face and body to go with it, had hit me up on Manhunt a few days before, and though his profile said he was a bottom, I couldn’t figure out from his broken English (alright, my Portuguese is zilch) who would be fucking who. But the timing was all off; when I e’d-him that I was free,  he wasn’t, and vice versa, and soon my opportunity for a foreign adventure faded into the pages of “Old Messages.”

The least desirable of the five men I thought I’d have was Kevin who, in his defense,  was open about his age on his profile – 55 – though his pics were of a guy ten years younger. Not my personal best, very slim, smooth and tallish, he nonetheless was the only guy of the five who actually showed up at my door Friday. Looking his age. And though there was an effeminate tinge to him, I was determined to have fun whether I liked it or not, and once I got into the zone, we fucked for almost two hours straight, amazing me even more than it surprised him.

OK, so now it was 10:30 Friday night. Kev had left after we spent a half hour discussing world affairs;  he was a CPA and had been following some of the financial shit going on.  I was tired, my legs were aching from all the awkward positions I had been in, off and on the bed, screwing his butt every which way I could, but I gulped down a cup of coffee and a No Doz, and went out, rationalizing to myself it was only for a beer or two.

After all, it was Friday night of my Birthday weekend. I didn’t want to start acting my age by staying home watching reruns of “Blue Bloods.”

After hitting Bills, Lauderdale’s bear bar, where no one even looked at hairy shirtless me, I drove down the street to Ramrod for a nightcap beer. Frankly, the place was a bore; there were the usual cliques, the usual gym bunnies,  and the usual Jenny Craig failures who still thought they looked hot in a harness that, at least, served as a stand-in bra for their sagging tits. So I pranced around, accelerated the sips of beer so by the time I completed my second circuit of the dump, my bottle was empty and I was ready to leave.

I’m a firm believer that timing is everything in life and that everything happens for a reason. For, just as I was walking out of the bar, who should be walking up the driveway in leather chaps, a hot gray T and leather cap than Derek  I had dropped him a message on the hookup site where we had first connected but had not gotten any in return, and was content to cherish the time we had been together, as methed up as it had been.

Or maybe because of that.

Our eyes met and he smiled that engaging, infectious, “I got ya, don’t I, fucker” smile and quipped, “Got your message. Wanna save me five bucks for a beer?”

“As long as you got a shot for my dick.” I replied. Almost on cue.  If I was going to play again with the hottest man I ever fucked, damn, I wanted my performance to be an Academy award winner.

“Sure,” he replied, “I got just one vial left and your name’s on it.” A minute later I was following him over to his place, chewing a Viagra – I kept a few in the car just in case – as additional hard-on insurance.

His apartment was cramped and against the wall were moving boxes so maybe his story about buying that condo in cash wasn’t bullshit. He led me to the back bedroom where we both stripped down as he prepared the night’s magic brew. A few non-descript paintings decorated one of the walls surrounded by huge empty picture frames, mostly wood and ornate, sitting on the floor, and hanging from the wall.

“They’re art, too,” Derek replied as he held up a needle. From the poetic to the clinical.  “Before I do your cock, wanna shoot up this time?”

Snorting the junk last time had burnt the inside or my mouth and throat, so crazy me welcomed getting it straight into my system. Crazy, ain’t it, having some one l barely knew stick a needle in my arm. I made a fist, he found a vein on my left forearm and in two minutes I was in Warm and Wonderful Wonderland where Tinsel tickled every square inch of my body. Next came the jab in my dick which I massaged in my hand – I was getting to be an old pro at this – as he shot the junk into his own arm.

For a moment as he slowly sucked my cock, both of us lying on the bed, I sitting up, this hunk of man nestled in my crouch, I thought maybe my fatigue and the two beers I had had earlier that night were going to interfere with my erection. But I was happily mistaken and soon that beefy, furry, manly butt of his was my cock’s dominion.

Maybe junk is some kind of truth serum too, and makes you say things you never would otherwise though always wanted to, because I just blurted it out.

