R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 24

“Edge Me The Fuck Up!”

“Edge Me The Fuck Up!”

I love xtube. Type in “guys who like goldfish stuck up their ass,” in its search engine and up pops 4,753 guys that do, including those who prefer tropical fish. Yet for all the exotica this porn site sports, the clips that give me the quickest hard-on are the ones most would consider vanilla, “bating buddies,” which are guys masturbating in front of one another or stroking one another’s cocks.

And the bating master of all bating masters is “AAD2.”  Each of his clips feature hairy burly masculine guys like himself with big hard tools. But what makes his stuff so hot is the verbal. Like the clip entitled ”Two Hairy Bators – Deep,Verbal Exposed Bate.” AAD2 is  stroking this other guy’s stiff dripping cock, the guy is moaning away when, forty seven seconds into the clip, the guy yells out in a lustful guttural tone this immortal line that will forever go down in amateur gay porn history:

“Edge me the fuck up!”

The other night, in between screwing around with Jim, my fuck buddy with the hairy chest and abs and tight body that never sees the inside of a gym, l happened to mention my fascination with the clip and, before you know it,  we were using the phrase to rev up our own mutual lust:

Me (grabbing Jim’s nips): Want me to edge you the fuck up?

Jim: Yea, yea, edge me the fuck up!

Me: You sure about that? You sure you want me to edge you the fuck up? ‘Cause once l start, there’s no turning back.

Jim: Just fucken do it, fucker. Edge me the fuck up!

That week l hit the trifecta and had three of my five fuck buddies over: Chris, my 53 year old  but looks 30 years old boy on Tuesday; and John, my 47 year hairy hunk, that Thursday, and we used the phrase so much AAD2 had a right to sue us for copyright infringement.

Chris is the world’s greatest cock sucker and every time l muttered deep and low, “So boy, you’re gonna edge your dad the fuck up?” Chris would just nod.  You see, he had my dick in his mouth.

John and l, on the other hand, are both daddies and often play truckers. In fact it was John who broke me into smoking cigars:

John (lighting up his stokie) : So buddy, you gonna edge me the fuck up?

Me (grabbing the pouch of his jockstrap): Damn right, l’m gonna edge you the fuck up!

So the next time things are getting a little soft (pun intended)  between you and your partner; or the chemistry doesn’t seem to be working between you and a newbie, give this verbal Viagra a shot. Grab the guy by the neck, dangle your tool three inches from his nose and in the most guttural voice you can make, yell out like you were gonna beat the shit out of him:

“Edge me the fuck up!”

If that doesn’t work, confiscate his homo license on the spot.

 

 

 

Power Bottoms, The Entitled, Jeffrey Dahmer Cruises and Rhianna

Power Bottoms, The Entitled, Jeffrey Dahmer Cruises and Rhianna

I just love when guys call themselves “power bottoms.” Excuse me buddy, but we tops are the ones doing all the work. We have to keep that tool up and hard, we have to stick it in you, we have to keep those pelvic muscles going, all the time worrying about performance issues,  while you just lay there holding on to our tools like a drowning man grabs a life preserver.

Big fucken deal.

 

Ever run into a guy or maybe even have a buddy who acts like they’re some kind of phantom royalty and are entitled to everything just because they have or think they have a pretty face or hot bod or bubbling personality?  I’m not just talking about the lazy faggots who don’t want to work and milk the system, but guys who want or, l should say, expect everything from you and give you little back in return. They’re the kind of friends who never pick up the check or even offer to leave the tip.

Or like a hairy hottie l recently connected with on one of the phone apps. Since he had no car and lived in a closet l picked him up and brought him to my place. He used my mouth and my heated pool and my food and my cock rings but barely kissed my dick. He lived in the past, had come from a life of privilege  – old money gone bye-bye – and right now was renting a room in somebody’s house, working a minimum wage job at a local gay retailer and spending more on drugs than he did on food. Now nobody is used unless they allow it to happen which l freely admit l did. He had the physical looks that got me hard, the intellect many handsome guys lack and the sexual prowess that belonged on xtube. But after awhile l had to step back and say to myself: was the sex worth it in exchange for putting up with this air of entitlement? I finally realized it wasn’t,  and since l don’t look like Woody Allen’s older brother and have to grovel for another man’s attention, l have moved on.

 

In the old days if a guy saw what he liked in a bar or the ten items or less aisle at Walmart he’d give you a smirky smile. Now, particularly these older guys who are probably younger than me. stand there with the  vacant expressionless stare of a corpse as if they were contemplating draining your blood after they’ve had their way with you.

