R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 26

Love and My Valentine’s Day

Love and My Valentine’s Day

For a guy who felt he had little love left in his life, this year’s Valentine’s Day proved me dead wrong.

Tuesday, the day before, one of my fuck buddies, the 53 year old who looked a boyish thirty and had the emotional maturity of a 14 year but cocksucking talents that belonged in the Guiness Book of Records was supposed to come that afternoon. Twenty of eight that morning when me and my dogs are still in bed in some kind of coma mirage, he texted me:

“Confirming today at 1, Daddy Ray. Can’t wait!!”

Okay, but when 1 came and went and 1:15 came and went, l reached out to find out what was going on. I always have a Plan B for almost everything in my life and my Plan B if Chris didn’t show was to hit Crunch, my gym just a five minute drive from here. I also learned the hard way – no pun intended – not to waste a Viagra until l was damn sure the guy was going to materialize.

1:30 l get this text message from the guy who had played with me many times before and who at twenty of eight was more enthusiastic than a Black Friday shopper:

“I’m with my friend Simon and he would like to come over and play too. He’s a real pig.”

Huh?

Pissed about this sudden abrupt change in plans l demanded a photo, a photo promised but which never came.

Instead l got this reply:

“We’re headed over.”

Now l have this unbreakable rule and Chris damn well knows it that a never have two guys who l don’t know come to my place for sex. One guy l might be able to handle if the sex was a pretext for something evil but two guys – no way. And while l knew Chris and could handle him physically if things went south, l knew absolutely nothing about this Simon and in this day and age when a pix can be snapped and sent on your smartphone quicker than you can take a piss, my red flags went up.

“No way,” was my response to Chris’ ballsy in-your-face message.

“I thought you trusted me and you were open to meeting new people.”

My response: “l trust no one, not even my mother if she were alive. And while l’m open to meeting new people, l meet them on my terms, not yours when l’m doing the hosting.”

l ended by telling my boy-man how his was typical faggot behavior and how disappointed l was in him.

Dead silence.

Determined not to fuck away the afternoon l quickly checked if anybody else loved me on the hookup sites and apps even as l took my steroid capsules and slipped on my shorts and tank top for a workout at Crunch.

Bingo. Up pops a fifty something burly bearded stud from Texas l had played with last fall who was in town. He had been on one of the gay cruises that left from Fort Lauderdale but was around until tomorrow.

Three hours later after my workout, a quick Lean Cuisine microwave dinner and a shower, Chad was in my bedroom.  Besides the usual suck and fuck scenario, Chad loved to get fisted, and while this was not the five hours down on my dick l had been looking forward to from Chris, to paraphrase my late old lady, an ass in hand – literally – is worth two butts in the bush.

But what was supposed to be a casual sexual encounter with a repeat buddy morphed into, at least in Chad’s mind, a budding daddy-son relationship. While he had a hunk of a partner back in Texas, they no longer had sex and each maintained their own respective daddy-boy connections. Chad’s other half was a daddy, but Chad, a burly furry 5’ 11 masculine guy loved playing the boy, and after a trio of such relationships, two in which his daddy would beat the shit out of him, he had suddenly decided as my two hands were nearly in his ass that l was to be his Daddy Number 4.

I played along for a while but as the night became morning and he kept staring at me with loving eyes as he made love to my daddy dick l wondered how this was going to end. It ended predictably in my heated pool where we mostly talked about our lives until the time came for him to leave for the airport and back to Texas with the promise to see his new Daddy when he returned to Lauderdale, something he did often as a kingpin in the pharmaceutical industry.

Coward that l am, l didn’t want to ruin his little fantasy that l did not want to play that kind of Daddy, nor did l want to get into any long term relationship having just left one.

All-nighters sound envious but in reality are terrible. Though l’m retired and thankfully didn’t have to go to an office and make nice to a bunch of assholes, all-nighters left me a zombie for much of the rest of the day. I straightened up, then hit the bed but was over tired and couldn’t sleep.

The phone rang. It was George, my ex who was up at our home in northeast Pennsylvania, where it was snowing – again.

Normally he’d called me to bitch about something in his shitty life or about a problem at the house or about the tenant at our other house a few miles away that we rented who was a Section 8 loser who had enough money to buy cigs but not the hundred dollar share of his monthly rent.

But today’s call was different and uncharacteristically George.

“I want to thank you for the Valentine’s Day card. It really made my day.”