“I know you’re not into LTR’s and I’m already in one, so I’m not saying this to impress you, but I’ve got to tell you our last time was the most sensual sexual experience in my life with probably the handsomest man in Lauderdale.”

“And I thought I was looking at him right now,” Derek replied, drilling right through me with those deep black eyes of his.

For the next hour or so we fucked and kissed and licked and sucked. Then as I was taking my third circuit  at fucking him from behind,  I could see he wasn’t responding to  my usual dirty talk and actually starting to softly snore.

“You tired?”

“Had a rough week,” he replied. I wondered whether that had been in the office or bedding down and getting high with other guys.

“You wanna sleep? I got no problem with that.”

“No, No,” he protested, “keep fucking me, I love your cock inside me.”

But in a few minutes I realized my cock was no match to the Sandman and I gently pulled out and lay beside him on the bed, my dick, as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar, staring at the ceiling.

“You want me to leave?” I said softly before he drifted into Comaland.

“No, no, please – please stay.”

And I did. And not because I was hoping we might play later. I rarely spent a night in bed with a guy for three very pragmatic reasons: most were looking for drive-by, 7-11, slam, bam, thank you ma’am sex; I move around a lot in bed; and sooner or later my three little doggies would be wining at the bedroom door to come in.

So I took advantage of this sensual treat and for the next four hours, I just lay there, completely awake because of the junk  (the fact Derek was asleep showed me he was getting immune and probably was taking it in larger doses to get the old high), not even clearing my throat so I wouldn’t wake him and just admired every inch of this beautiful specimen of naked manhood  next to me when I wasn’t admiring my own hard-on which was good enough to fuck every guy in Ramrod on a Saturday night  – twice.

Around 7:30 he awoke and tried to get me off, but without success.

“I’m supposed to go to the beach today,” I said, “but with this boner I might get arrested.”

“I’ll give you two Benadryl. They’ll bring you down.” It was something I remembered and would save me in my hour of horror just a week later.

I took a quick shower as he lay in bed, asked him what I owed him for the junk – forty bucks – and threw out the invite to do it again at my place soon.

“Sure, sure,” he replied with a smile that just couldn’t lie.

“Oh, by the way, “I said, “Now I know why you’ll never have an LTR.”

“Why?” he smirked.

“You snore.”

He laughed.

“You’re right.”

And as I walked out to my car in the beautiful beginning of a warm, sunny day in my Lauderdale, I mumbled, “Happy Birthday” to myself and held up my finger to those four guys last night who couldn’t find time for me.

More Friday

My Life As A Gay Man : Derek, The Handsomest Man I Ever Had: l

My Life As A Gay Man : Derek, The Handsomest Man I Ever Had: l

Looking back at it all now, through the lingering after haze, I wonder if the drugs were what it all had been about. Like I’ve said before, I never go after the stuff or use it regularly, but if a guy offers … And if Tina and G had been responsible, so what? I still had had probably the two most sensual hours of my life with the sexiest guy I had ever had in my long and checkered gay career.  On a scale of 1 to 10 as far as my type’s concerned, he was a 14.

Derek and I met – where else – but on one of the hook-up sites. It was almost two in the morning that first time. I had come home from another Tuesday underwear night at the Ramrod where I had slugged down four free rum and cokes in an hour in exchange for prancing around in my leather jock-strap and only went online when I got home out of my insatiable curiosity. When I saw his profile, a six foot, 180 pounds of, beefy  hairy man, 39, mostly donned in leather, with  dark hair and a ruggedly handsome, bearded face that would make any Hollywood scout whip out his casting couch, I hit him up as a joke, expecting no response.

Instead, he came back in seconds, mentioned he had seen me around and had wanted to hang with me for awhile. Huh. Oh, and he wanted to do it now. Right now.  My place.

I quick popped a Viagra, whisked out my leather harness and boots from my closet – he said that leather was a turn-on for him – and waited, with a pair of loose cut-offs and my leather jockstrap underneath, still expecting a no-show. Instead, what walked into my house 15 minutes later was one of the handsomest men I ever bedded down with.

