R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 27

What Happened to Lust?

What Happened To Lust?

There used to be lust in this life where the chase and the anticipation was half the cum.

The luring grins and gropes in the bar or the sex clubs where your respective imaginations ran wild of what the two of you were about to do next to each other. Since AIDS reared its ugly head and made many guys understandably gun shy, and the web and apps replaced eye-to-eye cruising and flesh-to-flesh sex, fucking around has become more like work than play where you’re ready to shove a time card in the guy’s ass instead of your dick, like you were punching in on a job rather than abandoning yourself to a world of sweat, spit and sperm.

Why? Because lust by its nature is of the moment, spontaneous, earthy, hormonal, and whenever something comes in the way of that, then that initial twitch in the dick is muffled, compromised, sidetracked and the fun factor goes out the window and often with it a hard-on you shouldn’t have to think about.

Walk into the typical guy bar on a Saturday night. (You better soon, because they’re fast disappearing.) Yea, there’s a lot of hot sweaty men and a lot of nasty conversation, but how many people are pairing off and hitting the mattress?  We wait all week to hit the bar, then don’t look at or talk to any one except the same buds we talked to the week before, even stand in the same spot. Or we’re  staring at our i-phones GPSing or texting someone on Scruff. How many of those clandestine connections we envy in the shadows, guys kissing or groping one another’s asses or crotches, are pure theater, as if the guys were saying to one another, “we’re in a gay bar, we’re supposed to be doing this,” or “let’s put on a show so people think we’re hot,” rather than, “yea, man, I fucken want you!” Fifteen minutes later, those two guys who you thought were going to do it right there on the bar have separated and are strutting the circuit all over again. (If they had been serious they would have been out of the bar quicker than you can order a Bud.)

Or take underwear night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar. You got some luscious fucken guys walking around practically naked and what are the guys on either side of Mr. Perfect Body doing? Fixating on his new bulge undies courtesy of Addicted? Hell no – they’re looking down at their phones! (Maybe they’re discreetly snapping a pic of that bulge with their phone to j-o over later.)

At times, the lack of animal magnetism I’ve seen in the bars when you strip away the chit chatters and couples makes you realize the Era of Cruising is just about over. Those who may be there solo often leave the way they came – alone. Are they waiting for the Impossible Wet Dream? Afraid of rejection? In this life, you need the ego of an elastic band – nothing ventured, nothing gained. But whatever it is, the energy level, the edge is often missing, and you end up by 1 a.m., desperate to do it with anything that moves just to get your rocks off and out of there.

The hook-up sites, now mostly phone apps, is even worse. You want him, you’re convinced he wants you, you’re getting all edged up just setting up the day and time, getting hard in the shower the day of, and then either he doesn’t show, doesn’t text or call you back, or comes up with one lame excuse after another, until the lust has evaporated and with it whatever animal magnetism attracted you to him or him to you. Instead of making it easier to connect, the web has actually given assholes the perfect medium to hide behind.

Again, as I’ve said before, is it because Cyberspace has put it all out there – the skin and the sex – that we’ve become jaded and even a little bored by it all? Or are there too many of us who are social misfits that those of us who have had the misfortune of encountering them just can’t take being burned again? The result: anticipation is replaced by trepidation.

One thing I know for sure: this loss of lust in gay life has made many of us, even young guys, impotent. When you have to take a Viagra, or watch porn, or force your mind into some imaginary brothel while a hot guy is lying right next to you, all just to get and keep it hard, what’s the point?

 

Excess Baggage

Excess Baggage

A month or so back l gloated about my tribe of fuck buddies. But just like the celeb who’s squeaky clean until it comes out he’s a child beater (hint, hint) or just about everyone else, including myself, a person who stayed in an unsatisfying, psychologically abusive relationship way too long, my “Daddy loves” all come with their own excess baggage.

T, the most stable of the group with a good job and his own house, has Catholic guilt big time. Like some guys who have to get drunk to have man-to-man sex, T has to get high before he turns into a sexual animal or play as l label him my “private leatherman.”

