R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 13

My Life As A Gay Man: Reflections on Threesomes

My Life As A Gay Man: Reflections on Threesomes

Partners welcome them now and again to revitalize a sexual relationship that’s becoming mundane, but many times, threesomes aren’t the equal deals in bed that gay fantasies or Logo have portrayed them to be.

I’ve had my share of them over the years and learned that while men and combinations thereof are as varied as numbers on a scratch-off lottery card, some common threads still apply.

You have the spontaneous threesomes that take place in some sex club/bath house venue or backroom. Here, two guys are screwing around and, all of a sudden, enters Mr. Number Three. Sometimes the original pair are so into it, New Guy tries butting in before realizing it just ain’t gonna happen. But just as often, the twosome are total strangers who just started getting it on 79 seconds before, and having a third guy to go down on the two of them while they’re warming up in the kissing department just adds to the fun.

Then there are the threesomes with partners and fuck buddies. These can be spur of the moment, too, like when a pair of hot clonish men, clinging onto one another all night at the local levi/leather bar, suddenly zero in on what would make them both happy, standing against the wall. But, more often, liaisons with pairs who know one another’s bodies and hot buttons like two well-oiled machines tend to be prearranged, often on the web, or prescreened as happens when the twosome is at a vacation hotspot or on some RSVP cruise. Such adventures give them an opportunity to size up, cock tease, and come on to Mr. Possibility. (Checking out HIV statuses doesn’t hurt either, particularly when the twosome are poz – or neg – boys.) With fuck buddies, where their mutuality is based largely on good sex, it’s less of an issue, but partners are wise to fuck around off local soil so there’s less likelihood of Mr. New Guy becoming a threat to their relationship.

That’s because invariably there’s a subtle or not so subtle stronger connection between New Guy and one of the pair sexually and, yes, even emotionally, which may not end with the used condom on the floor.

So what combinations work the best? Two hairy guys into a smooth one or vice versa as a change of pace (like having pistachio ice cream instead of the usual vanilla, chocolate and strawberry); a top, a versatile top who’s really a closet bottom, a total bottom who sometimes just lays there, no foreplay, no kissing, just ass up, and a “versatile,” or, mommy, hold me back, three versatiles. On the other hand, three lids or three pots just don’t make for exciting three-way romps.(That’s why pre-screening is a must.)

Finally, we have the ultimate in ménage a trios: the polyamorous threesomes taken to the loving extreme.

I was at 2606, the leather bar in Tampa one weekend, when I started chatting with a hot furry leather man about life. During our conversation, he mentioned that he and his partner (who preferred watching “CSI Miami” on Saturday night to the comings and the goings of the Tampa leather scene) were recent San Francisco transplants. In S.F., Hot Man was an attorney whose clientele included three way relationships, married marrieds with another man or woman in the picture, or just three gay boys or girls living together. But these were not just threesomes built on sex, not when property and 401K’s and kids and healthcare proxies and estates came into the picture.

But I think the most bizarre threesome I’ve personally encountered involved some guys from St Pete’s, Florida, whom I met on line. Kyle and Tim, two hot, seasoned men, said they were fuck buddies looking for a playmate and, on a long weekend in St Pete’s, my first visit there, we played the afternoon away at my guest house room in fuck/suck ecstasy. As I was showering up, Tim asked if I’d like to go to dinner, to wit he called Sal, his lover – yes, his lover – on the cell to join us. So there we were, the odd quartet at an-all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant, Tim, Kyle, Tim’s fuck buddy, me who had just finished fucking around with the two of them, and Sal, Tim’s lover, who liked me, really liked me, and knew exactly what the three of us had been doing all afternoon.

Later, Tim who told me that he and Kyle had been fuck buddies, just fuck buddies, since college, also confided that he had a problem in making his romantic relationships stick. Sal was his third lover in as many years and he was wondering what he was doing wrong.

Duh?

Guess what Tim does for a living? Yep, he’s a psychologist. And when Sal, whom Tim helped put through nursing school, suddenly left him one day for a younger and richer playmate, Tim was beside himself on how Sal could have betrayed their polyamorous (Tim + Kyle + Sal) commitment.

Buddy, hormones are hormones.

Next: David, my hearing impaired lover.

 

 

My Life As A Gay Man: Tim and Tom

My Life As A Gay Man: Tim and Tom

The first time I fisted a guy was in the Clubhouse II baths in Lauderdale on one of my snowbird visits in the ‘90’s. The guy, a lean and mean, lightly furry, handsome fucker, all of 30, was obviously strung out on something when he gave me the eye as I passed his open room door. Even if I wasn’t quite as versed in the ins and outs of gay sex as I am today, I knew the can of Crisco on his bed stand wasn’t there for frying chicken.

That night I also learned I was a born fister. I had the strong but tightly built hand of a musician and, in fact, had been a concert pianist by the age of 8 but gave it all up when my piano teacher moved to another town.

I guess that’s why my new buddy smiled when he looked at my hand. It took very little effort for me to slide first two fingers, then three, then my tapered fist, and finally my whole hand half way to my elbow up his stretched hole. He was a clean machine – you know what I’m saying – and all I felt was wet, warm tissue enveloping my arm. Frankly, I wasn’t sexually turned on by the experience, but neither was I turned off – just curious. My buddy, on the other hand, was in Fistee Heaven. I’m sure whatever he was on certainly helped the cause.

I thought guys who loved getting fisted may have gotten bored with conventional dick fucking or even super-sized dildos. I also knew from that first night that it had to be far more than massaging the guy’s prostate since the prostate is only a few inches up the rectum while your hand feels like you could grab the guy by the throat from inside. But as a seasoned fister buddy explained to me, the anal sphincter is another erogenous zone which becomes so sensitive after a fisting experience, just touching it continues to drive the guy wild and even more hungry for a hard cock to enter next.

OK, I’ll buy that, but I still think there’s also something of a mind game going on here, the fact the guys knows that once you’ve got half your arm up his butt, you have complete dominion over his life.

And his soul.

While I’m not a member of any fisting club, over the years I’ve had my fair share of asses, even a new neighbor’s a few blocks away once, discounting the old proverb you shouldn’t shit where you sleep. But increasingly I found the experience, well, a little boring. While I knew that the guy I was doing it to was obviously enjoying it – I could tell by the level of his grunts – my mind would often wander to my weekly food shopping list.