His profile pics didn’t do him justice. He was all man, but not in a loud brassy way. Level headed sounding and bare chested ,he didn’t need the  those chaps (with that beautiful, manly hairy butt hanging out) to make him Pure Hunk.  He smiled broadly and gave me a kiss barely in the door.

“I’ve seen you around,” he murmured, “Ramrod, Clubhouse. In fact, I was just at the Clubhouse tonight. Supposed to be Leather Night, but Jesus …”

Clubhouse II was a bath house I had gone to religiously for years til it got tired and old, and Slammers opened.

“Yea, I know, pretty pitiful, huh,” I replied, gesturing him to follow me to the back bedroom. I still didn’t believe this was all going to happen.

I plopped down on the setae (perfect for sucking a guy’s cock) across from the bed as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Like I said,” he murmured, “I’ve been wanting to make it with you for – well, for years. But I didn’t think you were interested in me …”

“Well, if I never looked your way, it was probably because I thought you were out of my league.”

“You’re kidding,” he said, standing in front of me, his leathered crotch practically in my face. “You are beautiful. Love the fur, love the face, love the body.”

I sniffed his crouch deeply, and then gave it a playful kiss.

“So why don’t we get down to the essentials and see what all the fuss is about?” I said, peeling off my shorts.

“Sure,” he said, unbuckling his chaps, “just one thing, mind if I take a hit?”

I shrugged my shoulders and played blasé as he pulled a thin clear plastic needle from his knapsack and shot himself in the arm.

Just like that.

“Just some Tina but it works faster this way – you want?”

“No, otherwise Mr. Peter” – I touched my rising dick – “ain’t gonna keep that hairy butt of yours happy.”

“Don’t worry, “ he smiled back. “ I’m happy already.”

A moment and he was down on his knees sucking my cock through my jockstrap which I flung to the floor ten seconds later.

“Fucken beautiful dick, man,” as he gently stroked my furry abs and chest and I softly pulled on his hairy nips and stroked his beefy, lightly furry chest.

“Like that Daddy Dick?” I prompted.

“Love that Daddy Dick,” he replied, softly kissing the cockhead.

Though my dick was hard, I knew it was not at its full potential, as I waited for that little click in my head to tell me my Viagra had kicked into overdrive, but that didn’t happen.

Not because of any deficiencies in the Furry Adonis in front of me, that was for sure, but probably the liquor I had consumed like an alcoholic trying to break some Ramrod Underwear Night Record less than an hour before.

“Let me suck your cock,” I said, gesturing Derek to stand up.  I rightly figured all my sucking wasn’t going to do much good with Girl Tina coursing through his veins. But I persevered for a few more minutes, then, bouncing my cock on my hand, asked the inevitable question every Top asks His Bottom.

“Want this Daddy Dick, boy?”

Without another word spoken, he got on his stomach, that broad shouldered lightly fuzzy back before me and  that beefy, fury butt in my face as I tongued his hole and he moaned – like a man –  “Fucken A, Dad, Fucken A.”  Then I stood up, satisfied Mr. Peter was ready, pulled his butt close to me and entered him.

He seemed to like it – like it a lot, but I was just not happy with my performance and wish we had connected three hours ago, not now in the middle of the night with a liter of Bacardi in me. But I plowed him for a good half hour, in between tonguing his hole and he sucking my dick til we both lay quiet and sweaty on the bed.

“Sorry, man, all those free drinks at Ramrod zapped me.”

“Man, are you kidding, you were great. I wanna do it again with you, buddy.”

“At a civilized hour,” I added. “By the way, can you get those shots for the dick, you know the kind that keep those porn stars up and at it. I’ll – I’ll pay you ….”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Good, ‘cause next time I wanna plow you all night.”