J, the 53 year old who looks 30 and has the emotional maturity of a 13 year old, constantly sends me long winded texts on how l’ve changed his life or how he plans to change his. He never filled me in what did he did with himself from age 20 to 50, but l’m beginning to wonder if he was institutionalized or literally in the gutter and now lives with his str8 older brother who has five kids by two ex-wives and fucks a still married girlfriend because J is either slow or psychotic. The last time l saw him l told him he talked too much about bettering his life. “Start walking the talk.”

M, my humpy trust fund baby has no interest in what his fluctuating payout is invested in, even though he doesn’t want to work and plans to rely on that money to live on till his millionaire parents die which may not happen for another fifteen years, and who may leave their estate in the hands of his enterprising brother who doesn’t like him. He has admitted to a host of mental issues for which he takes psychotropic drugs. But l saw them all played out in vivid Technicolor when he spent the night at my place, hallucinating the entire night while he slept. I would have tried to calm him rather than retreat to my other bedroom with my doggies, but I also knew I was totally out of my depth.

About the only fuck buddy without excess baggage is E. who works hard and views a night in the hay with Ray as stress relief. No hang-ups, no agendas, no illusions, no skeletons in the closet. Just slam, bam, thank you ma’am.

Refreshing ain’t it?

But does that mean I love any of my boys less? Hell no! Their foibles, like my own, are what make them more real, more needing and, for me, phenomenally more sexy.

 

 

 

 

It’s 2047…

The Top Worse Fag Habits Once You Hit The Bedroom

The Top Worse Fag Habits Once You Hit The Bedroom

He keeps calling you Steve, but your name is Jim.

He lights up a cig (not a joint that could be enjoyable) while you attempt to suck his cock. Careful with the ashes, buddy. Or worse, keeps checking his smartphone or watching porn on his phone while you suck his cock. (If you need porn, you don’t need me.)

He looks like he should be lubing car engines but rambles on about how disastrous Beyonnce’s hairdo was on some awards show.

He starts talking about his sick dog or sick mother or last DUI and doesn’t stop while you continue to attempt to suck his cock.

He just talks too much, period. “I like my nips pulled on too, ever since I was 12 and my friend Billy wanted to see if he could hang me from his old lady’s clothesline with some clothes pins. And then …” More than you wanna know about his soiled sexual past.

He said he had a 8 inch tool but even hard, it looks like he started measuring from the crack of his ass. Or measured in centimeters, not inches.

His hard-on is more hard-off and denies he’s partied. (Dicks don’t lie.)

Just as you’re getting into it, really into it in one position (standing, sitting, on his stomach, on his back, upside down), he decides he wants to suddenly change like he’s some moving target at the carnival.

He says he’s a bottom and keeps aiming his dick at your butt hole. And doesn’t understand or has selective hearing when you say no in English and Croatian.

He says he’s a bottom but he’s so tight a stick of dynamite wouldn’t get in.

He says he’s a bottom but isn’t up to getting fucked tonight.

He says he loves a long, slow fuck – just the way you like it – and cums in three minutes after you stick your man meat in him, then just lays there – three feet from you – rattling on about his grocery list while you try to get off.

He says he loves a long, slow fuck – just the way you like it – and you fuck him slow and deep for almost an hour. Then he cums and just lays there – three feet from you – rattling on about his grocery list while you try to get off.

He says he loves sucking cock but barely touches yours.

He’s a top and you’re a top, but agrees two tops can still have fun which for him is you worshiping his not-so-big dick for a hour til he pops.

He loves to get rimmed but hasn’t cleaned up which you find out AFTER you stick your tongue in his crack.

He loves to rim and is pissed you cleaned up.

Wonder why cruising xtube sounds more exciting?

Another lnstallment of My Advice Column, Go Ask Daddy

Another lnstallment of My Advice Column, Go Ask Daddy

Buddy: I met Jerry about a year ago and thought he was the one. And he said he felt the same way about me. So we moved in together. But while he continues to have the hots for me, l no longer dig him as much as l once did. I was honest enough to tell him that and he seemed to take it okay, but since our lease won’t be up for another three months, we agreed to continue to co-habitate as roommates. The problem is he still wants me and doesn’t take no for an answer even when l lock him out of the bedroom forcing him to sleep on the couch. I don’t have enough money to pay him my share on the rest of the lease, just get out now, and get my own place. What should l do?

Daddy: First we’re you one of those jerky couples who thought great sex was all you needed to make a relationship work? Now you’re both in a pickle, you for still being around to cocktease him, him for not taking no for an answer.