 

I have to admit l viewed Rihanna as another one of those overblown celebs the fans of “Entertainment Tonight” and “The Insider” fondle over, that is till l read about the many and diversified charities this young woman not only donates to but has initiated, and reminded me that not all of these million dollar Barbie dolls are “me, me, me” airheads.

You go girl.

 

A Crack In the Dam?

A Crack ln The Dam?

Those of us who voted for Hilary, and even some of Trump’s supporters who are profoundly disenchanted with his idiotic behavior(his approval rating is the lowest ever recorded for a  new President) are hoping the shit the Russians supposedly have on him (one rumor is that it’s videotapes of him being pissed on my prostitutes)  gets into hands of Wikileaks, or maybe – wash my mouth out with soap! – a pissed off illegal pulls a gun out at one of his public rallies.

That’s why the ultimate irony is Trump may be done in by his own party, as evidenced by the great distension within party ranks which led to the defeat of what was to be his greatest achievement, a redo of Obama Care. If such dissention continues and Trump can’t get much pass Congress, he’s the temperamental, unorthodox type of guy who may just say, “Fuck you!” and resign.

And if the Pubs sit on their hands and get nothing done when they control both the Executive and Legislative branches, the public may say “Fuck you!” to them come election time.

 

Friends of the Friendless: Part II

Friends of the Friendless: Part II

Trying to figure where to meet other guys strictly for buddyship, I observed these coterie of guys in the local sports or bear bar donned in their softball uniforms or bowling shirts, shooting the breeze or guzzling beer like long lost brothers. So, says I to me, join a group. But since I was never the athletic type, though I work out  three times a week, I thought the best fit for me was the local gay running club.

The first few times we rendezvoused for our Wednesday evening run at one of the local parks, the dozen or so guys (plus a few token lesbians) were cordial enough. But since most of them came with their partners or very close buddies, they looked at me as if I were something of an interloper (read threat) to their cozy relationships. You know the kind, clinging all over one another, to me a sign of insecurity, just to make sure you get the message: “hands off.” Like I was there to pick somebody up, exactly my counter motive. (Every time I see these clingers in the bars, that line from Hamlet, “thou protests too much,” comes to mind.)

In any case, by the third week, the polite pair-offs that I had enjoyed initially as we bullshit about life trotting down Broward Boulevard had disappeared, and I found myself running solo. What was the point? At least in the gym, I could listen to my i-pod on the treadmill. I dropped out.

I even tried a few local bear events, though I’m a traditionalist and remember when bear meant beefy not bloaty. But, quite frankly, I found the bunch to be pretty cliquey, and about as welcoming to a new face as a Nazi guard at a concentration camp.

So where do all these buddies meet one another for friendship, sans the sex? Are they former lovers, part-time, once-in-a-blue-moon fuck buddies, teammates, co-workers, the result of a gay mass exodus from some little town in Alabama or South Dakota? Beats me.

Plus, I found as I’ve tried to cultivate my strong acquaintances into friendships, it was a lot of work that just was not worth the return on investment in time and “Being Nice.” One “friend” needed constant ego stroking when he wasn’t telling me how everyone stopped breathing when he made his grand entrance at a local bar; two other “friends”, years my junior, were always complaining about some ailment or pain. Hell, after 25, we all feel like the walking wounded. Get over it!

Or there was the generation gap, like with my long time ex-partner, ten years my senior, who believed gay marriage was for fruits, was tired of sex with me,  but wanted a monogamous relationship as if we were man and wife; or my two retired friends, super wealthy as a result of family money, who were nice enough to invite poor me with my solo million to their dinner parties. There, while only a fart in age separated me and their cohorts (moneyed too or trying to look like they are), I was leered over like a piece of hard candy most of them want to unwrap.

All this took just too much energy. So, in the end, I decided being “alone” wasn’t so bad.  I ditched my ego-hungry buddy, my ex, and and my flashy patronizing  couples. After all, I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, with whomever I wanted.

Which led suddenly in the last year to five reliable fuck buddies, all of whom I met conveniently on the hook-up sites or apps, three of which are old enough to be my son and two of which have become friends with benefits.

Go fucken figure.

Friends of the Friendless: Part I

Friends of the Friendless: Part I

I’m curious if what I experienced in moving alone to a new gay urban ghetto is something others guys have experienced, too: the difficulty of making new gay friends.