We spoke about  things other than sex for another half hour. He was an exec at a local IT company, and was about ready to close on a nice condo by the beach, for which he was paying in cash, and added he was virtually debt free. Somehow, though, all that sensibility and him shooting up at 2 in the morning didn’t seem to fit in my pragmatic mind. I had had a super stress, 60 hour a week PR job back in the Big Apple and I know damn well they didn’t pay you good money just to look pretty. So how did he do it? It was almost 4 when he collected his stuff and gave me a parting kiss.

Despite Derek’s protests that Mr. Peter had kept him happy, I thought I would never hear from him again. So, a couple of days later, I decided to accelerate the dialogue and e’d him an offer no meth head, if that’s what he was, could refuse:  “Next time, I’ll contribute to the party favors and pay you for that shot for my dick.”

He got back to me the next night, set a tentative date for that Thursday around 9, and all through that Thursday afternoon and evening he texted me to keep me abreast of what was going with his “supplier” in – where else – Miami.

“How much will I owe you?” I texted back.

“One twenty five should do it.”

With my cellphone sitting on my car seat, I drove to the ATM for some more cash, got back, took my shower  and waited. Sure I had done junk in the past, like with Mitch, but always paid for the high with a soft dick. This time I was going to have the best of both worlds – Cloud Nine while I fucked one hot motherfucker with a Daddy Dick that wouldn’t quit.

Nine o’clock became 10, then 10:30. “This guy is never on time,” quipped Billy.

“Can I take a Viagra?”

“Sure, why not? I should be at your place by 11 max.”

Forty five minters later, just as I was feeling my Big V hitting its peak, Billy arrived, dressed like he had been our first time in chaps, and a bare-chested vest.

“So how long for the shot to take effect?”  I asked as I dropped by shorts and stared at the ceiling while he jabbed my cock.

“Just a few minutes,“ he replied, his hands massaging my penis like he was kneading dough for a pizza. “Keep doing that for a few minutes, “ he instructed as he got the junk out of his knapsack and spread his paraphernalia of pleasure over my oak dining room table.

I looked down as my dick quickly rose to attention with really nothing to excite me. Hell, someone could be reciting the telephone directory and I would be hard. But I think the biggest surprise was all the sensation I felt. I had mistakenly thought the shot was all for looks but that your dick would feel numbed up. No way. And that sensation soon swept throughout my body as I snorted the Tina he had brought for me through a rolled up twenty dollar bill from the stack of bills lying on the bureau as his payment in full.

“A straw’s the best,” said Derek as he shot himself in the arm, “but a bill will always do in a pinch.”

With all these clinical mechanics now behind us, we drifted to the back bedroom. One last touch – a slug of G for each of us in some grapefruit juice he had brought along – and the Elevator to Arousal Land was on its way straight to the penthouse suite.

Now I know from past drug experiences that Tina and coke and G make you feel like you’re with the sexiest man alive even if he looked like an extra from Central Troll Casting. But what I wasn’t ready for was the extreme sensuality that the drugs created on and through every square inch of your body. Derek  had me stand up in front of him as he sat on the setae and ever so slowly stroked my dick with a soft hair brush. It was like electricity was streaming throughout my being. Everywhere he touched me was golden and I could see he felt the same as I touched him. His mouth on my cock upped the sensitivity geometrically and by the time I got to fucking him – in every possible position – it was as if we had both been born for this moment.

I knew then and still feel today that, drugs or no drugs, those hours I spent that night with Derek were the most sensual experience I ever had and would ever have with another guy, and that I could now die a happy gay man.

Then at about 1, he abruptly stopped, I thought for a breather, when instead he announced he would have to go soon.

“Hate to leave you like that Daddy,” gazing at my tool, still as stiff as ever despite almost two hours of sucking and fucking, “but I got a buddy coming in from L.A. for the weekend on a red-eye and I’ve got to pick him up at the airport.”

The perpetual cynic in me suddenly wondered if all these histrionics had been a ploy to get me to pay for his high, but, hell, I had had my share of sexual delights, too, and was strangely content – for a change – to have lived purely in, and for the moment.

After all, no matter where we are in life or where life has taken us or will take us, is there anything else but right now?