A few days before l was at Walgreens looking for a card to send George. But as l commented to a housewifey type doing her own searching: “All these cards are so saccharin. Why don’t they make cards that say just because l can’t stand you doesn’t mean l don’t care.”

She laughed politely when – bingo – l saw exactly the card for my ex who l lived with for 42 years, who was my complete opposite, who l fought with almost every day of those 42 years about absolute shit, who l had been there for for every health crisis in his life and who l brought down every winter for the past fifteen years to my house in south Florida, until last April when he blurted out, ”You dragged me down to South Florida for the winter.” Yes.

The card?  “YOU DRIVE ME CRAZY…  but in a good way.” To which l added this note, “Just because we can’t live together doesn’t mean l don’t love you.”

Mr. Jock-Macho had been touched and we exchanged a few more pleasantries until he started complaining how the guy who had plowed his neighbor’s driveway had left his buried in snow.

I lay down on my sofa, Pete, my loyal chihuahua/terrier mix who l had saved from being euthanized, hopped up to be with Daddy.

But even after petting him and his two sisters, my mini doxies, who barked to be picked up, l felt totally empty inside. Yes, l have had a good life, two successful careers, an LTR though it had been a bumpy one, was a published writer, was financially comfortable and certainly had had my share of good looking men. In fact l was more popular now than when l was thirty. And as l told each of my guys, three of which were old enough to be my biological sons, l was flattered to be their dad. And yet …

That’s when they came, a quick succession of texts.

First from my handsome, handsome 42 year Irish fuck buddy “nephew” Dennis who was in the throngs of obtaining a renewal of his green card so he could stay here in the U.S. A smart cookie, he had a nice nest egg back in the old country but preferred staying here.

“Happy Valentine’s Day Uncle Ray, if you believe in such a thing.”

My reply:

“I do. When l meet guys like you who are sincere in their expressions of affection to another like you are to me, it makes me believe again that two men can truly like one another besides for what they got between their legs.”

Next came a “Happy Valentine’s Day” from my neighbor and confidant and probably the only girl friend l’ve had in my life who while in her mid-fifties is still a hot chick and on my wave length.

But the piece de resistance was the “Happy Valentine’s Day” greeting that came next – from Jim, who of all my regulars, in fact, out of all the men l’ve had in my life, is the closest person l would choose as a lover, though we have both vowed that after our respective rocky prior relationships, an LTR was the last thing either one was looking for in our lives.

Just a bit taller than me, lightly furry with a chest that gets my dick instantly hard every time l see it, a rugged, handsome face and beautiful man’s body without the benefit of a gym, stable, intelligent, a professional with the same demands l had when l was in PR, well, just a regular guy, the kind you could bring home to mom or walk into a str8 bar without feeling a twinge of uneasiness.

At first it sounded like he was tired after another stressful day on the job and was going to stay in. But an hour later after l checked out our local supermarket for their addictive brownies to solace my empty soul with, Jim jotted off a text:

“I changed my mind. I wanna be bad.”

We had gotten together dozens of times before, had stopped seeing one another when l was getting mushy and he was adamant about not wanting a relationship but just a roll in the hay fuckbuddyship, but who a month or so later came back into my life like a puppy with his tail between his legs. There was also an apparent change in attitude. When he came down with a bad infection while l was visiting George in PA in December where it was 17 degrees, I advised him what questions to ask his doctor to make sure he didn’t have one of those antibiotic resistant variety. After that he started reaching out casually, messaging me how l was doing and when l was honest and told him l felt like shit he would give me the kick in the ass a minor manic depressant needed to get back into the game.

The wildest thing in my mind after all our rolls in the hay was that we had not gotten bored with one another in the least but found each encounter more lustful than the last. But last night Valentine Day’s Night was somehow different. Hard dicks became a footnote, and while l dared not use that four letter word love to describe it, l felt l was with the brother l had been seeking all my life, and l could see in his eyes he felt the same.

Every time l was with Jim, I’d tell him what a beautiful man he was, and l know the way he stroked my body and stared appreciatively as l worshipped his manhood he found me just as hot. But he had never enunciated that to me in words.

Not until last night.

Finally l just blurted it out, expecting a noncommittal evasive answer as l had gotten in the past. “So you like what you see? Do you dig me as much as l dig you?”

Yes l do, very much,” and he pulled me down and kissed me, not in obligatory way as part of the sex act but because he meant it.