That is, until I met my fisting brothers from LA, Tim and Tom.

We connected on Manhunt; they were on vacation here in Lauderdale, staying at one of the overpriced guest houses by the beach, but they were willing to make it easy for me by coming to my place. Hairy, masculine, gym-built fuckers with thick uncut cocks, they looked like the types who would want to tie me up to a post and take turns fucking the shit out of my tight virgin butt. Tim, 44 had a shaved head, his younger brother, Tom, 40, sported a buzz. But no, instead it was I who took turns fisting them, or I should say their glorious furry butts, Tim’s first while Tom went down on my dick, then vs. versa, as they say. Reciprocation made all the difference for me, something that could only happen in a threesome arrangement. We took it slow but the more arm I gave them the more each of them wanted til I felt I could rip their hearts out if I willed it.

They were also neat freaks, the neatest FF pair I have ever met. You can understand how lube during fisting can get a little messy, but Tim and Tom approached their ff session with surgical precision. Tom placed the disposable mattress covers they use in nursing homes over my bed comforter, while Tim fitted me with the latex gloves (I’m a righty) and made sure their special brew of lube would stay put.

And when they had both gotten off, flaccid dicks spurting away, Tom twisted my nips while Tim went down on me and took my load like a pro. Then they packed up their stuff, in as organized a fashion as they had unpacked, slipped back into their jogging shorts and tight tanks, and thanked me for a good time. For once had by all.

A month or so later, a fuck buddy of mine and I were at Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, lying out there au naturale, when I spotted Tim and Tom, also sans their swim suits, their big dicks swaying in the breeze, walking towards our beach chairs. I got up and gestured to my bud to do the same and when I introduced my friend to the guys, Tom grabbed his hand, examined it intently, and gave me a quick smirk.

“You’ll do,” I quipped to my friend after they had strolled on, but my poor buddy, who began munching on his tuna fish sandwich, had no fucken idea what I was talking about, and he being a conventional fucker who didn’t even like his balls pulled on, I figured I’d leave sleeping dogs lie.

After all, why spoil his lunch?

Next: Reflections on Threesomes

My Life as a Gay Man: Terry and Jack

My Life as A Gay Man: Terry and Jack

I never planned to be a Daddy. Hell, the first time a guy called me one in the bar, I was ready to walk in the middle of traffic. Did I choose the wrong shade of Just for Men? Should I have stopped putting off those botox shots?

And as I told you, I eventually went for those botox shots, and my testosterone pellets were a great libido booster, but I think they only enhanced my Daddy persona further.

Maybe because confidence in yourself is half the game.

Over the years, I’ve had many boys, but only two “sons” have stood out as happy memories. No ten minute wonders, but guys I could fall for – and who apparently fell for me.

Terry, 42, who I encountered on Bear411 one summer while I was at my vacation home in Pennsylvania, lives in Jacksonville and our first game plan was to find a middle of the road point on Florida’s East Coast and rendezvous sometime in the fall. But since I passed through Jax on my way home from PA to my home in Lauderdale, I asked if it might be possible to see him then. He agreed with open arms, offering to put me up for the night.

It was instant chemistry. My height, lightly furry, Italian, bearded, nice compact body, with boyish looks that belied his age, a stable, steady-as-you-go demeanor and a quiet, understated masculinity. Before we could finish our conversation about the golden oak furniture we both collected, we were in his secluded backyard hot tub and the rest as they say is for the history books. Or my next gay novel. His PA was a particularly nice surprise. But his fuzzy manly back and butt were to die for for this Dad and we got into the Father/Son act even before we hit the bedroom.

A few weeks later he came down and spent a weekend at my place, and while he was the curious tourist and loved hitting our gay beaches and the bars (apparently the Jax scene is tame by comparison), we went at it for six hours straight on his first day and got into a few more “training sessions” where “Papa,” as he called me, promised to make him a man before the weekend was done. A generation my junior, he applauded me for my stamina.

We even played Truck Stop Buddies where he was my rebel boy, both of us in baseball caps and work boots and nothing else, him spread eagle on the bed, that manly furry butt all mine.

Then there’s my other “son,” Jack, 36, half a country away who, like Terry, I met on Bear411, this time when I was planning a long weekend in Chicago. While he was very receptive when we chatted on line, he sounded somewhat hesitant when I called him on my arrival to see if our meeting would become real, and even when we met at the coffee shop across the street from my guesthouse on Halsted (he lived 40 minutes away in the rural burbs). As we strolled over to a Middle Eastern café a few blocks away and had a quick dinner, I still wasn’t sure if our conversation about politics and The Life was just a form of delay tactics before he told me nicely that it wasn’t going to work out.

Back in my guesthouse room, however, everything changed as he teasingly pawed all over me telling me that I was the fantasy Dad of his coming out days. At 5-9, he actually got turned on by mature guys shorter than himself and had had a bodybuilder dad for thirteen years before the guy died of liver failure in his thirties, tragically the result of years of juicing up on steroids.

Jack owed his husky build and luxurious black body hair to his dynamic combo of ancestry – Italian, Greek and Egyptian – and he sported elaborate tats on his chest, back and legs that only added to his boyish mystique. We spent that Friday night together and that Sunday afternoon, the day before I was return to Lauderdale, Jack eager to hear what the leather scene had been back in the eighties and nineties, a time I sensed he wished he had been a part of now, in these waning days of the leather scene in America. We parted with his invite for me to be his Dad at next year’s IML event held in Chicago each Memorial Day.

But you know what excited me most about my two boys? Surprisingly, their maturity. After encountering so much shit back in Lauderdale where I run into fifty year old party boys with absolutely nothing, Terry and Jack were breaths of fresh air. Terry had a solid job at a top communications firm, owned his own home and had just purchased a four unit apartment house in downtown Jax which he was renovating almost totally on his own for use as an income property. Jack had built his log cabin in the sticks on which he had almost paid off the mortgage, had no credit card debt, and was moving up to a new, better paying job in bank finance.

I saw Terry one more time a few years later on my trip up from Lauderdale to PA, but while he still remained his boyish self, he had begun to develop a middle age pouch and was less interested in catching up on things than on getting my dick up his butt.

As for Jack, I has lost his screen name on bear411and tried finding it to take him up on his offer to accompany him at that May’s IML. But even after combing through the hundreds of listings three times, it seemed as if he had disappeared.