Mr. Peter, though, wasn’t through for the night, and after Derek left me, I went back on the web, determined, no, obsessed like some insatiable bounty hunter to find an ass – or maybe two – to fuck.

I found one ten minutes from me, a non-descript, hairless, slightly fem fifty something Latin guy who moaned like a woman as I screwed him. Then came a second, also Latin, but much younger and a good looker who had been wooing me for a while, but who lived a good 40 minutes away. But no matter. Mr. Peter was on a mission. It wasn’t until almost 5 that morning after I had finally relieved myself with some porn on xtube that Mr. Peter was satisfied and I collapsed into bed.

Funny, but while canvassing the “I want It Now” boys on the web that night, I found Derek still there, searching, too, this time with a new headline, “Two bottoms looking for hot tops,” the other guy apparently his L.A. buddy.

Now, at that time l taught online with no set schedule but how could Derek still be out there looking when he supposedly had such a responsible and demanding a job. Like an expression auditors at the hospital I worked at back in New York used when financial statements were awry,  it just didn’t foot.

In the week that followed, I made it a point to check at all hours of the night, usually when I got up to take a leak, to see if Derek was on (was I becoming a stalker?) and noticed he was almost always there, ready for action. Sure, maybe he had just forgotten to log off. Or was this tale of being a hot shot compliance officer and  buying a condo for cash all horse shit and that he was actually a stone cold addict feeding his habit off the kindness of strangers, suckers like me who he could easily manipulate with one matinee smile?

But we’re all adult men, aren’t we, with the right to make choices for ourselves, both good and bad. And even I was tempted to shoot over an e-mail offering to “contribute” again.

After all, why have the most sensual  night of your life just once?

I did e-mail him one more time but when a week went by with no response, I moved on.

But the next time I hit McDonald’s  for a Big Mac and Coke,  I made sure to save the straw.

Just in  case.

 

More Wednesday.

My Life as a Gay Man: Montreal – III

My Life as a Gay Man: Montreal – III

On Friday night, GI Joe’s, Montreal’s rough and tumble bath house, business did not really pick up, and while I wooed or was wooed by a couple of ordinary looking guys, I left the place like I had on Thursday, “unconsummated.” Again, the guy bars, crowded with older men in the afternoon, were now populated mostly by the young, and the streets were spilling over with str8 twenty somethings either visiting the str8 clubs that had popped up in this once very gay neighborhood or just milling around, in a menacing gang-like fashion that put me a bit on edge.

The pleasant spring weather continued on Saturday. I had a brunch of salmon Eggs Benedict at one of the street restaurants and watched as a slowly growing train of guys, some young, some older, entered the Oasis bath house just across the street. Given the dismal showing at GI Joes, and the lack of activity on the web, I figured the Oasis was my best bet for the afternoon. After all, where else was there to fuck?

Well, I was wrong. I was the hairiest guy in the place, in fact just about the only guy in the place with any kind of body hair, and it was obvious after an hour lying lasciviously  in my room that the smoothies were not interested.

So Saturday night after one beer at Eagle Noir, I returned to GI Joe’s where – surprise, surprise! – a fuck/suck fest reminiscent of the bath houses of the ‘70’s awaited me. I must have sucked or gotten sucked by at least a dozen guys in the five hours I was there, fucked a few more, and finally blew my load with a very, very burly furry guy who, like me, was into heavy nipple play.

That’s not to say that the night was not without its awkward moments. Like the 6’5” roughly hewn leather man who pinned me down to the mattress, or Rob, my guesthouse proprietor, who appeared from the shadows in one the downstairs orgy rooms, murmured he had lusted after me ever since my first visit, and who proceeded to lower himself to his knees and swallow my dick. I wouldn’t have minded it so much if it weren’t for his teeth.

And Montreal’s reputation as The Land of the Uncut remained strong with many of the guys sporting sausages between their legs ready for skinning.

Sunday afternoon, though, proved a dud at the bar and the web, so I drifted over to G.I. Joe’s around 7.