So despite all my cynicism, l ended up having the most touching, intimate Valentine’s Day in my shitty little life.

When he texted me this morning from work to thank me for last night and about going with him in June to the Gay Pride March in D.C. l responded with an enthusiastic yes. Besides finally playing the gay activist after decades of being in the closet on the job as an executive of a Catholic healthcare system, we could go museum hopping, something two minds who think alike could enjoy (My George, the jock, thought museums were boring). Best of all, we could end each day naked in bed.

“What a winning combination,” l texted.

“Damn right,” replied Jim.

So what is love really?

Who the fuck knows.

And right now, ask me  if I care.

Creating a Scene: Public Sex

Creating a Scene: Public Sex

There are two kinds of Public Sex: the sanctioned and the unsanctioned. For both, you have to be a super exhibitionist and not prone to distractions, i.e., keeping your dick up and focused even when some pudgy four foot ten guy behind you is stroking your left cheek; and for the second, you also have to be a risk taker, wanting the forbidden fruit in strange places where you aren’t supposed to be on the hunt.

Sanctioned havens for public sex include the orgy rooms, steam rooms and glory holes of the sex clubs and bathhouses. There “Creating A Scene” can be fun, where you’re having your fifteen (or more likely seven and a half) minutes of fame up there on some platform with three or four guys working you over (one swallowing your dick, another with his tongue up your butt, you get the picture, right?) and double that number of poor fags playing audience, pulling on their puds as they watch their own live porn movie. Nothing beats it for an ego lift even if, once it’s over, the same guy who was rimming you steps on your foot in the john.

Up to the early 2000’s, backrooms used to be a popular part of the Lauderdale gay experience and a draw for out-of-town tourists. A few, in land locked bars, were no bigger than a closet; others, at bars that benefited from fenced in patios, were under carnival-like tents. Again, timing is everything in life, and these haunts where guys cavorted with one another in the dark, a bottle of cold beer in one hand and a hot cock in the other, were usually late night occurrences when the number of men had reached critical mass. Then some stupid, ultra-horny fucks decided to go beyond the “normal” boundaries and do it ON the bar, and the cops could look away only for so long. Or more likely a competitive bar owner squealed on them. But like an almost extinct species, backroom action is enjoying a renaissance, even if the employees, what we regulars like to call the “penis police,” bluntly order guys they catch in action to “keep it in your pants.”

I often chat with the security guard at Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, still the most notorious local dive for unsanctioned in-your-face public sex, who’s usually assigned the penis police detail on weekends. When he finds an offender on his knees in some dark corner- and yes, they’re still doin’ it – he conveniently grabs them by the back of their harness and pulls them right off their prize.

There’s a very pragmatic reason bars like the Ramrod are on the constant vigilance: if there’s an undercover health Department spotter in the place and he witnesses such  “unsanitary conditions,” it could cost the bar its liquor license which is practically a license to print money.

Now, the unsanctioned spots for Public Sex like public bathrooms, truck stops, secluded beaches, or hiking trails can give you a rush. But they can also be problematic legally (like being arrested for lewd behavior, sucker) socially (with straight-and-narrow passers-by, or some redneck Trump lovin’ trucker who threatens to cut your prick off) and logistically (sticking your dick or ass through that tiny space at the bottom of a bathroom stall has got to be uncomfortable).

And with both sanctioned and unsanctioned venues, there’s always the specter of unsafe sex where lust overcomes logic (like the guys bent over on some orgy room couch getting fucked by an endless array of unknown penises).

Riis Park, a very popular beach in NYC, used to have its nude section where, behind hastily erected screens, guys would screw and suck as a friend played watch. That all ended when the feds moved in and Riis was absorbed into the Gateway National Park System. But folks tell me there’s still gay and straight action going on at Robert Moses, further up the coast on, yes, suburban Long Island.

Here in crazy Lauderdale, a former homophobic Bible Belt mayor turned thumbs down on public johns by the beach because he was concerned that us fags would use them for fornication. Perish the thought!

But everything has its place, I guess, and I’m, often than not, just an old fashioned boy who still prefers a bed or sofa and a door. Though I got to tell you, dining room chairs with cut-outs make terrif glory holes!

Hold me back buddy.

 

Flickers

Flickers

flicker (noun): a gay man residing in one of America’s major gay urban ghettos who’s seemingly got it all, the looks, the bod, the persona, the stable of friends and roving lovers, who projects a visage of contentment but, in reality, just isn’t quite happy where he’s at, and thinks by moving to some other gay urban hotbed, – hence the phrase, to flick around – his life would be so much better.