Then last fall, he reached out to me on Scruff, a few years older but hotter than ever. He had been surfing when he came across my profile. “I’ll never forget my Daddy,” he replied, but when I invited him, still unattached, to spend the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend with me in Florida,he said he’d think about it.  But nothing came of my offer.

I guess you can’t go home again.

Even when it comes to your boys.

Monday: Tim and Tom, two furry fist fuckee brothers

 

 

My Life As A Gay Man: Vinny, Part II

My Life As a Gay Man: Vinny, Part II

Two winters ago Vinny took me up on my offer to visit me in Florida where he was considering relocating after he sold his handicapped accessible home in upstate New York. Here, besides the “Endless Summer,” the cost of living was lower, and his disability dollars and his nest egg, primarily what he got for his home, would go further. Plus south Florida offered the kind of health services a person in his position would need on an ongoing basis.

Bear in mind to make such a journey was a big deal: Vinny was primarily confined to his wheelchair because of his paralysis and had another strike against him when he broke one of his legs in a fall at his home. When the leg failed to heal, doctors were forced to amputate his leg from the knee down.

How much bad luck could one person endure?

Yet l felt l could reasonably accommodate him in my ranch style home where virtually every room opened up onto the patio through sliding glass doors. A ramp made from plywood l bought at my neighborhood Home Depot would give him the mobility he needed, and while state health department regs no longer allowed commodes to be rented, l picked up a perfectly good used commode and shower bench for just a few bucks at a local thrift shop.  The furniture in the guest bedroom was rearranged so he could maneuver around with few issues.

I thought l was ready. So did Vinny.

We were both wrong.

He looked older and more tired than l had last remembered when l picked him up at Fort Lauderdale International Airport in his own fold up wheelchair that l would become acutely familiar with over his five day stay. Lifting him, virtually dead weight, into my Honda Element was no small feat.

Since the bathroom door was too narrow for his wheelchair l had to transfer him to a desk swivel chair on wheels and from that onto the commode and reverse the process when he was done. Pissing was a lot easier – he did that through a disposable catheter in a bag and by the end of the day there was a trash can of plastic bags loaded with urine to dispose of.

He loved the idea of using my pool and l remembered reading how Franklin Roosevelt, paralyzed from polio, felt so free in the water. Getting Vinny into the pool was no problem, but getting him out which meant lifting him UP into his wheelchair was a nightmare. So too was attempting to use my stall shower. The “lip” at the bottom might as well have been as high as Mount Everest. I ended up hosing him down naked in a secluded corner of my yard.

Yes, though no fault of his own, Vinny was high maintenance. Only someone who truly loved him could deal with this on a day-to-day basis. Forever.

Yet despite all these major setbacks, we had fun. l played his private leatherman, the two of us in harnesses and not much else, him treating me to a bit of his Tri-mix  which kept my dick as hard as a pipe. And in between, we hit places like the Ramrod, our leather bar, which he entered via the delivery door for beer, and where the usual patronizing faggots made him feel special, and at Hunters, our dance club, he enjoyed “wheeling” to seventies’ Disco.

That night of fun and frolic ended abruptly when Vinny received a text from his ex who been babysitting Bosco his black lab attendant dog that the dog had gotten loose and was missing. Not only was Vinny emotionally linked to the dog, losing such a specially trained animal inferred irresponsibility and could mean you would never be given such an animal again.

I had always assumed that Vinny’s partner had left him after he had become incapacitated, but Vinny confessed to me it was he who left Ed when he finally realized he was a closet alcoholic, enabled by his own mother. In fact, it was not until 5 a.m. that morning that the mother texted Vinny that they had found Bosco an hour after he got loose. Apparently Ed was too inebriated to make that text earlier himself, leaving Vinny on tenterhooks the entire night.

Unforgivable.

I was all set to visit Vinny that June at his home in upstate New York to see how and where he lived, but at the last minute, with my flight booked, I couldn’t get a hold of him, and it was not until l cancelled my flight just a day before I was to leave that he contacted me from the hospital. He had had a sudden kidney stone attack and had left his phone at home. Selfishly angry for losing money on the plane ticket, I soon realized that planning anything around Vinny, because of the unpredictability of his condition, was impossible.

I lost touch with him for a while. Then that fall, he reached out to me asking if he could come and revisit, but I told him that I had had back surgery that May and with two bum shoulders just couldn’t handle him. It was a terrible thing to say. I was denying my buddy his fantasy Leather Man and if anybody needed fantasy it was Vinny, but unfortunately I had my own physical realities to deal with.

Now just this past September, while still up in Pennsylvania waiting out Irma, Vinny texted me to tell me that he had had a major heart attack and that the doctors were unsure how damaged his heart was.  I offered what solace l could in a text but, again, his timing could not have been worse as I was hurting in my own way.  What could I do for him when l was 1500 miles away from my house and could not help myself?

All I kept thinking was how much shit can be thrown at one person in a lifetime, a good person who only wanted a quiet life as a full time high school music teacher and part time musician doing gigs with the best and a partner who gave a damn, while some of the scumbags I’ve known get away with murder.

Next: Terry and Jack, this Daddy’s two boys

My Life as a Gay Man: Vinny, Part I

My life as A Gay Man: Vinny, Part I

“Lover” may be too strong a word to use with a guy I played with only a few times, but when we were together, Emotion eclipsed Physicality.

Not because Ironside – his screen name – alias Vinny, a handsome 42 year old fucker, and a dead ringer for Christian Bale, was in a wheelchair, the result not of some accident but a degenerative spinal disease that left his legs useless appendages. For I soon discovered that all the stereotypical fallacies I had harbored about making it with a paralyzed guy were just that.

I was up at my little getaway in rural Pennsylvania with George, my “don’t want sex anymore” partner, for the summer. (Teaching college writing online means I can work from anywhere.) With Rainbow Mountain, our former gay refuge, getting more straight with each season and some lousy bookstore miles away, the web was my only hope for finding discrete dick. And bad enough the hook-up sites in Lauderdale were loaded with gameplayers, mindfuckers, cockteasers and pseudo-personas; at least down there I could, if not understand, at least accept the fact that fags, both local and visiting, were as plentiful as cockroaches in a Manhattan walk-up.