Remember that “I Love Lucy” episode in which Lucy, thinking she’s been abandoned by Ricky, Fred and Ethel, is taken into the fold of the Friends of the Friendless? Well, after living in Fort Lauderdale for the past fifteen years and a snowbird for a decade before that, I feel, at times, like I’m the President and entire membership of this checkered group. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but after all that time, I can count on one hand the number of Strong Acquaintances and Friends I have here. (And the fingers of my other hand were lost in a fist fucking session gone bad.)

How would I define a friend? Not just someone to wile away the fun times with but someone you can confide in and trust, someone on your wave length but willing to give you a reality check when you need it. Someone to comfort you when you lose a pet or a parent or your job, when you get sick, or who gives you a ride when your car breaks down or you need to get to the airport. Someone with whom you can carry on a conversation without confrontation. Some one you know won’t betray you.

Even though I spent virtually my entire professional career in a “super” people business like public relations, I was never the gregarious sort. Maybe my terrible adolescence and high school years as a nerd and social outsider forever put a damper on my extrovertism. Nonetheless, people tell me I’m personable and a good conversationalist, and not a bad looker – or a bad fuck.

So what’s the problem?

First, it admit that I’ve been looking for friends in all the wrong places, the sex websites, phone apps, sex clubs, baths, bars, any sexual venue where dangling dicks are the norm. Seems in these circles, once the sex is over, unlike in NYC where I once lived and where many a fuck buddy eventually morphed into a friend, guys here move on to the next bod like the butcher behind the deli stand calling the next ticket. I call them “one fuck” wonders. A guy who you rimmed for an hour one night won’t even say “hey” when you run into him at the bar a week later.

As far as cultivating friends on the web like some guys purport to want to do in their postings, I can maybe buy that for men who live closeted lives in the middle of nowhere and whose only contact with other gays is the internet. But I’m not into endless banal e- chatter, (like what the weather’s like in Boise) which most of the out-of town guys who hit me up want to do if they’re not after a virtual sex encounter. (The real jaded side of me wonders how many of them may be sucking up to me to get a free place to stay in SoFlo – a few actually come out and ask.) I need friends in the flesh not over a wire.

Then it could just be Fort Lauderdale itself is the problem, as a few people who have admitted to the same “aloneness” as I experience have indicted. Lauderdale is just one big fuckin’ party town, slash, whorehouse for men where you can pick some guy up in the “Twenty Items or Less” aisle at the supermarket. It’s a town of transient gays here for the sun and the fun who leave when their low end job or sugar daddy dries up, or tight assed vacationers from Michigan and Nebraska who want to let loose for a week before they go back into their gopher holes. It’s a town where commitment – even to friendship – may actually be against the law. That’s why I often refer to Lauderdale as Teflon City. Nothing sticks.

Many people meet people on the job, particularly when the business is gay friendly, but that’s a no go for me since I’m retired. For a while when I came down here from New York, I worked part time as a faculty member at one of the local universities and rarely ran into other instructors, most of whom were married married,  closeted, or unwilling to let down their guard. Many times, I graded papers or took a nap between classes in the faculty lounge all alone.

Part II:  What I did next ….

 

Ode To A Dying Dog

Ode To A Dying Dog

It had always been our way, my ex George’s and mine. I know some pet lovers and animal activists might disagree but, except for Charlie, our first beagle who at fifteen was in pain at the end and who we were able to get a young vet to come over and give him peace, we have let nature take its course with each of our dozen dogs and one cat that followed, and who now lie buried either in our little pet cemetery at one of our properties in Pennsylvania or in urns at our respective homes. So it was to be with Sammy, G’s beagle, though the truth be told, when it came to loving Sammy, he was as much my dog as G’s.

Sammy had been a victim of the incompetence and indifference of the veterinary profession and the animal pharmas. Stricken with Lyme’s Disease while up in PA, he was cured of his ailment with antibiotics but left an arthritic cripple. So the vets prescribed a powerful pain reliever – five different vets with five different recommendations on dosage – that eventually destroyed his liver. Going through periods when it looked like the end was near and others when George labeled him “in remission,” now just a few days before his eleventh birthday it looked like the day of reckoning had arrived for his – our – poor doggie.

