R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 21

Spam or Scam?

Spam or Scam?

Got this as a message apparently sent to many on one of the hook up sites:

“About To Be Homeless”

“I’m 42 and handsome and a newbie to Fort Lauderdale from S.F. Landed a few days ago to find myself in a nightmare of a roommate mess. He’s been fighting with his alkie other half since l got here. I need to find a spare couch to sleep on til l can find my own place by the first of the month. Will pay.”

I know a few of you, the naive or the homely, may feel sorry for this poor guy who just happens to look like casting couch material.  (That is, if that’s actually him in the picture). But really, is he spam, like in no nutritional value, or scam, like in devious manipulator?

I mean would you leave whatever you got gonna (probably little unless this guy was a corporate attorney for Apple ) in the CyberJewel of the Left Coast which right now beats NYC as the most expensive place to live in the U.S. of A., to be somebody’s rooomate/standby fuck buddy in Fort Lauderdale, without at least a quick visit to check things out first?

If he did just pull up stakes, and that’s him in the pic, well he’s dum and pretty. If that ain’t his pic, he’s just dum. Don’t you be too.

But let’s try a different scenario, shall we?

You fall for his hearts and flowers story, and maybe he is Mr. Hottie, but after a few days of pretending to look for a place, he decides your place looks just fine. Period. While of course he hasn’t given your wee wee a second look. He eats your food, uses your toilet paper, and pleads he’s broke but is trying to look for a job. From his smartphone, of course. You finally realize you’ve been a jerk and the week max you thought you’d be picking up after him turns into Week Number 2, and yoy come from the supermarket to find him in your bed with some cutie he picked up on Scruff.

Even if you’re 5’7 and 130 wet and he’s six foot and 180 dry, you tell him: “Get the fuck out!”

He smiles and continues to fuck his cutie.

Do you know that if you call the cops,  they will basically tell you that if you invited him into your house, he’s your problem not theirs?

Lesson to be learned: when it comes to gentleman callers make sure you don’t fall for hard luck stories or guys you couldn’t handle if they give you a hard time, no pun intended .

Or you can call your buddy Eddie who used to work for the Mob back in New York who promised: ‘lf anybody gives you a hard time, they’ll end up in my trunk.”

Tell him for this one he’s going to need his truck.

The Belt Loop Boys

The Belt Loop Boys

We’ve all seen them, usually on a Saturday night in a packed bar where they can max their exposure. Two buffed, well built, usually 6’4” clonely guys that look like twin brothers, one (the top?) practically banging his crotch against the other’s bubble butt as he trails behind, his index finger securely through one of his partner’s levi belt loops. I guess the ultimately sign of affection, right? And the two of them always seem to be constantly glancing around, above the heads of everyone else, but not really focused on anything or anybody, with expressionless faces or side glances to see if people are noticing them.

Are they ever really available? Are they doing it all for show? Or if they are up for a threesome, committed as they are to one another, who the fuck would meet their standards? God?  (“You’re O.K., but that beard is just too unruly …”)

Funny, one night not too long ago at a local sex club, two of these belt loop boys I had seen in the bars dozens of times came up to me, yes, humble, unworthy me, and wanted to screw around. Now, screw around to them was one fuck the shit out of me while I went down on the other. Since I’m a top, that wouldn’t work and we soon went our separate ways. But I did chuckle to myself that I had actually seduced some belt loop boys. I chuckle, you see, because most of them, as aesthetically beautiful as they are, do little for me downstairs. They’re like admiring a truly stunning woman, you know what I mean. Or Michelangelo’s David.  I like my guys more real and rough around the edges. But I still must admit it was one of life’s Kodak moments. Christ, the cuter of the two even gave me a butch “hey” the next time we bumped butts in the bar.

Can life get any better than that?

Yes it can.

Ode To Mitch: Final Chapter

Ode To Mitch: Final Chapter

Memorial Day weekend 2010 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.”

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.

I had never mentioned Mitch to the handful of people I knew, so there was no point in bringing him up now. Instead, a few nights later, I responded to Mitch’s last e-mail to me on Manhunt with a “thx hot man.”

I’ve met, slept with, and even have had affairs with half a dozen Mitches since then – two, fifty something humps are six feet under, killed by their habit that negated the life saving  effects of their HIV drugs.  Two others, handsome black Irish fuckers and among the prettiest men I ever had, sadly are on that same dead end journey.

But they say you never forget your first. And for me that will always be my Mitchy.

 

 

 

Ode to Mitch: Part II

Ode to Mitch: Part II

A few nights later after meeting Mitch, I was canvassing the websites to see if anybody loved me, when Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college at the time and had an 8 a.m. class and I know 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 half 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 minor 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 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 creeped 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.