But what was the problem here? The web listings (and phone apps once I got my Samsung Galaxy) were leaner than some Hollywood anorexic, yet the guys were still picky. Sure, because of George, I had to rely on the kindness of strangers willing or able to host, but either they were married (like in str8), an hour and half away, didn’t want to go to a motel nearer me which I would pay for, or failed Geography in tenth grade because hot Manhattan boys were hitting me up thinking Milford, PA was a sixth borough of NYC. Or, like down in SoFlo, they had one fucken excuse after another.

And these were the guys who liked me, really liked me.

Craig’s List, which buddies of mine swore by down South, wasn’t any better. I’d post my ad, said what I was, what I wanted, that I couldn’t host (closed relationship, see?), threw up a few provocative pics, and asked respondents to return with a brief descript of themselves and a pic, G-rated fine.

The responses I got were either underwhelming or frankly bizarre.

Unlike web profiles that are alive and well even if the hottie you keep jerking off over was killed in an auto accident six months ago, the shelf life of a Craig’s posting is about 45 minutes. It’s like a slot machine or a druggie sniffing a line of coke. It constantly needs a fix. Translation: new posting. Since Craig’s only allows a new posting every 72 hours, that’s where multiple screen name e-addresses come in handy.

I was back and forth with one guy who I even agreed to meet face- to-face as we dropped off our respective empty soda cans at the local recycling center who, when we were finally negotiating a time and day, e’d me with, “One problem. I don’t have a place.”

Duh? Read my profile? What did you think “can’t host” meant? I wasn’t serving tea and crumpets?

There were the guys who, instead of telling me something about themselves, played twenty questions or asked, “more pics?” Your turn, buddy. How many angles do you want to see my dick from to jerk off on?

Then there were the spammers and downright potential identity thieves. Either their pics and descript were posted on another site which, although free, required my credit card number to enter, or they wanted me to “verify” my age on another site since the last guy they chatted with turned out to be 17. Sure, you should be so lucky. Like I finally replied to one of them who claimed he was 23, “Man, do you really want to bed down with a guy old enough to be your father?”

Or, worse, were the women, yes, the gals, with their busty pics and cheery canned greetings, “I’m new in town, too, let’s see what happens!” who wanted me to sign on to their websites. (Yes, my Craig’s ad was in the man-man personals.) After a half dozen of these, I e-mailed one of these bitches back, “Sure, honey, like it up the ass?”

I must admit, though, I did get a chuckle out of some of these postings. Like the guys who admitted to 48 (no pic of course) who were looking for “in shape guys under 25” to drive to their wherever and blow them.

Sure buddy.

Then one night on bear411 up popped Vinny.

Though he was a good hour and a half away across the border in upstate New York, he was more than willing to meet me at a motel about half-way between him and me for a few hours one afternoon. Maybe distracted by his bearded face and muscular hairy chest pic, it wasn’t until I read his post a second time that I noticed the words “in a wheelchair but still agile and active.” I figured I’d beat him to the punch before he brought it up and e’d him as we finalized our plans: ”I see you’re disabled. NP.”

After all, I had had Jordan in my life a couple of lifetimes ago. But I was still curious how things would work with someone paralyzed, you know, down there. Even a guy who reassured me he took Cialis.

We rendezvoused in the motel parking lot, and from the driver’s side of his mini-van, he looked pretty much like his pics, a wavy, sexy salt and pepper mop of hair and scruffy beard to match. I got the room – wheelchair accessible – and went ahead to open the door when he appeared at the doorway in his chair and with his service dog, a large black gentle Lab named Bosco, faithfully beside him, carrying his master’s bag in his teeth. I wished my mutts were half as well behaved as Bosco was.

Vinny had mentioned in his message to me about being a little nervous  meeting someone for sex and admitted now, as he used his massive arms and shoulders to position his body and withered rail legs onto the bed, that it had been awhile since he had been with a man. So, stripped down to my briefs, I opened the bottle of Merlot he had suggested I bring as he lit up some of his medical marijuana and shared a few drags with me. I have to say the stuff was pretty potent and gave me a prolonged high without affecting Mr. Peter.

As we lay on the bed, me naked by now except for my sneakers and he, a good half Italian and half Irish boy in his white “Guinea” ( his word not mine) tank top, and black bikini underwear, I didn’t know what to do nor what to expect. Was he wearing a Depends, did he have a catheter up his cock? Should I attempt to grope his crotch?

But instead of continuing to dissect the situation, I just turned to him, enveloped his shoulders with my arms, and kissed him with a kiss that went on for the next ten minutes, as he stroked the hairs on my chest and I held his head ever closer to mine. I know he could feel my stirring cock against his chest, pre-cum drops wetting his T shirt.  Then he guided my hand down to his crotch. Yes, his dick was soft though still sensitive to my mouth – “ Takes a while for my plumbing to work, but I don’t feel nervous anymore” –  so I switched gears and began tonguing, then softly sucking his big hairy sac, something he found pleasurable.

As he turned to strip off his tank top, then his underwear, his naked butt came into view. His cheeks resembled two rotting melons, bruised and miss-shapened, a reality of literally sitting on your ass too much he later explained. But I quickly refocused on the good, not just what I saw – well-built shoulders, strong arms, great chest, handsome manly face – but also what I felt.

Was it the wine and the marijuana? Or just two guys with no agendas feeling good together?

He was a great cocksucker as I stood over and straddled him, working his small yet super sensitive nips with my fingers, and after we had licked and sucked and kissed and smoked for about an hour, all the while Bosco sprawled out peacefully on the adjoining twin bed, Vinny reached down and began stroking his dick which was finally rising to the occasion. A smile crossed his face like a 13 year boy relishing his first erection.

“See what you’re doin’ to me, you hot fucker,“ Vinny murmured as he continued to stroke his cock and motioned me to stick mine back in his mouth. A minute later I was down on his.

So a guy in a wheelchair could not only get a hard-on. He could enjoy it too.

I came like he wanted me to cum, my man juice dripping from his lips, and he climaxed too. I knew he had, not by what didn’t happen – an ejaculation – but by the way he suddenly griped me tightly for those moments as he wildly stroked his dick into some kind of oblivion, then lay back, exhausted.  I felt happy, happy I had shot and happy to see my handsome, muscular buddy happy too.

Afterwards, we chatted about life. He had been a high school music teacher until a sudden onset spinal infection left him paralyzed in the space of a weekend. Now he tutored students at home and did occasional gigs as a musician. We also talked about partners. Partners who no longer wanted sex (mine) and partners who deserted you in times of adversity (his).  We even talked about getting together again before I went back to Florida, and about him coming down to Fort Lauderdale. When traveling, Bosco accompanied him on the plane and his wheelchair neatly folded to fit under his seat.