Recently a handsome muscle bear from L.A. hit me up on one of the hook-up websites. “You’re my type to a T,” he glowed. We traded a bit of E chitchat and I found out that he had lived in Lauderdale about the same time I’ve been here and left a year ago because he wanted a LTR and was tired of “guys not willing to commit.” But he conceded he was getting a bit bored with L.A. (he had lived there before) and was now considering another move to Palm Springs.

Then it hit me. As I dwelled on his handsome face and bod I realized I had seen him many times in one of the local bear bars. He had always been surrounded by his little coterie of fellow steroid clones, but never once in all those Friday nights had he ever even given me the eye or said, “Hey.” Ah, but moving to L.A., that would change everything. If not, there’s always ….

Then, there is a sometime fuck buddy of mine who says he’s had it with Lauderdale and wants to return to the romance of his youth by moving back to either New York where he came out and still has plenty of gay friends, or San Francisco where he blossomed as a muscleman bartender when Castro was just coming into its own. Now my buddy is highly intelligent with an IQ of 120 but did little with his brains and frankly doesn’t have a pot to plant flowers in as they politely put it in ‘50’s movies. But still he fanaticizes about living in two of the most expensive places in the country, with no dossier, no real professional job experience, and certainly, while still a hot man, no longer Sugar Daddy fodder. Like returning to a  past that no longer exists would somehow make his future. NYC’s once seedy West Village, home up to the late ’90’s to some of the hottest leather/levi bars in the world is now high rise condos and urban planning, and the Castro, Gaydom’s Babylon from the sixties onward is today home to yuppies and baby carriages.  As they say, you can’t go home again.

We’ve all known or met or heard of guys like this. Guys still hot into their 30’s, 40’s and even 50’s whose perpetual sex appeal is both a blessing and a curse since it allows them to continue playing the game long after they even really want to or should. Or deludes them into thinking there’s still time to find Mr. Right. They may work for a company where transfers are easy, or have a business of their own that’s movable like online sales, landscaping, power-washing or deep tissue massaging, since they never really lay down roots in one place all that long.  Actually not being chained to professional obligations or pension plans or the corporate ladder makes flicking around easy.  And so they do, from one gay ghetto to the next, a few years in one place, a decade in another, two months in the third, going through lovers and relationships like handi-wipes, all the time searching, waiting, hoping. For what? For who?

These guys may think they’re sincere when they insist they want a LTR  or, if not that, some deliriously happy existence. Whatever the hell that is. But are they for real? Are they willing to give as much as they expect to get? For most of them, commitment is sharing a fresh bottle of poppers with the new guy they’re screwing and letting him have the first sniff.

Just one question: do they ever tell someone on which gay ghetto catwalk they want their ashes scattered?

 

Bait and Switch

Bait and Switch

Now when it comes to my web profiles, I’m pretty explicit and pretty honest (except for maybe my age which is in Manhunt years) as to who I am, what I look like and what I want. I’m five six, roughly 148, in shape, muscular, pretty hairy,   a negative top who also likes mutual oral. And I prefer versatile or bottom guys who are  masculine, in-shape, not perfect, 38-55. Hair is a definite plus but not a given. Pretty straight forward, right?

In fact, one of the reasons I gravitated to the web in the first place was because there,  so I thought, you eliminated the twenty questions and surprises that often accompany pick-ups in bars or even sexual venues like the baths. (Yes, you can wear the symbols like the armband on the right shit but that often isn’t enough; and hankies have gone out of style a long time ago.) So if I say I’m a top and the guy says he’s a bottom, if I tell the guy I’m negative and he tells me he’s negative, or “indistinguishable” well, that should be the realities the two of us are dealing with, huh?

Not always. Remember how Sears got into trouble years ago with a game called “bait and switch” where they lured customers in to buy a washing machine at one price only to badmouth the sale item enough that it convinced the consumer to go for the more expensive model? Well, it doesn’t happen often, but bait and switch is another tactic guys are using who play the web or phone apps for real – meaning not just for virtual sex but to actually – yea actually – press the flesh:

He says he’s has an “athletic” build and shows up looking like he lived in as refrigerator for the past year.

You get hard over the pic of his wavy black hair and beard and he comes clean shaven and a cue ball or grayer than my grandmother, and she’s been dead thirty years.