Despite the fact we had been “Splitsville” as George termed it since April of 2016 after forty two years of a relationship that could be best described as “tumultuous,” we stayed in touch by phone. (George intentionally did not stay up with latest in communication technology, i.e., texts, Facebook, and the like.) While l had always been there for him throughout his many health care crises though he had not been there for mine, like my back surgery last May, the fact Sammy was dying and Georgie was already a basket case at the prospect of losing him compelled me to leave my happy lazy life and my own three doggies in balmy Fort Lauderdale earlier this month and fly up to PA, which was still in the grips of a winter that wouldn’t quit, to be with him and Sammy. Had l checked the extended forecast before l booked my trip, l probably would have delayed it, but, looking back now, I would have forever regretted if l had.

My twelve hours of travel were an agonizing odyssey, both physically and psychologically. It started with a shared ride to Fort Lauderdale International Airport at 7:30 in the morning of March 9, followed by the cattle car flight on United into Newark, the bus from Newark to Manhattan’s Port Authority, then a walk across town to the Path (Port Authority Trans Hudson) underground train to Hoboken, New Jersey, where l picked up the Metro North railroad that left me off in Port Jervis, New York, about a forty minute drive from our PA house, for which l had to call the local cab service three times before they finally came (no Uber up here in the boonies and night driving was out of the question for G who suffers from macular degeneration). It was almost eight at night when l walked in.

George was genuinely happy about my arrival, and l was grateful Sammy was still alive and reasonably alert to recognize me. In fact, he even got up from the dog bed that would be his deathbed to greet me, but both G and I knew the end was near, having gone through it with a dozen other animals.

Soon, however, our mutual gloom turned predictably to our most frequent pastime – arguing. Not about infidelity or money, the subjects that killed most relationships, despite the fact l had led a life of deceit when G early on no longer wanted sex. No, our’s was the perpetual war of wills. Opposites to begin, with G,  the jock,  the sports fanatic,  and yes the dreamer,  and me the nerd, the world traveler (G had a phobia about foreign food and flying), and the perpetual cynic, G had incessantly tried to  assert his will on me and how l led my life as l fought back with an increasingly assertive independent streak. We should have called it quits decades ago and now, even with poor Sammy dying in the next room, we continued battling over what was, in hindsight, absolute shit.  When l complained about the impending blizzard which in the end delayed my return home by almost a week, George countered by saying that he had never asked me to come up, though l knew him better, and when l had mentioned about delaying my trip by a week because of a doctor’s appointment G had yelled back on the phone, “l need you now, not after he’s dead!” And l knew he was right.

Almost twenty-four hours later on that Friday evening, after a night and day of bittersweet reminiscing about all of our dogs, including my three who were “next in line,” our rocky “marriage, ” punctuated by sobbing sessions kneeling over our innocent boy, Sammy died peacefully and quietly in his favorite dog bed.

As was our tradition with previous canine passings, G opened a bottle of wine – this time it was Merlot – and we got drunk.

Fortunately, after nagging him on the phone, George the week before had gotten some guys from the handyman service we used for the house, young hunks who fit G’s sexual fantasies perfectly – l much preferred my very real seasoned fuck buddies – to dig a grave in the back near the dog statues we had swiped from our first country house up here just five miles down the road that we now rented. And so that Saturday morning, after an overnight snowfall, George carefully carried our sweet departed doggie, lying in his bed and enveloped in his favorite blanket, down the basement stairs and placed him in a wheelbarrow as l cleared the snow. We both lifted his bed from either end, walked over to the gravesite and ever so gently lowered him in. First George, then l, when he began to sob uncontrollably, shifted the dirt from the mound above and covered Sammy’s grave. G had said he would get a figurine the next time he was in Walmart to mark the spot, but for now l moved one of our weathered dog statues to our second pet cemetery in the Poconos, making Sammy’s final resting spot visible from every room in the rear of the house – including George’s bedroom.

“He’s in heaven now with his all his cousins (our previous pets), who are showing him the ropes,” George would mutter intermittently that day and night. “He’s a puppy again with a new body and running and playing like he used to.”

It was moments like these when l regretted being an atheist realist. Perhaps there was something after all of this, after all. If the life force was energy and energy could not be destroyed, Sammy’s life force, the life force that left his crippled body, the same life force that would leave all of our physical beings someday, had to be somewhere. In a newborn puppy, perhaps, or an aging dog given a new lease on life?

In the end my little mission of mercy had morphed into a stressful, extremely emotional roller coaster ride. Yet l never regretted my decision for a moment. Driving me to the train station on my twice rescheduled trip back to the Land of Oz, George thanked me in his own quiet way for coming up. But no thank you was necessary.

You see, I had able to say goodbye to our Sammy while he was still with us, hold his paw and look him straight in those soppy eyes of his, and that was all the thanks l needed.