My advice? Work out some payment arrangement to satisfy your part of the rest of the three months’ rent ( maybe you can sell off some of your Star Wars memorabilia), and either go back living with mommy and daddy or sleeping on a friend’s couch until you can afford a cheap place of your own or a roommate for real. One expedient solution would be to rent a bedroom in someone else’s house and make sure you choose a landlady and not some dirty old man, though that might put a cramp on your sex life for a while. And next time think with your head not your dick before you enter into any long term financial arrangement with another guy. If you both think you’re one another’s soul mates, keep your own abodes – even if it means living with parents who drive you crazy – and spend weekends or perhaps vacation time to co-habitate at one or the other’s place to see if you can, well, stand one another 24/7. And that you truly share common interests, not just like the same brand of lube.

The Top Worse Fag Habits Before You Even Get To The Bedroom

The Top Worse Fag Habits Before You Even Get to the Bedroom

Here are my all-time top worse fag bad habits, even before you get his jeans off:

Smoking. Gay guys are notorious chain smokers. According to a University of Colorado Cancer Center study, gay men are twice as likely to smoke as their str8 counterparts, and far less likely to quit. Maybe it’s a penis substitution thing, ya think? For what cigs are costing today, you might as well buy some meth and get a real high. And as for those rough and tough, bearded, beer-bellied cigar smokers that usually light a stogie up in the most confined part of a bar, show me what you got between your legs Mister – then I’ll tell you if you’re a Real Man.

Smelling like you just had a smoke. Ever kiss someone in a bar as part of your courtship and taste Marlboro on his tongue? Worse is coming home and smelling like your clothes were nicotine addicts too. Imagine what you’re breathing in. Unfortunately down here in anything-goes Florida, unless a bar sells food, you can smoke anywhere you damn well please, I think a tip of the hat to the tourists.

Drugs, as in “do you party?” No money for gas, no money for rent, no money for electricity, no money to buy those dentures once your teeth rot out, but what the fuck, let’s get high! And of course they want you to supply the candy.

Alcohol, for what those 4-for-1 drink specials if you show up in a jockstrap at least twenty years old were made for. These are the same guys, BTW, who, totally plastered, stagger out of the bar and attempt to cross the street and/or drive home. (Even though a bartender told me they and the bar are responsible if he gets into trouble.) Surprisingly, though, the incidence of alcohol and drug addiction is no higher among gays than it is among str8s. But there are a hell of a lot of gay boys with their licenses permanently revoked because of endless DUI’s who clutter our roads with bikes.

You’re out with a buddy and your friend either runs into somebody he knows and you don’t, or is attempting to make the guy, and your friend doesn’t even briefly introduce you as they exchange sweet nothings, totally ignoring you as you stand there like you were the wallpaper.

Criticizing every imperfection in every guy you see on the beach or in a bar without acknowledging your own.

Talking nonstop about only one thing – yourself – and when someone attempts to interject a tidbit of their own like “my mother and brother committed double suicide yesterday,” you respond, “oh yea, too bad,” and continue to talk about the hunk you bopped last night.

Smartphonitis. Guys used to grab their crotches to looking enticing – now they’re grabbing their smart phones which are practically crazy-glued to their wrists while prospective, cruising bedmates swirl around them total unnoticed.

Not moving your bubble butt when somebody’s trying to get around you in a bar because you’ve just started a conversation with the love of your life – or the next 15 minutes.

Lying about your HIV status, rather than be honest and let the chips fall where they may. This just isn’t wrong – it’s criminal, especially since barebacking is coming back into fashion like tight, tight jeans.

Friday: my hit parade of the worse fag habits once you and he are naked in bed.

 

Some of the Stupidest Stuff l’ve Heard a Trick Say To Me

Some of the Stupidest  Stuff l’ve Heard a Trick Say To Me

After rimming my furry butt for twenty minutes, he asks,”Which bottled water is mine?”

After eating my dirty hole (hey, it was his request, not mine), he wants me to fuck him. “You’re gonna wear a condom, right? l only practice safe sex.”

After fucking him a half hour raw, l’m ready to shoot. He nods then says, “Just don’t cum in my mouth.”