It was there that I met Ramey in all his hirsute glory.

A very very furry, bearded forty-something Pakistani guy with a swimmers build and Euro looks, he was in the video room pulling on his long, cut cock as two other non-descript guys watched him, mimicking his hand motions with their own limp noodles.

I stood beside him, he turned, groped my chest then beckoned me to follow him to his room. There for the next two hours, we relished over one another’s cocks and deified one another’s fur with constant mutual strokes only two hairy men knew how to give to one another. His supremely hairy butt – much furrier than mine – was particularly delicious to my tongue. As expected, his English was also better than mine and I found out in the little conversation we shared, beyond babbling about our mutual fur fetish,

that he was a wealthy vagabond and Oxford graduate, blowing a trust fund left by a doting grandfather on travel and men.

His country count was up to 38, his man count, well …

After edging one another almost to the point when cumming becomes impossible, we finally let go almost simultaneously and kneeling up on the cot, spurted over one another’s chests and abs. Ramey leaned over, licked his cum off my fur, scooped up my jism off his chest and stuck his sperm-drenched fingers in his mouth.

Instinctively I did the same with what remained of his cum on me, then watched as he walked out of my room.

Since that moment a world away, I’ve jerked off to the image of that furry coco butt in my face dozens of time.

Hell, some nights alone in my bed I can even taste it.

Monday::Gil, unquestionably the hottest man I ever went to bed with

 

 

 

 

My Life as a Gay Man: Montreal – II

My Life as a Gay Man: Montreal – II

It was now May 2011, two years after my first visit to Montreal. There was this  Paul, a forty something dark, bearded guy on Manhunt I had tried to connect with on my last trip. The night before I left we chatted online and he agreed to meet me at a coffee shop on St. Catherine’s, the main drag in the Village, at 8 Thursday night.

I found one of my guesthouse proprietors, Ron, downstairs awaiting my arrival. Slightly shorter than me, and a bit older and a bit grayer since I had last seen him, he was still barrel chested and beefy but this time a bit leering in his disposition. Like one of those old men in the bath houses who looked like they wanted to devour me. As he handed me the keys for the upstairs apartment I had rented again, I sensed he wanted more than just the American dollars I paid him in for the stay to avoid the Canadian room tax.

Dropping off my stuff upstairs, I quickly ran down to St  Catherine’s to hit Priape, the sex shop, for poppers and lube, two items that might cost me problems in airport security and then customs. I was pleasantly surprised that for a vast stretch of the street, St. C’s had been transformed into a pedestrian promenade which I found out later they did every spring in late May, which is why I hadn’t experienced it on my last trip. All the bars and restaurants had decks jutting out onto the carless street, which was already brimming with people though I couldn’t help but be bothered by the fact that Montreal’s legendary leather bar, Eagle Noir, next to Priape, was populated not with rough and tough levied leather boys but tired old middle aged men there for happy hour.

Back in the apartment, I took a quick shower and, dressed in shorts and a tank, strolled back down to S. C’s and my appointment with Paul.

Only he never showed.

I made sure to scrutinize every face in the place, inside and outside, imagining what he might look like fatter or older, but came but empty. So I had been stood up on my very first night of my second, and I decided right then, my last visit to Montreal.

But Ray always has a Plan B which actually had been my Plan A from the start – to hit GI Joe’s, the butch bath house a few blocks down, for the evening. Invigorated by my new found freedom – and my coffee and brownie – I went back to the apartment, grabbed my cock ring, tit clamps, lube and poppers and waltzed over to GI Joe’s.

The crowd there that night, however, was a disappointment, both in quality and quantity.  Only about ten or so guys were there at any one time, none of them special, though I did have a few cocks to play with. Returning to Eagle Noir at about 10, ready to strip my shirt off in the still comfortable high sixties temperature, I found the crowd non-descript  and young, not leather at all.

Had things changed here, too, as they had in almost every guy and leather haunt in the U.S.? I decided to keep my shirt on.