Could The True Fountain of Youth Be – Dog Doo?

Could The True Fountain of Youth Be – Dog Doo?

There are between seventy and eighty million dogs with owners in the U.S. and you can count me as having three of them. I think having pets is the biggest social welfare scheme ever devised by the animal kingdom, and you know us gay guys treat our little pooches or felines like surrogate children.

Now my property is fenced in, so instead of having to walk my brew l let them do their thing in the backyard and go with my plastic bag and gloves every couple of days to tidy things up. But my two miniature doxies (my third is an adorable chihuahua/terrier mix) have a rather disgusting habit. Yes my little babies are into – how should l put this? – scat.

Where did l go wrong??

In fact, Bebe is right at Annie’s hole to catch it like it was coming out of one of those Dairy Queen ice cream dispensers. Ugh! Though l’m sure I’m hardly the only dog owner who has witnessed such revolting behavior from their pet.

But then l got to thinking. Both my little darlings are pushing 14 which is 98 in human years, and while they’ve slowed down, they’re as frisky as ever when they wanna be. Like when l yell out, “Okay, who wants a cookie?”

Could it be that one might attribute their youthfulness and vitality to their eating one another’s crap?? Stuff I’ve been throwing away by the ton for decades? (My ex and l have had ten dogs and one cat in our years together.)

If l’m right, can you imagine the product lines we could develop? Dog Doo cream for those wrinkles. Who needs Botox or fillers. Dog doo vitamins.  Dog Doo shampoo so you never go gray again. Flavored Dog Doo ice pops.  Dog Doo pills for the pecker. Dog D  liquors. Dog Doo spas where you can soak in shit, literally. Hell, nursing homes would go out of business, plastic surgeons would file for bankruptcy and the stocks of GNC who l’d partner with would go through the roof.

The possibilities are endless.

Maybe l’ll test my hypothesis on one of my tricks, mix some BeBe (the name of one of my doxies) Natural Potency Nectar with some flavoring and see if it improves his performance.

If it does, goodbye Viagra!

 

What’s Our Fascination About Making With A Str8 Guy?

What’s Our Fascination About Making With A Str8 Guy?

It’s all over gay porn. Hell, there are even sub-categories. It’s this perpetual gay fantasy about making it with a str8 guy, a str8 buddy or college roommate or coworker, your sister’s husband or your hot neighbor … the permutations seem endless. But why? Aren’t there enough gay men around to hook-up with? Why do we chase men who are supposed to want sex with – ugh! – women?  Are str8 guys in some way better, butcher, more potent, not hung up in our sometimes silly sub-culture, men who are real men (whatever the hell that is), sexual animals who just want to screw without consequences?

I mean do we feel somehow inadequate being a man that a genetic mutation made interested in his own sex? Frankly, from my crazy perspective, it just seems more natural for men to play with other men and the only reason “God” created women is so that there would be a way to create more men to play with.

Do we look upon it as a challenge or conquest to make it with one of “them” so we can convince them that only a man knows how to make another man feel good, l mean real good? You know, nobody knows how to suck cock like another guy, right?

Are we attracted to our own “forbidden zone,” aware that our advances may actual end us up in the hospital (“You sick fuck, I’m going to beat the shit out of ya!” as he comes at you with a tire iron), but hell it’s the “what if” that makes it even more sexually exciting?

Or is it our twisted way to rationalize in our minds that being being gay is okay (it is) and that every guy, no matter how macho, has a tinge of gay in him that needs only another man to bring out?

I love the “Str8 Broke Boys” series on sites like xtube or pornmd or other porn that appears to use – l mean pay – str8 guys to tie them up and then have our way with them – on camera. Are there as many lazy or out of work str8 guys as there are lazy gay guys who’ll do anything for money? Or is it all a sham, gay boys posing as str8 to keep feeding our fantasies?

I don’t know about you, but l don’t care if a voluptuous bitch was down on me for a half an hour, I don’t think Mr. Peter would show much interest. Yet these supposed str8 guys have an almost instant erection, sometimes they’re harder than the gay guy seducing them.

Or maybe, just maybe, at least for some str8 guys – l’m not talking about self professed bisexuals – walking on the wild side and making it with a gay guy holds as much sexual titillation as they do for us.

 

Acting Str8 At Work

Acting Str8 At Work

Don’t feel guilty that you’re letting the movement or your inner self down when you decide to wear that conservative blue tie and not that flashy red one your partner bought you for your birthday to the office. According to a new study, many gay men, especially those working professionally, make a conscious effort to act “str8” at work. You can find the full study at www.uc.edu/news/NR.aspx?id=23820.