After puffing away all night stuff you don’t wanna know is in it in between sucking my cock: “l think that new lub you bought is making me sick. Is it made to be ingested?”

He’s facing me, his furry legs are up on my shoulders and my raw, rigid daddy dick (hey, l should use that phrase in one of my books) is about ready to penetrate his hole: “You’re negative right?”

After driving thirty miles from Miami to have sex with me ( the pics on my profiles are like dog shit on a sidewalk, while his one pic was taken from the other side of a Walmart parking lot, but hey, when you’re horny, you’re horny), l open the door, the guy looks at least ten years older than his pic, but it’s the twirp who says to me: “l don’t think it’s gonna work out.”

You’re the one who just drove 30 miles.

Just don’t ask me for gas money.

Peter Pans and Tinker Bells

Peter Pans and Tinker Bells

When I was teaching college for awhile before I totally hung it up, I was amazed that almost two thirds of my students and the ones with the most smarts are women. I mean, Christ, where are the men? Are they all planning to be web designers, rock stars, or live off a woman’s six figure corporate lawyer’s salary? Again, I talk in generalities, but my conviction is that the ladies are far more mature than the guys and that a good percentage of the American male population, straight and gay, still live in a world of adolescent exuberance. Straight guys who fall in this category I like to call Peter Pans: out with boys, into football and playing jock, forgetting they’re 45 or 55, beer bellied, and up to their asses in debt.

Now the gay equivalent I label Tinker Bells. Gay guys who partied through their 20’s and 30’s with little in the way of career aspirations or investments and, now at the Just for Men time of their lives, have no notion or, worse, haven’t even thought about who’s going to take care of them when the Viagra doesn’t work anymore and their asses are sagging. Oh, we’ve all run into them, the great-in-the-sack, still hot at forty something or fifty something guy who lives in “A Rented Room” and has had a string of Christmas help, minimum wage, temp jobs. The same guy who pissed the money away as fast as it came in, searching for that next great lay in Amsterdam, Rio or Montreal, or following the moveable feasts of Leatherfests and Bearfests and White, Black and Blue parties. Social Security quarters? Pensions? 401K’s? Who’s running for President again?

Now, the crème de la crème of the Tinker Bells are the ones we all see on any gay beach like Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay oceanfront sandbox, the buffed thirty year olds with the matinée looks paired off on the blanket with some old man, I don’t mean older, I mean a member of the Denture Cream Generation. What I’m sure they know but don’t want to face up to is the reality that the Old Man is the one really in charge and that they are as expendable as a used condom on the floor of a sex club. Unless, of course, they got a signed contract they’ll be “taken care of” when the old man kicks the bucket. Like the balding fifty something guy on the beach who some buddies introduced me to who hadn’t worked for the last thirteen years, taking care of some old geezer who left him his condo and a trust fund for life. The poor thing was moaning that he would still have to work somewhere if he didn’t want to pay for his own health insurance.

So why should I give a shit about the Tinker Bells? None of my fucking business, right? I beg to differ. First, somebody’s gonna have to take care of all these broke Tinker Bells – and Peter Pans for that matter – hit the big 6-0. And that somebody is us who still pay taxes, even when we’re retired.

The more immediate reality is we’re forced to deal with them every time we venture into our respective gay worlds. They’re the waiters at the gay restaurants, the help behind the sex club or bath house entrance windows, the clerks at the gay shops.

You’re dropping $45 for a T-shirt to cater to your petty ego that you know was made in Vietnam for a quarter, and there’s a Tinker Bell, having a-diarrhea-of-the-mouth conversation on his smartphone while you’re trying to check out. Suddenly that frumpy look comes over his face, unless you’re cute of course.

You’ve disturbed him.

It’s at that moment that I’d like to say three things to the fucker AFTER he’s taken the security lock off the rag I’m buying: (a) “I don’t have to spend my money here,” (b) “Don’t take it out on me that at 42 you’re still working at a minimum wage job,” and lastly, (c) “When you run my Visa card through with the twenty thousand dollar credit line, I want a smile on your face and a ‘thank you, sir’ from your mouth.”

Stalkers

Stalkers

You don’t have to be God’s Gift to Gaydom to have someone like you – really like you – I mean REALLY like you – even if you don’t like him. You only gotta be what your stalker thinks God’s Gift to Gaydom should be like. And for him, that’s  you. Only you.