The following day I e-mailed Vinny (a) to let him know I had had a great time, and (b) to make sure he knew I hadn’t been turned off by his affliction as so many guys he told me were. He returned my e-mail with a one page litany of what he wanted “Boss” to do to him next time we connected.

We met actually twice more that summer – he liked the Viagra I gave him, really liked it – and we played truck stop buddies, with the caps and the boots and the tight T’s, Vinny lying on the bed stroking his cock as I stood in front of him, shoving my cock down his throat or my butt in his face. He especially liked it when I held his hands down or tied them behind his back so that he’d have no choice but to play my sub-pup.

And after we had both had our physical release, we just lay there, my now sweaty body gently on top of his and made out.

What I came to love most about Vinny in the few hours we shared, besides his handsome face and masculine demeanor, was his total absence of self-pity. He was a pragmatic guy, like me; if he needed help with something, he’d ask for it, but for the most part, he just dealt with his problem without fanfare. He was always upbeat.

The following summer when I tried to reconnect, he was gone. Had he sold his house and moved to the West Coast or NYC where there were more play gigs as he had mentioned once to me between sucks and kisses?

Whatever.

We had had our Kodak moments together and, after all, loving in the fast lane is better than not loving at all.

Then, two summers ago, after not hearing from him for a couple of years, up suddenly came that message from Vinny: “Got your cuffs ready for next Thursday, Boss?”

Well, we got together at a local motel where, out of my element in homophobic rural America, I passed Vinny off as my handicapped half-brother. This time he brought Bosco, who dutifully carried his bag into the motel room and then promptly found a corner to curl up in.

All while I said “hey man” to his master with a kiss that lasted an eternity.

Yep, the magic was still there.

Vinny – and what happened next.

 

 

 

 

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part III

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part III

Now posing in the nude can be oh-so-artsy or down-and-dirty smutty depending on who’s doing it and for what. My first plunge in exhibitionistic immortality came oddly enough from a fine arts doctoral student who reached out to me on the hook-up site, Daddyhunt, to pose nude for his photo project called “Guys in Their Living Space.” The best of the shoot would be displayed, wall mural size, along with those of a dozen other men, at a gallery in Miami’s new Art District as part of his doctoral dissertation.

The shoot took a few hours and Doug, tall, all ass and geeky, was purely professional about the whole thing, doing the shoot with me sprawled naked in my living room. No erections here, more like Michelangelo’s soft-cocked Adam.

The night of Doug’s exhibit, I dragged along one of my buddies who still didn’t believe what I had done.  After pondering myself up on a wall, bigger than life, ten feet by six feet, and, well, getting self-aroused, I stepped back and quietly observed the reactions of my admirers, mostly retro-hippy collegiate types, with a sprinkling of older couples and smartly dressed yuppies. Surprisingly, the only other gay men in the room were those up on the wall, all with friends or lovers.

Only one man, an older guy, dressed in a blazer and slacks, actually recognized me as the man in the picture and coming up to me at the refreshment table quipped, “Nice tan, young man.” If he only knew I was probably older than he was.

But it was my Rentboy gig that I can credit for giving me my fifteen minutes of fame in porn.  Chris, a producer for San Francisco-based Pantheon Productions that specializes in older men, bear and daddy porn, was canvassing for potential new talent for some planned shooting dates in Lauderdale, saw my RB ad, and e-mailed me, asking if I might be interested.

I only hesitated for two reasons and not that my high school English teacher would ever see the results: would I be able to perform, i.e., keep Mr. Peter up for a four hour shoot, Viagra or no Viagra; and not so much how much I’d make but when I’d get paid.

You see, I had already been hustled by a local porn producer who when asked that question said payment would be forthcoming six to eight weeks after the shoot. Huh? And what if he snookered me? What was my recourse? Complain to the Better Business Bureau of Porn Distributors?

But Chris assured me I would be paid the day I did the shoot and that I could do a “solo” if I liked. I was still a bit gun shy til Chris added it would be just me and him and that he would provide all the arousal material I needed. With that he e-mailed over his pic. He was a youngish, tight bodied, handsome fucker complete with goatee, not some old, fat, leering troll as I imagined most porn directors to be. He apologized for not being hairy to which I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll do.”

On the day of my junket into the world of virtual sex, I reported to one of the local guesthouses by the beach where Chris had rented a suite. He met me at the door wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and was obviously pleased with my furry, equally shirtless body.

“Yep, you’re definitely daddy material,” he said with a sly smile.

After I signed my life away or I should say my images into residual-free perpetuity, we bantered around a screen name. Randy which I used on rentboy was already taken so we decided on Ray Andrews, my real first name and Andrew my middle name. I asked where Ray Andrews would surface – either Pantheonbears.com or Hotoldermales.com. “Probably both,” he went on, stroking my crotch, “you fit ‘em both real well.” I wondered if guys still bought DVD’s with all the porn on the web, and Chris concurred that that end of the business had transitioned to streaming but there was still money to be made.

All that was left was the shoot.

We started with stills of me in a jockstrap and boots, first sprawled across a chair, my legs lasciviously spread, then posed against the wall. From all angles of course.

“Nice pouch, daddy,” Chris replied as he casually let his shorts drop to the floor in between snaps. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

Then came my own unveiling, and with this boyish 40 year old standing there naked in front of me, every so often pulling on his nice cut cock which was getting hard, I had no problems in the erection department. By the time we moved to the video, he was even coming over to give me an occasional lick or two in the right places. I knew it was all for the camera, but I can’t deny this aging faggot didn’t enjoy it.

It didn’t take much to get me close and I had to actually hold back a bit so Chris got his required ten minutes of footage, zooming in closer and closer, as cum finally cascaded over my dick and the camera lingered there like some photographer for National Geographic shooting a newly erupted volcano.

As I cleaned up, I asked Chris if he wanted me to give him some “relief” but he just gave me a kiss and said he was O.K. Spoken like a true porn coach.

“We usually pay by check but I was able get to the ATM. Cash OK?”

“No problem,” was my understated reply.

We parted cordially, he promised to look me up for a possible dynamic duo next time he was in town, and I didn’t bother to count the bills til I got back to my car. Because ATM’s only spit out twenties, he had actually overpaid me for the session – $260 instead of the $250 he had quoted when we were still in e negotiations.