Two French Canadian twinks were standing by the pool table blocking the way to the upstairs bar. “Excuse me,” I murmured. The taller of the duo stared at me menacingly. “Excuse mois!” he repeated sharply several times. OK, first I’m stood up, then I come up almost empty at the bath house, and now I got a Frenchie scolding me in a bi-lingual country and a tourist section that lives off Americans and other Canadians. Somehow, this trip wasn’t working out.

But before I went to bed – to sleep – I opened up my last message from Paul, the guy who had stood me up earlier that evening at the coffee shop, and sent him this:

“Been busy since I got in so this is the first chance I had to let you know I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you as planned. My flight got in late and traffic from the airport was a bitch. So I was never able to get down to the Second Cup. In fact I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until after 10 when I went to GI Joe’s and had some fun. Sorry …”

Now, I had flipped my location on six different hook- up sites from Lauderdale to Montreal, but unlike my last trip when I lined up some guys before I left, I had gotten almost no “pre-trip” hits and this hitless wonderland continued through the weekend. And just like in Lauderdale, where I’d get e-mails from guys in Chicago, New York and Des Moines but none from the local guys, here in Montreal I got hit on by guys from Toronto, Vancouver, and British Columbia. Go figure. The hook-up sites as a source of virtual sex and getting off so prevalent in Lauderdale had gone viral.

The one exception was Jacques. A tall, thin, smooth, bearded, cute looking 35 year old guy who worked online from home, he found me on Daddyhunt and came over Friday afternoon as a break from his work. He confessed that he actually lived next door and had seen me naked through his window after I had gotten out of the shower Thursday night. “Very, very hot,” he purred with that deliciously sexy French accent, and apparently my allure remained in place judging by the way he enjoyed my dick up his ass.

More Friday …

 

My Life As Gay Man: Montreal: l

My Life As Gay Man: Montreal: l

It took a trip to Montreal to make it with a Pakistani guy who turned out to be the hairiest guy I ever licked.

And more.

I had visited Montreal’s gay Village twice in the last few years on pig getaway weekends, but the two trips couldn’t have been more different.

My first was in 2009 and I have to say having everything on an eight block or so stretch of the main drag, St. Catherine – the bars, clubs, restaurants and enough bath houses for five urban hubs – made cruising and playing extremely convenient. I also felt a great sense of community, more than even in places like NYC’s Chelsea I left back in the early 2000’s. Here, guys held hands, or embraced or kissed on the street (on the cheeks and the lips) very matter of factly, not to show off or draw attention.

But while, yes, that first day, hearing and seeing French made me feel like I had hopped a plane and gone to Europe, by Saturday the gibberish had gotten a little irritating and just a bit elitist like I had felt when surrounded by the real Les McCoy’s on a visit to Paris two winters ago. For a heavily trafficked tourist area in a country that, after all, is officially bilingual, many of the twinks who staffed the shops or restaurants or even the bath house windows knew about as much English as I remembered of my high school French.

About the only person who impressed me with her bi-linguistic expertise was my black shoe polish haired, multi-tatted, nose-ringed waitress at the outdoor café I frequented for dunch who switched from French to English like I would go from chewing a trick’s left tit to his right.

Also apparent, particularly that late Friday afternoon at the very popular beer bust of one of the roof top bars, was the same generational divide between the young, often effeminate guys with their 28 inch waists, and the older seasoned men that I witnessed in most other urban gay ghettos including my own Lauderdale. At least one good thing: they all weren’t umbilically connected to their smartphones checking out Grind’r like those cell-obsessed faggots back in sunny Florida.

Knowing my guest house, Maison des Jardins, had wi-fi, I schlepped my laptop with me to Montreal to close in on the half a dozen or so webmen I had gotten some preliminary commitments from before I left Florida, and to take advantage of the “I want it now” boys. Two of my pre-arranged tricks proved disappointing, another suddenly came down with the bubonic plague and wouldn’t be able to connect, and a third had such an erratic work schedule that he was ONLY available after 11 on Friday night, my one and only Friday night to explore gay Montreal. Oh, but I’d wait for him.