You say you’re a top, he tells you he wants to get plowed, and from the moment you connect, he’s aiming his cock for your butt.

You advertise for a blow job buddy and hook up supposedly with a married man who wants to get his cock sucked. He’s nothing great but you starting doing your duty for God and country when he asks you if you bottom.  Huh??

The best? The guy who arrives isn’t the guy in the picture and he admits it! Lucky for him he still has something going for him and my Viagra high is just about ready to peak.

 

He Sounds Like a Great Guy But …

He Sounds Like a Great Guy But …

He wants to bare back and you don’t.

He doesn’t have a car and can’t host which means you would have to pick him up, unproduct tested, take him back to your place, and then, once if and when you’ve played, take him back. Like some private sex cab service. Why not throw in dinner too?

He came all the way from Canada or England or Australia but is too cheap to pay roaming charges on his smartphone so that, like, you can call him once you’ve sealed the deal on the web about having sex and not drive around looking for an address that doesn’t exist.

He opens his private pics for you but when you pose the question – “wanna connect?” doesn’t respond. What is this all about? IS he some kind of virtual flasher?

He says he just “loves to bottom” and “get fucked for hours,” but when you get him spread eagle, he confesses he hasn’t had it in “awhile” and is so tight a broomstick would have problems getting in.

He asks “you party?” which means he wants you to provide the Tina, G and crack free of course, so that he can be high while you do all the work. Has anybody under 35 who has hit you up on the web lately with a lot of sweet talk (“Boy, you’re fucken hot, dude!”) not ask you that 4 e-mails into your little chat?

 

 

“Fuck Yea!”

“Fuck Yea!”

Before  establishing my little stable of reliable and very satisfying fuck buddies, I was at Slammers once, our local sex club, getting my fifth uncompleted blow job of the night at one of its glory holes (my moment of triumph would cum a half hour later), when a guy, apparently hitting the jackpot on the other end, yelled out, “fuck yea!”

It struck me that this is probably the most frequently used phrase us gay boys utter in our tainted, jaded vocabulary. Now the origins of the word, fuck, are kinda murky. Some scholars trace it to Latin, others say it’s Germanic, and that “fuck” initially meant “to strike,” then later “to penetrate.” There’s even one silly hypothesis that claims it dates back to when sex was illegal unless it was permitted by the king, so people who were legally having intercourse were doing Fornication Under Consent of the King or F.U.C.K.

But, who the fuck cares how it came to be, right? We all love the guttural sound of the phrase and its lustful, super-butch impact when you say it, making you feel (if you aren’t already) like some hot, big, brick shithouse of a guy, bearded and hairy and hung ….

And we gay guys use it for every occasion:

When somebody’s going down on you and doing a great job, it’s “fuck yea, buddy, fuck yea!” alternated with “fucken A, fucken A!”

Or when you’re plowing a guy, his hairy muscled legs up on your shoulders, and he’s laying there, starry- eyed or his hairy fucken butt’s in your face, or you’re the one getting plowed, every thrust generates another “Fuck yea man, fuck yea!”

Or when you see some hottie across the way at a bar or a bath house and you whisper to your buddy or, suitably plastered, just go up to the guy and spurt it out, “Fuck yea, man. You are fucken hot! So when are we gonna fuck?”

Or as we’re shootin’ our load, whatever position we’re in, don’t we all yelp, “fuck yea!”

Sure we do.

Fuck yea!

 

Boys Don’t Cry: Are We Adult Males? Or Love-Sick Adolescent Girls?

Boys Don’t Cry: Are We Adult Males? Or Love-Sick Adolescent Girls?

Most of the guys I hang out with are ordinary regular guys like me. Only, Jesus! The same 40+ guys who in one breath ramble on about football, the political airheads in Washington, or how their ex-wives took them to the cleaners, thirty seconds later will be pining away about some hottie they have a heavy duty crush on but who hasn’t reciprocated – yet.

I got my Bud Bill who’s been caring the torch for a guy he met in his condo complex. And I have to admit the guy is still a good looker at 52,  but has played the role of cock tease par excellence, holding Bill’s hand or rubbing his neck when they watch TV, calling Bill while we’re out carousing to find what he’s doing (the more appropriate question for Bill would be who). I tell Bill to lay it out the line with Ralph but he’s afraid of “rejection.” So this charade goes on and on, like some perpetual foreplay without a climax. My take: if Ralph wanted Bill sexually they would have been in bed a long, long time ago. Plus, and I know I sound like a fuck when I say this, Ralph has AIDS and is beginning to suffer some of the disease’s irreversible effects, cocktail or no cocktail. Do you really want to force yourself on someone whose ass you may be wiping a few years from now when you’re at the age when you’ll soon need the ass wiper?