I looked at my watch. I had been with Chris for exactly 57 minutes. The easiest money I ever made in my life.

As a kid, I thought movie stars never grew old and today I still think film is the closest thing we have to immortality. So if I’m lucky enough to live to 97, I guess there just may be some young boy out there in cyberland still jerking off over my furry daddy bod, forever perpetualized in time one warm Lauderdale Tuesday afternoon in a room by the beach.

Next: Vinny, my country boy on wheels.

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part II

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part II

Lennie was a 67 year old retired dentist from Palm Springs staying at one of the gay guest houses off Birch Road and the Lauderdale Beach. He actually was looking for two guys to fuck him (something my late meth-head Mitch would have loved) so I was not that surprised when I arrived, a smooth, thirty something Latin stud was already there, drilling the guy’s hole, doggie style. He barely paused from his mission to glance my way.

“Randy,” whispered Lennie, who resembled a pursy Episcopal minister, giving me the once over, and gesturing for me to join in. I quickly forsook my nylon running shorts and jockstrap that I had worn, so I thought for some enhanced foreplay, and, thanking that Canadian online pharmacy for the two thousandth time in my life, went over and gave Latin Stud a breather.

All the way over to the guest house, I had been wondering if I could really do this, but I soon discovered, in this, my baptism by fire, that just the idea that someone wanted you so bad that they would pay for you made my 50 mg. of Viagra superfluous. I also gave a mental finger to all those guys who had rejected me over the years. Would anybody pay you, fuckers?

Actually Latin Stud and I got into something of a fucking competition, seeing who could pound poor Lennie the longest, but in the end I think it was a draw. Two minutes before the hour was up, Lennie, I guess not wanting to pay us “overtime,” shot his load and, lying back in a pool of sweat, gestured to the bureau and two envelopes. “Thanks, men, it was great.” Not that Latin Stud was my type – I liked ‘em hirsute – but my quick flirting wink and cockteasy smirk produced absolutely no response from my co-conspirator. He was apparently all business. I wondered as we both strolled out like two total strangers if his hourly rate had been higher.

My next suitor was actually fun, young, and farmboy cute, a multimillionaire software developer from D.C. I found out later in the brief chitchat that followed us doing the nasty. He was in town on business and had no time to beat the bushes searching for dick. When I had called Josh back – he had left a message for “Coach” on my Tracfone – he told me he had a jock fetish and could I come by in sneaks, a jockstrap, nylon gym shorts and a cap. No problem I replied, and that night at 11 after Josh had schmoozed some potential clients at dinner, I arrived in costume at his plush suite at the ritzy Ritz Carlton right off the beach. I think square footage wise it was larger than my house.

Keeping Josh entertained was like taking candy from a baby. In decent shape and stripped down to his old fashioned white jockey underwear, he lay on his stomach, with me sprawled on his king size bed, legs slovenly spread, my crotch in his face as he felt underneath my shorts, then jockstrap, for the prize. After teasing it from the outside with his tongue, he whipped out my very erect cock and slowly blew me – no reciprocation required. We spent almost half of his hour talking about Life – and his very mousey wife.

Ralph, a social anthropologist and university professor in town to judge a doctoral dissertation, was a bearish, hairless, six foot five actually-not-all-that-bad-looking kind of a guy who, like Josh, made very little demands on me except that I keep my cock hard so he could suck me off. The La Quinta he was staying at was only a few minutes from my house and when I got back to my car after our 11 p.m. Sunday night appointment and counted my cash, I realized he had either given me a bonus (he did keep telling me throughout our session how he adored my fur and that I belonged on a magazine cover) or misread my hourly rate on the Rentboy site. But I was not about to return it, that’s for sure, and went on my merry way.

Hands down, my fourth client who revealed himself in an e-mail in my Rentboy dropbox was my most bizarre but one I wish my shitty little two-by-four life would have allowed me to act on:

“Hello, handsome. Just browsing the web and found your profile so cool and nice sexy pictures. I am an engineer, 42 yrs old, from Great Britain and I will need you on my Business Trip to Eastern Europe on the 30th of June for 8 days. I need someone who will follow my instructions and obey my orders, someone who is very decent, kind, honest, trustworthy and undetectable to protect my image and name. Just need you to come and give me some massages and keep me warm throughout my stay in Prague and Warsaw. I am ready to offer you a good sum of 2000.00 pounds per day for 8 days, which I will pay you upfront even before you leave the country. All necessary documents will be arranged for you, so feel free to get back to me only if you are interested and willing to go with me.  M.”

Was this guy for real? Who knows? He sure sounded enticing. But even if he were on the level, I doubted I could keep up the charade that long – an hour or two 15 minutes from my house is one thing, eight days halfway around the world quite another. Though, when it came to both my very legitimate career in public relations and my very illegitimate career as a male hooker, the most valuable courses I ever took in college were my acting classes at USC ten lifetimes ago.

My last proper stranger before I let my ad lapse at the end of its month’s run was also the greatest test to my doing it with anybody. Hearing Ron on the phone, I imagined him to be a fifty something big guy. He was coming in from Gainesville strictly for a play weekend and dug hairy guys (c’est moi) big time.

Then, the morning of the day we were to meet at his hotel just a few minutes from my house, he dropped the bombshell. He was THE Ron, the big, fat, black guy who had been stalking me on a couple of the hook-up sites for the past year. I was his ultimate fantasy stud muffin and in his e-mails he went on in deliciously decadent detail what he wanted me to do to him. When he called that morning he apologized for the ruse and fully understood if I wanted to back out. Instead, in some weird fucken way, I became even more intrigued by the prospect and adamant in seeing this through.

Now, just so you know, while black guys are not my first preference, I’ve had my share and have had some hot times with some hot mother fuckers. But I work out three, four times a week, deny myself my favorite foods. So obesity – white , black or Martian – is where I draw the line.

But wasn’t it my job to make the guy who’s paying me feel like a million bucks? So loaded up with 100 mg. of Big V, I reported for my scheduled “appointment” at the Marriott just minutes from my house.

Yes, Ron was a wide screen movie, (they could have projected “This is Cinerama” on his butt) but he had an infectious smile, and for all his mass, kept my dick stirring as he deified me with his mouth and tongue and words. This is when, as he took my load and spurt his own, that I had one of those life defining eureka moments and realized that, had I been younger, I might, just might have become a career whoreman.