Final chapter Wednesday …

Ode to Mitch: Part I

Ode to Mitch: I

Memorial Day weekend, the kick-off for the long awaited summer season in most of the country (it’s always summer here in Fort Lauderdale) is here and it’s been seven years since Mitch, my crazy, meth head brother left me on that Memorial Day in 2010.

Not a week goes by that I don’t think of him.

One Saturday night at 2606, the now defunct leather bar in Tampa, I was stalked by a dissipated, bloated guy, probably younger than me. I tried to be polite with some non-committal small talk but each time I delicately got some distance between us, he popped up again to leer. Finally, inevitably, he went in for the kill.

“So buddy, what exactly are you waiting for?” he asked in a guttural, butchy tone.

Without hesitating, I blurted straight out: “My clone.”

“Huh?” replied the guy.

“Let’s put this way. If I had a twin brother, we;d never leave the bedroom.”

Well, Mitch, my sturdy little furry New York City Jew boy, was the closest thing to my fantasy double  I think I’ll ever meet in my life.

I don’t quite remember who came on to whom on Manhunt that late Tuesday night, but there was no doubt his rough hewn bearded face and naturally muscular, slightly stocky hairy body donned only in 501’s and a profile that emphasized, “looking for older, masculine hairy guys only- facial hair a must” caught the attention of my dick. That and the fact that, despite measurements that read “9 inches,” his screen name was “beefyhairybottom.”

I mapquest his address to a non-descript house off dingy 13th Street just a few blocks from Lauderdale’s leather hangout, the Ramrod, and drove over. Wishing to make a good first impression, I threw my tank top in the car and followed his instructions to walk to the rear to a small dilapidated guest house. I knocked on the splintered wooden door.

“Who is it?” shouted out a deep voice with that distinct New Yorkeese accent I knew so well, having spoken it myself most of my years.

I announced myself.

“It’s open,” he shouted back.

I walked through the foyer, if you could call the three feet that separated the door from the rest of his space a foyer, and parted the plastic shower curtains.

There he stood, naked except for a pair of leather boots, designer boots he would tell me later, a relic from his fat cat Manhattan days, holding a mini blow torch of a butane lighter beneath the end of a glass pipe. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out just as quickly, then reached out and carefully handed it to me. He had said nothing about partying either in his profile or in our e-mails but I grabbed onto it anyway. Our eyes – both cat eyes, green but with a flash of blue in the right light – met as I clutched the pipe tightly so not to drop it while he held the lighter beneath the bowl end and gestured for me to gently shift it back and forth.

“Suck it in but don’t hold it – the shit can crystallize in your lungs,” he cautioned, still staring into my soul. “Not a good thing.”

I dropped my shorts and stood naked, our faint six pack abs almost touching.

“Leave your boots on,” he whispered. “I like that.”

Except for the fact he was a bit taller than me at 5 foot eight and younger, I could have been staring at myself in the mirror. Buzzed cut, balding, scruffy beard, broad hairy shoulders, tight muscular arms, hairy chest and abs, thick thighs and calves, again all covered in fur, he was the idealization of manhood in my mind. My brother. My clone. Even though he was Jewish and I was a Lutheran, we were both, I learned later, Slovak/Russian mutts with that hint of Mongolian in the slant of our eyes. We had the kind of bodies my so-called friends would chide me were made to lay down railroad ties until I retorted I made three times the money they did.

About the only obvious difference besides age was Mitch’s huge fat cock (versus my more conventional six and a half) and his super erratic behavior. He was jumping around and rambling on as if someone had shot a tube of Ben Gay up his beautifully furry, manly butt.

“You want another hit?” he asked.

I never searched out for the stuff but if a trick had some to share, well…

“Yea, but I want Mr. Peter to cooperate,” I replied, grabbing my semi-erect cock. “You know junk and hard dicks are alien enemies.”

“Don’t worry. I got Viagra. Want one?”

I had already taken 100 mgs, figuring I had to be up and ready to fuck the shit out of him, but accepted the generosity of this beautiful stranger and popped another. I wanted to make damn well sure I would keep “beefyhairybottom” happy.

His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before. Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.

Throughout all our carousing and stroking and kissing and licking one another’s armpits and sweaty matted bodies, Mitch continued to babble on almost incoherently, not so much because of the junk streaming through his veins but, as he admitted, because he suffered attention affective disorder and didn’t take his meds for fear they would fuck up his high. Yet despite his ungrammatical soundbites, I learned a lot that first night about my clone.