Then there’s Sid and Moses. Moses has a thing, a deep thing for Sid and Sid, who  respects and truly enjoys their friendship, has told Moses ten ways to Sunday that he likes him as a friend, but only as a friend. Period. Does Moses get the message? No, instead when Sid does something (like talk about a trick, real or sought after), Moses, who has his name on one of the gloryholes at Slammers, pouts like a hurt little girl whose Ken doll was taken away from her.

Hell, even I was falling for a humpy little guy (like me) from Jacksonsville who I thought would be my Love of the Decade. Maybe I should leave my partner? Maybe sell my house and go up to JAX to live with my love? It all seemed dewy-eyed possible until he asked me to co-sign a mortgage on the house he had just bought. Hey, I ain’t co-mingling my stellar credit rating with a guy I barely know and who I fucked only three or four times. Now if I had fucked him a dozen times before he asked me, maybe there would be room for negotiations.

So what’s the lesson to be learned here?

Read my lips: If a guy doesn’t want you, he just doesn’t want you. There’s no point trying to make something work that won’t. Nor should you delude yourself into thinking it’s love when deep down in your gut you know the guy wants you for what you can do for him, not for you.

So what should you do?

Find a distraction. Preferably quick, down and dirty, pure unadulterated, unbridled sex. Or adopt a pet gerbil. Or volunteer in a nursing home so you feel young again.

But whatever you do, stop the groveling and the winning and MOVE ON!

 

 

 

 

Racism Is Alive and Well – In the Bedroom

Racism Is Alive and Well – In the Bedroom

Now before some of you get bent out of shape by that statement, hear me out. Yea, l got my type when it comes to men, but unlike a lot of guys who state emphatically in their hook-up profiles stuff like “no blacks, no Asians, no Martians, and definitely no women,” l’m pretty eclectic in my bedroom romps. As long as the guy has that X Factor that makes my dick twitch, his ethnicity or race means nothing to me.

I’ll call him Dean though the real guy behind this true story knows l’m writing this. Dean, a tall, lightly furry, mid-thirties, handsome African American guy hit me up a few weeks ago, offering to be my sub. With vacuuming my house as my alternative activity for the afternoon, l immediately replied, “What the fuck, come on over.”

Now Dean who lived just a few minutes from me looked just like his pics and sounded like an intelligent regular guy. But as we got into it – me playing dad, him my boy –  he made a strange request to juice things up. Remember my blog on dirty talk in the bedroom? Well, Dean’s request topped them all. “I want you to keep calling me your (I think you can figure it out). It really turns me on.”

Now l was obviously hesitant to do what he asked, first, because it sounded kinda crude, and secondly l didn’t want him to rap me in the head or bite my tool off if l got too carried away. After all he was 6 foot 4 versus my 5 foot 6 increasingly shrinking frame.

But the more we got into it, and I uttered THOSE words the hotter we and the sex got.

Now in between all this racist slurring, Dean had mentioned to me he had a few injuries due to his active involvement in sports. So when we were through and he was dressing to leave, l innocently asked him, given his 6 foot four frame, ” Oh, did it happen playing basketball?”

To which Dean replied firmly but without malice, “Now that’s a racist stereotyping comment. Do you think we all play basketball?”

True story, l swear on the graves of George’s and mine nine dogs and one cat buried up at our Pennsylvania house.

This was just too good to make up.

 

Drugs and Sex: Inseparable?

Drugs and Sex: Inseparable?

I used to think using drugs – mostly pot and poppers – was a nice enhancement to man-to-man sex, like half and half instead of fat free milk in your coffee. But lately, I’ve had a rash of PNP high guys on line disappear in a mili-second when I told them I didn’t party. And at least here in south Florida, there’s a hell of a lot of them. While the problem is particularly bad among the under 35 crowd, there’s plenty of older guys – some in their 50’s – who when you answer “no” to their question, “PNP?” drop you quicker than some twink dropping a 50 pound barbell in the gym.