So what did I learn from my month as a Rentboy? That physicality and physical attraction defy social class, professional standing, race, and most of all, personal pride; and that while money can’t buy you love, it sure as hell can buy you one of the best fucks of your life.

Part III, Friday.

My Life As A Gay Man- Getting Paid For It: Part I

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part l

Here I am, a guy who taught Sunday School as a good Lutheran and ended up on the other end of my life, after a successful professional career in the str8 world, a gay fiction writer, hustler and porn star.

Go figure.

Getting out from under the 60 hour work week grind of public relations, I finally was able to do something I had wanted to do for years – write gay fiction. Now in SoFlo, I had the time and wrote two works, one a collection of short stores, the other a novella. And I said “fuck you” to the snooty literary agents of the pre-web era and a dying publishing industry by posting my stuff as e-books on Kindle and Nook.

Rationalizing I needed to do first hand research on male prostitution for my next book, what better way to find out than be one. So, very matter of factly one night I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile on rentboys.com:

Ah, but there were other, deeper motives for my madness. One was my attempt to fulfill a fantasy suggested by my dearly departed meth head/fuck buddy/clone Mitch, who had already been a guy for hire back in New York, that we play a Rentboy tag team for guys looking for double the trouble.

The other was my overactive ego: would someone actually pay me, an aging faggot, even if time had been kind to me, to have sex with them?

A buddy once said to me that he found it pretty pathetic that somebody had to pay for sex. But I heartedly disagree. Sure, sex can be a wonderful exchange between two people, but why can’t it also be a commodity for those willing to buy what they want, just like the newest tech toy or Abercrombie and Fitch polo? Contrary to the notion that only losers pay for sex, there are plenty of good looking guys out there, busy with high power  24/7 careers or entwined in complicated personal lives, who just choose to take the expedient route. I’ve always been an advocate for making prostitution in this country legal and get over our collective Puritanical hang-ups. Make sure the boys and girls are disease free, and tax ‘em, baby.

“Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona, trying to create a market niche distinct from all the pretty boys, and I openly admitted I was over 40 in my ad (how much over 40 I conveniently left out), but rationalized that tidbit with the tagline, “but you did say you wanted a daddy, didn’t you?”

I low bowed my hourly rate to $150 so I’d have a better chance at scoring, given the stiff competition, and made myself “out only” – their place, not mine.  Would-be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone #, and I used a Tracfone just for that so if or when I had any issue associated with my new career – as in being stalked, like I should have such problems – I could chuck the phone just like a drug dealer.

So what does it take to be a Rentboy, besides, of course, some alluring physical attributes and a lot of moxie?

(a) The ability to do it with just about anyone, and if you’re playing the top like me, you know dicks don’t lie, which I figured wouldn’t be a problem given some of the loser tricks I’ve had over the years. You just put yourself in a fantasy mode, right?

(b) A feeling of super-superiority that you’re so hot (it’s all about self-love, baby) that the guy is willing to pay you – PAY YOU – to feel your tool in his mouth or up his butt. You know what an exhilarating high that is? Better than meth.

(c) The absolute resistance to ask the guy what he looks like. Yes, you need to know what he’s looking for, but those big bills on the night stand are what are supposed to arouse you, not whether he looks like Woody Allen’s older brother.

But when a week went by after posting my ad and I got no takers, I was convinced I had pushed the envelope too far, that I was a jerk for even thinking I could pull this off at my age, with all the twenty something, thirty something porn star quality meat that was vying for that same universe of hungry, lonely men. What was I trying to do? Make the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s oldest male hooker?

Ah, but my feelings of dejection were premature. At the beginning of my second week I got a hit.

Part II Wednesday.

My Life as a Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone, Part III

My Life as a Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone, Part III

Memorial Day weekend was coming up, but while I looked forward to another all-nighter in High Land with Mitch, he had different plans –another escape to Key West and the battling lovers. But he was emphatic about connecting as soon as he got back and going to Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay beach, that coming weekend.

I believed him.

That Thursday night, Mitch sent an e-mail – his last to me – on Manhunt. I had just posted some new provocative photos on my profile to show off my hard won gym body.

“Fucken awesome pics, bro.”

The following Tuesday came and went, Wednesday, Thursday. I e-mailed him on Manhunt, called his cell, even called his other cell number he used for Rentboy. No response. I passed his address twice, looking for his little car in the front lot. No car. In my gut I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe he had had a confrontation with his warring friends or a drug dealer or a john. Maybe he had somehow O.D.’ed ….

Finally, that Thursday night driving home, slightly plastered courtesy of Alibi’s three dollar Long Island iced teas, I decided I would stop at his place and this time knock on his door.

A voice yelled out to me as I began to walk back to the guest house. It was the landlord or property manager, a tall, skinny, thirty something, pleasant enough looking guy with a faint goatee.

“Looking for Mitch?” he asked politely.

I nodded.

“You a friend of his?” the man asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mitch is dead.”

“What – what happened?” I stammered, though surprised at myself that I was not entirely stunned by the news.

“I don’t know much but from what this friend of his from New York, an ex-lover I think, Todd, told me – his number was on Mitch’s cell so the cops called him – Mitch was driving back from Key West late Monday night and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Mitch had mentioned to me more than once how he had gone without sleeping or eating for days when he was on a perpetual crack/G/jerk-off binge.

Forty-two fucken years old and he was gone.

“His – his parents know?”

“Yea, they asked me to clear out his apartment and box up his belongings but there was a lot of stuff, a leather harness, leather vest, toys, drug paraphernalia, you know, I didn’t think they should see. You’re welcome to take what you like …”

I smiled my bleak thank you, turned around and drove home, happy I was dead ass drunk, happy that I had at least learned what had happened to him, happy that the super hadn’t told me what the accident had done to that beautiful body and beautiful face.

And yes, strangely at peace knowing he hadn’t just abandoned me.

A few nights later, I responded to Mitch’s last e-mail to me on Manhunt with a “thx hot man.”

That Saturday, when I went to Sebastian, I made sure to park in space #42.  A month later, I became Rentboy.com’s oldest toyboy. And believe it or not, my first trick, a retired dentist in town from Palm Springs, asked if I had a twin brother to play tag team with me on his butthole.

Imagine that.