That he was 42, had grown up in Westchester – read comfortable – a graduate of NYU, with a CPA’s license he had never used, how his parents were snowbirds with a place in West Palm, and how he had avoided working at a real job like the plague while somehow living the highlife in a beautiful Chelsea duplex. He proudly pointed to the framed page hanging on his wall from New Yorker magazine circa 1989 crowning him one of New York’s sexiest men (“I know had a lot more hair then, but I still look good, right?”) and gloated how he had gone from one successful business venture to the next, his last selling designer sunglasses on line netting him an incredible $25,000 a month which, when he wasn’t smoking it away, he lost on the poker tables of Las Vegas. Bottom line: he had come down to South Florida with $300 to his name to be near mommy and daddy and their wallets, and where he could live cheap, as exemplified by his $500 a month apartment, the size of my walk-in closet, that, despite the hole in the wall, he prided himself in finding.

As far as men went, he liked them about his height (“tall guys are goofy looking – most of the porn stars are short like us, anyway”), hairy, with facial hair, and in-shape bods. It was as if he were reciting my own private wet dream. He tapped my hard earned six pack, then his own. “It has less to do with the gym than with genes, believe me,” he concluded smugly.

As predicted, Mr. Peter was rather shy that night, though I did succeed in fucking Mitch for awhile before my hard-on succumbed to the stuff. But it almost didn’t matter. We rolled around in our mutual sweat, mouthing our pretty but pretty useless genitals when we weren’t yanking on them like two adolescent boys exploring their puberty dicks.

Then came my moment of inspiration.

“You ever get fisted?” I asked, eyeing his toy box to the side of the bed with its eclectic collection of dildos and not wanting to disappoint that hairy, manly butt of his.

“Once, back in New York, but the guy was too rough, didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Well,” I boasted, holding up my right hand, “a cast of this hand is in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame.”

With that, as he lay there facing me, I gently entered him, and we were both elevated to a new level of Endless Ecstasy. In the past, I had found fisting a guy as exciting as doing my laundry but it was different with Mitch. As he groaned and gyrated on the bed and I slowly went ever deeper, we became one. Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.

In the end, what I thought would be a 47 minute quickie turned out to be an all nighter. With the heavy shades drawn on his single window, it was hard to tell morning had arrived, whether we liked it or not. My sole focus now was to get off but, with all the shit I had smoked and slugged down, it seemed a miracle to get my dick up enough to finally squirt, stroking the heavy fur on Mitch’s chest and abs as my erotica while he faded into blissful oblivion. Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.

“You are one beautiful man,” I said, scanning him slowly from head to toe, never expecting to see him again. He smiled faintly, turned over and fell almost instantly to sleep as I walked out.

Part II Monday…

Monogamy Double Talk

Monogamy Double Talk

I admire guys who are honest in their web profiles and just spit it out: “not looking for a relationship.” Or guys with partners who freely admit they’re both on the prowl either singly or jointly; after all, Fort Lauderdale is a town of philandering partners., And then, of course, as I did before I unhinged from my partner there are the nasty sneaks who do it on the side.

I say that because I’m fucken tired of the gay fantasy propaganda that depicts two guys in forever monogamous bliss. Or the whole gay marriage thing which implies monogamy is good. And the only way.

I define monogamy very strictly: you have sex with one another and only one another, not together with another guy. That does not mean meeting you at a bath house after the bars close down while your other half roams the same halls looking for his  own piece of ass as one fan of mine proposed.  The same guy refused to meet me at my place at a more God fearing time of day because I guess that would mean he was cheating. Nuts.

God bless those who can live that gold standard. But when asked “what is your ideal relationship?” in a recent hook-up site survey, two thirds of guys responded “open” or “polygamous” or “being a bachelor.” And when it comes to sex, the overwhelming majority of guys said they would do, or have done threesomes. (My sarcastic view of monogamous couples is that they’re so homely no one else would want to have sex with them. I know, I know,  like my Jewish boy school students often shouted when I gave them too much homework, “Teach, you’re a bastard!”)

Also interesting are the results of another mini-poll. While most guys in a relationship where one of the partners is no longer interested in sex would stay hooked up, half would take on fuck buddies, without or without their partner’s knowledge.

So where does all this “til death do us part” monogamous mental attitude come from? A rip-off of str8 society that some of us still think we need to emulate to be truly happy? The gay media that keeps showing beaming young lovers? Gay fiction? Gay fantasy? The lesbian component of our grand community since two women tend to be more loyal than two guys?

Who knows? I just think those who hold this monogamy sword above our heads as something we should strive for should cut the shit. That’s not what many of us want nor should we need to.

Or is it?