Now I’ve succumbed to the party game a few times – the meth drug scenes in my erotic novel,  “The Czar of Wilton Drive,’ are all too real. And I understand its addictive qualities: when you’re on the shit, you are in total ecstasy – your whole body is one big sex organ -and if the guy you’re with is hottie, well, it’s homo heaven.

But I find it endlessly bizarre that these guys – so many of them bottoms who want my cock rock hard – will even bring up the subject knowing, for many of us, Tina, crack, meth and erections are diametrically opposed. But I’ve also been around the block a few times to realize the real reason is they’re looking for someone to “contribute” to their drug high without having to lay out the dough.

In our local Lauderdale daily, there was a story about the growing number of Baby Boomers crowding the rehab centers here in South Florida, overage hippies who got hooked in the ‘60s and ‘70’s as young, hip and high, and now on Social Security (that is if they ever worked a real job to earn it) needing to dry out for survival. Bet a significant percentage are fellow gay boys.

A former meth head trick of mine told me that a rather popular hook up site was known in its early days as “Methhunt” since it was frequented, some say even established by meth heads searching out stuff and fellow partymates.

So what’s happened to just getting it on au naturale? Hell, do you have be a meth head or supplier to even get a man? Are drugs and sex not mutually exclusive?

Worse, are these guys somebody you can expect any kind of commitment from?

My Beef with Men’s Fitness

My Beef with Men’s Fitness

What gay guy – top, bottom or sideways – hasn’t combed the pages of those sexy men’s mag duo, Men’s Health and Men’s Fitness. Either we want to kill those fucken gorgeous specimens of manhood, photo-shopped or real, who cares, for being so perfect, or kill to get them in bed. I know, I know, just about every one of them is under 40, which means I guess us over 40 guys should rent a coffin until we actually need one. Or dig the hole, pull out our lawn chair and wait. But hell, you should look that good at 25 or 30 if all you do is live in a gym or take steroids or guzzle muscle milk or do all of the above.

But that’s not the reason I’m pissed off by these mags.

I’ve heard some brothers say Men’s Fitness should start a version just for us which would be nice except for one fact: size matters even in publishing. By size here I mean the number of readers. Magazines are less concerned about the $$ they make from us in subscriptions which are often practically given away; it’s selling to their advertisers that x number of people are potentially seeing their ads that decides what rates they can get away with. Hell, when you really analyze these mags they’re four color promos for all these fucken supplements, with articles thrown in to break up the advertising. And while we may think we’re taking over the world, our numbers still pale in contrast to heteros, and are probably not enough to launch a mag, particularly these days when the web is killing the publishing industry. After all, while they may not admit it, Men’s Fitness and Men’s Health know that they already got us hooked.

I remember it was back in the ‘90’s when one of these mags experimented with a “senior” version. Though I thought those older in-shape guys were hot daddies and didn’t feel as intimidated as I did looking at the youngens doing their work-outs, I was apparently in a minority and the experiment went over like a pair of dumbbells being lifted by a nerd. Either the old guys wanted to be inspired by young flesh or they thought they were already perfect specimens (sure), and didn’t need a magazine to tell them how to become one.

But that’s not why I find these mags hypocritical.

Nor do I find it anything more than laughable that every fucken cover of every fucken issue with or without a muscled celeb has an obligatory blurb about “Amazing Abs in Just 15 Minutes a Day” or “Killer Six Pack in Just 6 Weeks.” Sure, so how come I starve myself, do a couple of thousand reps on the ab machines every time I hit the gym, and clock in another 500 crunches at home on off days on my Bow Flex and still only have a three and a half pack to show for my efforts.

But that’s not why I find these mags bullshit either.

No, my pet beef with these glossy testaments to the male animal is the fact that their publishers and writers again must realize a significant portion of their readers are gay or bi and yet show absolutely no acknowledgment of that fact. Sure, I understand they don’t want to offend their predominantly heterosexual readership, and I don’t expect for them to run features on the best gay gyms in America.

But why the fuck is every article about love making and good down and dirty sex centered around pleasing the female. When the hell are they going to run some articles on ways guys should teach their gals how to push their buttons? And, reading between the lines, how to give a guy pleasure – your guy?

After all, if a guy closed his eyes, a hole is a hole, but there’s only one creature with a tool to set your clit on fire and that’s a M-A-N. And if their super hetero writers don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, I’ll be happy to introduce them to a bunch of guys who do or, if they’re cute, give them a  trial demonstration personally.