Next: Getting Paid For It

My Life As A Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

My Life As A Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

Two nights later as I canvassed the websites to see if anybody loved me, Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college and had an 8 a.m. class and Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me?

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was out of Elbow Grease and we spent the next hour rambling from all-night drug stores to a 24/7 porn shop on Dixie Highway which only had some small canisters left.

Lighting up in the car, we began another trip to Arousaland and it was that night that Mitch – or was it the G? – confessed he hadn’t enjoyed being with a man as much as he had with me in a very long time.

This time neither of us came.

As we walked out from his place to my car together an eternity later, he gestured to his new little compact Cooper sitting in the front lot that his parents had leased for their 42 year old only child. By 42, I was a vice president with quarter of a million in the bank and two houses.

“I’m a little pissed at them, though,” he whined, “I really wanted a convertible. After all, this is South Florida.”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” I said.

“Hey,” replied Mitch not at all defensive. “They made me the egocentric fuck I am today. It was always Mitchy you’re so handsome, Mitchy, you’re so great, Mitchy, you’re so smart. So why shouldn’t they get their Mitchy, their little boy, a convertible, huh?”

The cynical former New Yorker slash former public relations exec in me knew it would happen sooner or later if I continued these liaisons with a meth-head, beautiful as he was to me. Sure enough, a week later, early on a Saturday afternoon, after inviting me on line to his lair, Mitch followed my, “yea, why not,” with, “I’m out of stuff. Got any $$ so I get some for us?”

Usually, the “I’m not going to fall for this shit” side of me would have responded, “thanks but no thanks.” But, hell, I had gotten high twice on his dime so, I rationalized, I owed him, right? I left the hundred bucks in twenties in my mailbox while he went to meet his dealer in Miami and I took a nap. Our plan was to rendezvous around 9. When I didn’t hear from him by ten I figured I had been taken but decided to call him anyway.

“Sorry, he wasn’t ready with the shit,” Mitch explained, all apologetic. “I’ll be over at your place by 11. Promise.”

Now, call me paranoid, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable about letting a confirmed druggie know where I lived but I had been getting increasingly claustrophobic about his place. Besides, he didn’t want me to use Crisco when I fist fucked him on his air mattress since he claimed it smelled up his humble abode. My house, with central air, eliminated that logistical problem.

Mitch made good on his promise and we spent the night and most of the next day in Druggie Heaven. And the Crisco helped me go in deeper, so that by the end of that night Mitch had become a full-fledged fistee graduate.

While I instructed my lawn man that morning about some new palm tree plantings, Mitch catnapped. But I noticed that when all the stuff we had been taking wore off, my usually very animated and boisterous stud, my butch Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in his cord, became very quiet and subdued, almost shy.

“My generation needs drugs to have sex,” he explained. His observation made me feel old and superior all in the same moment. And when later he was leaving and asked if I wanted to keep what crystal was left – “after all, you paid for it,” – and I told him no, he was surprised.

“You mean you don’t need all this shit?”

“No,” I repeated, very matter of factly.

“You know something,” he said, grinning. “I admire you.”

I didn’t hear from Mitch again for over a week and figured that was that. Maybe he was disappointed that his hypnotic hold on me had not quite succeeded as he had hoped. Translation: transform me into a crackhead fuckbuddy just like him. Then, one o’clock one night, out of the blue, he called, explaining he had taken advantage of a freebie in Key West, courtesy of a couple he had known from his NYC days who had fought most of the weekend but kept him amply supplied in stuff. He wanted to see me, said he missed me, and could I come over now?

His hair was a mess. Apparently he had tried to buzz cut himself but with no second mirror the back of his head still had uneven blotches of hair, making him look like a cross between a slightly deranged, homeless guy and an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. I pulled out his Oster and evened things out. Even then, just touching his head, my dick sprung to attention.

So how’s the Census job working out?” I asked.

“Oh, I gave that up – too much bullshit for too little dough. I’m on Rentboy.com now,” and he proceeded to pull up his ad.

“Italian Stallion?” I asked as I scanned it. “OK, but why are using Larry? That sounds so Brooklyn Jew. Why not Vito or Tony or Joey or something?”

“The name Larry worked for me back in New York,” he gloated. Then he opened his bureau and, reaching for his wallet, flashed a seemingly endless sea of bills.

“I could make a lot more back in NYC but there’s also a lot more competition. And hell, eight hundred bucks for one night ain’t bad, huh?”

We lit up again.

“You know,” he continued to ponder in one of his rare, less erratic moments, “I bet we could sell ourselves as a tag team and make some serious dough. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there looking for a dynamic duo like us. Hell, we could pass ourselves off as brothers. Shit, now that would be some gimmick.”

All I kept thinking was how I would make the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest guy to have the balls to attempt to sell his bod on Rentboy.

“Yea, but aren’t most of these guys looking to get fucked? I mean, how can you perform if you’re …?”

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

“Oh, I’m a total top to my johns but I tell them that, after all, I am 42 and sometimes the Snake ain’t up for biting, and they’re content to get fingered fucked or have me shove a dildo up their ass just as long as I’m the one doin’ the shovin’ and they can feel all this fur of mine against them.”

He stroked himself, then seamlessly moved his hand ever so lightly up my abs to my chest and looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I know we could be a winning team.”

A few days later a far more frantic Mitch called me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he pleaded. “Can you loan me $50 so I can get to my parents? They’ll give me some dough once I’m up there and I’ll pay you right back.”

“But what happened to all that money you showed me the other night?”

“Ah, those fuckin’ Indians stole it all,” referring to the poker tables at the casino the Seminole Indians ran in Hollywood, “and my last two johns were no-shows.”

Suddenly the Daddy in me creped out.

“But Mitch, you gotta get your shit together. You’re an intelligent adult. You know that.”

“I know, I know – I will…” he replied, more to pacify me than attempt any moment of self-realization. “You’re beginning to sound like my father who keeps telling me to check out Gamblers Anonymous.”

I stuck twenty dollars in the mailbox, enough to fill the tank of his compact, and woke up to the reality that he was beyond redemption. That was about the only reason why I hadn’t fallen in love with him I kept telling myself, right?

I was just about ready to leave for L.A. Fitness the following afternoon when Mitch, unannounced, showed up in my driveway.

I told you I’d pay you back,” he said, laying the twenty dollar bill on my kitchen counter.

I never did get to the gym that day.

More on Friday…