Sure.

On a positive note, there was Jacques, a forty-something, long haired computer tech, a Daddy Hunt find, with a typical French Canadian swimmers build, uncut cock, and some fur, who biked over to my place where we enjoyed a hard dicked Friday afternoon liaison; and Eduardo, all of 35, and yes, also intact, who e’d me on Bear 411 at 8:30 on Saturday night, was on my couch by 10, and out with smiles on both our faces by twenty of 11. Efficient.

After hitting Le Stud, populated with more of my kind of men but mostly paired off on the dance floor, I drifted over the Eagle Noir, hosting an auction to send their guy to IML.

Lo and behold, I found that a gay art that I had thought had long died – good old fashioned eye-to-eye cruising – was alive and well. One built mother fucker, apparently with no agenda since he was with a bunch of his clones, gestured to me in the crowd and shouted, “You know how hot you are?” Then there was the tall, burly, dark bearded man with the sloppy black T who said nothing but eyed, stroked or groped me each time our bodies rubbed against one another in the crowd. Maybe not drunk enough, or a bit intimated by his stature, I didn’t make the next move.

So who should I rub furry bellies with a half an hour later within the tight hallways of GI Joe’s, my kind of bath house, than my dark handsome stranger who smiled broadly and asked for my room number.

Emile’s English was spotty but we weren’t connecting to discuss American-Canadian relations, and after we had caressed and kissed and played and came, I turned to Emile and asked softly, “c’est bon?” Stroking my beard, he replied with that sexy broad smile of his, “oui, c’est bon.”

Two years later, in May of 2011, I was back in the Gay Village but almost everything had changed – and not for the better.

More Wednesday

What’s This “ Breed Me” Thing Going On?

What’s This “ Breed Me” Thing Going On?

It’s not just the older guys who can’t get it up anymore, it’s a big chunk of young gays who don’t want to get it up anymore or are too doped up to do it who are not just asking, but demanding tops to “breed me, breed me, breed me.”

Besides the obvious – a higher risk of infections from STD’s including HIV –  what l get annoyed about is all the pressure of performance this puts on the top while all the bottom is doing is laying there and taking it with very little in the way of reciprocation. Barely a lick on the dick. I mean who the fuck are they to demand this of me when they’re doing virtually nothing in return. With the level of intimacy they’re offering, l might as well shoot in a flesh light.

Now if l were 21 or 31 or 41, maybe l’d give the guy a run for his money, but l’m a daddy who likes to take his time, no apologies offered. Otherwise go find that 21 year old. Or that fucking machine off Fort Troff.

Right now, as one of my lovers, l blessed to have a 36 year old densely furry, masculine Latin stud with a body by Michelangelo who happens to dig older hairy daddies and who kisses like Valentino and sucks my dick like a champ before l rim and penetrate one of the most glorious furry manholes in my gay career. So, yes, it can happen.

But I’m beginning to wonder if this breeding epidemic is gay love in our times. Hey, guys have been barebacking forever, even after the AIDS Genocide of the ‘80’s and early 90’s when, contrary to folklore, condom use did not go up. And now in this age of PReP, viral loads that are indistinguishable, etc., barebacking is back, better than ever.

A few years ago during a promotional campaign for one of my books, a woman who unabashedly identified herself as “a naive heterosexual,” asked me through a web chat if barebacking was becoming popular because of bareback porn. “No, honey, “ l replied, “it’s all about hormones and lust.”

But what is this gangbang mentality about taking anonymous loads from a deli line of dicks? Is this the way gay men, particularly millennial gays, interpret as being loved?  The more loads they take, the more they’re bred, the more they are cherished, admired, and respected? Or is it to obliterate in their minds the reality that finding love and all the commitment it carries is an almost impossible dream for most people?

Talk about love in the fast lane.

Sad, fucken sad.

My series, “My Life as A Gay Man” resumes Monday.