Five Rules For Getting Through Life

Five Rules For Getting Through Life

With most of my life behind me, l thought it would be interesting to impart what l view as my five rules for getting through life:

Rule Number One: Money ain’t everything but without it you’re nobody.

Steve Jobs’ billions couldn’t save him, but do you know how many fifty somethings l meet down here in south Florida who have nothing because they partied half their life away and now have a notion “God  – as in Government – will provide?”

He won’t.

Rule Number Two: Learn to eat shit.

Trump has to eat shit from Congress, corporate presidents have to eat shit from their stockholders, the unions and their competition, and even Jesus had to eat shit from His Daddy: “Sorry, Son, you have to hang on that cross for a couple of more hours.”  I’m tired of these talentless gay boys working minimum wage jobs complaining about their hours, their bosses, their public. Get over it. Ten people are waiting in line for your job. You should have listened to your father and become a plumber.

Rule Number Three: If a guy doesn’t want you, he don’t want you.

All the pleading, cajoling and threatening won’t make any difference.  l just wish l could follow my own rule. That line from “Brokeback Mountain* comes to mind here: “l wish l knew how to quit you.” The best thing to do is to focus on the nastiest thing he ever said to you – nothing kills your puppy dog love and libido faster. I finally fessed up to the fact that a guy I had a hardon for couldn’t have sex – at least with me – if drugs weren’t in the picture. Drugs I paid for. Stupid? Sure I was. Not anymore. He got annoyed when I called him a flake,  but anybody who can’t have sex without the shit is exactly that.

Rule Number Four: lf it’s at all possible, rely on yourself.

Self-reliance is the best life tool you can have. People who rely on people to bail them out or hold their hand all the time are weak. Remember, nobody gives a damn about you more than you. Sure people may empathize and sympathize but when it comes down to the bottom line, you have to care about yourself. Being self reliant makes you strong.

And finally:

Rule Number Five: Always – Always Have a Plan B

What if you lose your job? Got some money stowed away to tide you over? Lover suddenly pull up stakes for a cutie? Got some activity to keep your mind occupied til you get over the bumps and the urge to hire a hit man to do them both in?

Whoever said life was just a bowl of cherries forgot about the pits.

 

Another Cautionary Tale About Sexting

Another Cautionary Tale About Sexting

Have you ever been “catfished?” Sure you have. Most of us have if we’ve played the electronic hook-up game long enough. With catfishing, an individual creates a virtual persona to lure you, but ends up never being available to connect in the flesh because they don’t exist. Sound familiar?

Now for some guys who want to partake in illegal activity like sex with an underage kid, catfishing can lead to more dire consequences than a disappointed dick. Take the case of Joshua Asseraf, a 22 year old hottie, former competitive swimmer and Fort Lauderdale lifeguard, who thought he was negotiating the use of an Indiana father’s nine year old daughter for sex but ended up being caught in a federal pedifile sting. He was recently sentenced to ten years in federal prison. My advice Joshua: you better become somebody’s bitch pretty quick before you’re handed around from dick to dick.

Is what he did stupid? Or just stupid?

I’ve often wondered if you’re into real young guys – thank God l’m not – and that  20 year old you been sexting on one of the hookup sites turns out to be 17, and when his mommy or daddy catches him sweet talking to you decides to call the cops. Who’s to blame? After all, his profile said he was 20 years old. Well, according to my neighbor who is a paralegal, it doesn’t matter. You are the one at fault, not the hook-up site.

Buyer beware.

 

What Would You Do If You Couldn’t Have Sex For a Year?

What Would You Do If You Couldn’t Have Sex For a Year?

One of the growing network of hook-up/chat apps for furry men, burly men, and older men and their admirers, recently conducted a poll that asked: how much money would you need to get paid not to have sex for a year? The overwhelming majority said it would take a cool mil just to consider it, which got me to thinking. What would I do if I wanted that mil bad and agreed not to have sex for a year, the definition of sex including jerking off over some hot luscious porn delight.

What would I do, me a highly charged sexual animal ever since I was 13 and first discovered my dick wasn’t just for pissing – what would I do? That is, after I threw my laptop, tablet and smartphone  chock full of free porn in one of the Fort Lauderdale canals. Get thence from me Satan!

Now, back in the day, an ancient catch phrase gaining popularity on TV lately, you could always leave this hedonistic world, join the Church and become a priest – even if I was born a Lutheran. (Hell, the only reason Catholic priest Martin Luther rebelled against the Church was he wanted to marry a nun,) But we all know how that would turn out. If I didn’t get into little boys, I’m sure I’d have a seminary bunkmate who’d be on his knees for more than just penance. (A former co-worker of mine who had been studying for the priesthood said the seminary was hotter than a Manhattan gay bar on a Saturday night.)