And what exactly does that mean? Watching how they spoke or limiting their hand gestures, basically mimicking how str8 men (at least the guys they thought were str8) do things or dress or talk while on the job. For unless you work at a job where tres gay is in, like modeling or fashion or cosmetology, guys recognize, whether they like it or not, acting gay in the office is no asset, and if you wanna get ahead in the corporate world which is run predominantly by heterosexual men, in fact, many conservative heterosexual men, you better butch up buddy.

Hey, l know l’m going back a few years but l truly believe things haven’t changed that radically since l left the work-a-day world in 2002 and that, in fact, living in the Age of Trump things may actually be going backwards.  Though l always felt like l acted like one of the boys, l realized that as a PR and marketing executive representing a New York Catholic healthcare system – how conservative can you get –  even being perceived as “one of them” could cause you agita. That’s New Yorkese for heartburn.

I’ll never forget how one of our most experienced and educated administrators applied for the Chief Operating Officer or COO job at our place when the position became open. He should have gotten it hands down but because he was, shall we say, flamboyant (Charlie would play footsie with me under the table at meetings just to be cute), he was passed over for a jerk who eventually led our place, fortunately after l left, down the road to bankruptcy. A rumor went around that the archbishop was supposed to have said, “l’m not having a flake run one of our hospitals.”

Even guys whose bosses know or accept their homosexuality find themselves marginalized or pigeon-holed in terms of assignments or even advancement.

So if you come home from work and your partner starts interrogating you why you didn’t wear that flashy red tie he bought you for your birthday, move up to him real close, l mean real close, grab him by the crotch and whisper in his ear before you give him a deep tongue kiss, “Do you really give one fuck?”

Don’t worry. It won’t take him long to change the subject – or get his clothes off.

 

 

 

The Dickter (as in Rickter) Scale

The Dickter (as in Rickter) Scale

Admit it. We live in a pretty shallow sub-culture where physicality, not brains nor success nor professional achievement, reigns supreme (unless the guy’s bucks means he can keep you in a style of living you don’t deserve), and where one guy’s cream-in-his-jeans hottie is another’s aversion therapy.

I often joke if you’re gonna be gay, you better have at least one of these three things: be pretty, have a big dick or have lots of money.  Otherwise, go straight, marry some equally hopelessly homely female and have some beautiful hot kids whom these hopelessly homely couples often sire. (Hey, the next generation of hotties has to come from somewhere.)

But getting back to my Dickter scale, if we were to try to apply some universal standards to this vast diversity of species we call male, here’s how you might rate them on a scale of 1 to 10, strictly on physical, “does he get my dick rising” criteria:

1-3: No redeeming characteristics whatsoever. No face, no bod (whatever bod turns you on) or even a 10 inch tool he can dangle around in the steam room.

4 to 6: OK, in a benignly pleasant, non-threatening (read boring) kind of way. Could have been something special, but that something special probably went down his daddy’s leg. The kind of friends Number 10’s usually surround themselves with since they make them look even hotter.

6- 7: Ah, if the Gay God had just given him a tinge more of something. If he just grew a beard to hide his no-chin chin, or lost (or gained) thirty pounds, or went to the gym, or got contact lenses or wore sexier clothes or got that nose job.

7.5 to 9:  Turn up the A.C. It’s getting hot in here. He may not be Brad Pitt but he’s got IT, a heaving undercurrent of masculinity or just a day’s growth or maybe a humpy bod. Whatever it is, you feel a twitch in your dick when you see him.

And then, there’s the top of the shit heap, the Numero Ten’s, the kind of work of art that, regardless of your personal type, you have to admit is God’s gift to Gaydom. Usually tall, though not always, usually dark, but not always, usually muscular, but not always. But yes, the kind of guy, again even if he’s not your personal best, you’d somehow still spend your entire Visa credit line on for a night. The kind that make plastic surgeons go out of business. Or make them rich.

The problem with all this is that the 3’s will only “settle” for 9’s or 10’s, the 10’s want 13’s, and the 7’s are left jerking off over their favorite amateur video on xtube or pornmd. That is, if the 3’s and the 10’s aren’t clogging up the DSL broadbands.

Hey men, guess what? That so-so looking #3 guy might be great marriage material (even great sex) and make us truly content if we only took time to look beyond the biceps.

Tomorrow: Fuck Buddies

(c) RP Andrews Enterprises