So, my first thought was that I’d redouble my efforts at the gym. Clean, wholesome exercise, right? About as American as apple pie and high school cheerleaders – female cheerleaders. But that noble notion went down the drain pretty quick since working out usually always makes me hornier. Maybe it’s all that muscular flesh milling around; or maybe it’s getting turned on to myself, narcissistic that I am, as I gaze at my masculinity heaving in the gym mirrors; or maybe it’s those feel good hormones, those endorphins that strenuous exercise creates that go to my dick. Because almost inevitably, I’m shooting a load either with an actual guy or with the help of all that free internet porn. No, exercise would not be the way to go.

Then I thought, maybe, I would hunker down and write my next book of erotic gay romance.  Ah, but I remember the feedback I got from the San Francisco publisher who published my first book,  a collection of short  stories: “They’re good but you need more sex – more sex!”  Writing those obligatory sex scenes that any contemporary novel about people – gay or str8 – would need to include would only put me in a state of arousal. And you know once it itches, you gotta scratch it. No, not good.

Well, then, I thought maybe I should become a meth head like I nearly did with my fuckbuddy Mitch had he not conveniently killed himself falling asleep at the wheel one night returning from Key West. After all, while you’re horny as hell when you’re on the shit, you can’t get a hard-on if you were at Auschwitz and the Nazi guard was demanding, “Either get it up or off you go to the showers!” So, technically, physiologically, I wouldn’t be having sex, just wanting it so bad that I would probably rub off what foreskin the docs back in that Jersey hospital nursery left me with when they circed me as a babe til my dick bled. Plus the fact, I’d go broke buying the shit along with the Twinkies and Gatorade I’d be living on before I looked like I had been in Auschwitz. Hell, and if I survived the year without sex and got the mil I’d go through it in about three weeks onTina. But at least the first guy I’d blow would be happy – by that time all my teeth would have rotted out and I’d be gumming his cumhose.

Then the brainstorm hit me – what if I switched pews and went after girls, creatures I have nothing against but in whom I have absolutely no interest in bedding down with. That‘s it, every time I felt that twitch in my dick for that hottie, I’d think of my Friday night at some super str8 club, one that caters to the over 50 crowd so that the chances of any attractive lassies being there without a girdle would be reduced significantly.

Oh, but what about all those other guys – men – creatures with dicks like me – out there  sniffing for pussy? I actually prefer guys 45+ and with my luck there would be a few Touch of Gray hotties among the Pillsbury Dough boy trainwrecks who would get me all excited – no, no, no.

No, I think the only way I could beat the male-to-male bonding habit was to find some cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere – how’s Alaska sound? –  something like the Unabomber Ted Kaczynski had. No TV, no phone, no modern technology whatsoever, stocked up on enough food so I wouldn’t have to leave the place, paper the walls in girly mags – the bigger the boobs the better – and have as my only reading material back issues of Readers Digest.

And every time I’d thing of eating a guy’s furry beefy butt, or lasciviously licking the undershaft of his big, stiff manpole, I’d imagine some women’s prison matron like the one 6’2” Hope Emerson played in that 1950 Eleanor Parker flick, “Caged,” threading a catheter down my cock.

But wait – I like stuff stuck down my dick!

 

The Scent of A Man

The Scent of A Man

Most of you are familiar with the Al Pinco flick, “The Scent of A Woman,” but for me nothing is a more powerful aphrodisiac than the scent of a man. Sorry if some if you think l’m a pig or some unsanitary beast but no cologne or deodorant on my man. Just gym steady. Lying there together in the quiet, a quiet that we created and is ours alone, freshly showered or bike ride dripping, two men, naked and totally exposed to one another, to me there is nothing like it and takes sex from the plains of anatomical mechanics to the heaven of pure lust and intimacy ….

….the scent of his moustache and beard and the back of his neck and your own cock as you stroke against them…

…his armpits that you lick and kiss to rekindle the aroma of his sweat…

… his chest that you tongue slowly, crisscrossing back and forth from nipple to nipple as you work down his abs to the prize …

….the smell of the skin on his penis and sweat that accumulates on its underside as you raise it to your mouth, your own dick throbbing almost in unison with his, likewise his sac that you kiss and pet, lifting it with the respect one man owes another to smell the sweat that lies beneath it on the pathway to his butt…

… and oh, that butt, the folds between his cheeks the altar to man scent…

When you turn up the heat or turn down the ac you do it because you want to OD on him.

About the only thing better is when he brings his nose to your chin and begins his own exploration of you.