Sex stalkers can be just a plain pain in the ass or they can be down right dangerous. The problem is not being able to tell when A may morph into B.

My dime store analysis is that stalkers are pretty insecure individuals, insecure about their own potentials and limitations, and grossly immature when it comes to dealing with people. But you can also have the power freaks who think they’re so great how could anyone, especially their idol, refuse them. Power freaks can’t understand when no means no, not yes or, well, O.K., maybe.

Hell, we’ve all had our crushes on guys and couldn’t let go, but sooner or later we learn the number one lesson when it comes to relationships, straight or gay. If somebody doesn’t want you, he don’t want you. Chances are all the effort in the world isn’t going to change his mind. Or if he has a weak moment and finally succumb to your advances, one of two things happens: you either realize he’s a mere mortal who farts between fucks, or you get burnt in the end because in the end, even if he gets into some kind of fucked up relationship with you, he can’t keep up the charade.

The harmless variety of stalker includes those guys who hit you again and again and again on the web or in a bar or on the beach who when you show no response fade back into the woodwork only to crop up again two weeks or two months later as if they had dementia. Even after you tell them you’re looking for your clone and they ain’t it.

But the ones that scare me are the guys who you very nicely and very diplomatically tell ten ways to Sunday that you’re not interested but instead of telling you to go fuck yourself and move on, they sell you a two page fantasy script of what you’re going to do to them in bed.

The biggest mistake guys can do is either try to be nice and unintentionally lead the guy on that there’s still a glimmer of hope, or tell the guy to stand in the middle lane of the closest four lane highway and wait for a Mac truck to hit him. Either way, you’re showing feelings toward him, even if they’re negative.

No, my advice is simply ignore. If they e you, don’t response. If they voice mail or text you, delete. If they harangue you on the web, block them. And if they wait for you in the ten items or less aisle at the supermarket, give ’em a quick, “hey,” and move on like you had to take a hot shit.

The best thing you can do is to do nothing at all.

That is unless he publicly manhandles you as happened to me recently with a guy who knew from the gym and driven by lust, desperation or a couple of beers literally accosted me a few weekends ago at Lauderdale’s leather bar, the Ramrod. Sticking his hand down my jeans, he kept telling me how much he wanted me as I repeatedly told him he wasn’t my type, smiled politely and moved away, trying not to  make a scene. Making a scene maybe is what I should have done, but that could have led to some mayhem that would have led to us both being eighty sixed from the bar or worst some fist fight confrontation in the parking lot.

But I’ll tell you one thing: the next time I see him in the gym and he ignores me out of embarrassment or anger, I’m going to walk up to him and tell him to fuck off – with a smile on my face of course.

 

The Fort Lauderdale Airport Debacle

The Fort Lauderdale Airport Debacle

First, I very much appreciate those of you concerned about my personal welfare as a South Florida resident but I’m still up in Pennsylvania with by ex, far from the madness. I’ll be returning to Lauderdale the end of next week.

Personally witnessing 9/11 was one of the one hundred and one reasons why l left NYC for Fort Lauderdale in 2002. After all, l reasoned, what are they gonna do, blow up the beach?

Then came Pulse.

And now the Fort Lauderdale/Hollywood Airport shootings at the height of Season when millions of people flock to eighty degree South Florida to escape the cold that seems to be everywhere else. Especially where I am right now in NE PA where it’s 22 degrees.

So besides being the warmest place in the continental U.S. right now, Florida has achieved two other dubious firsts: site of the largest mass killings in our history which affected largely our people; and site of the first mass killing at a domestic airport in this country.

Authorities need to further tighten up transport of personal weapons on planes, period. The Lauderdale shooter had the gun and apparently ammunition in his checked luggage, and when he retrieved it following his flight on Air Canada, he simply opened his luggage while he was still in baggage claim, pulled out his gun and ammo, went to the john to load it and came out firing. Why was he able to shoot nine people, killing five at point gun range before the security in the area reacted?

Our entire current airport security is a PR sham, destined to make us feel safe like the Nazi’s did when they told their concentration camp arrivals that they were just going in to take a shower.

First anyone entering any airport terminal, whether to meet their party in baggage claim, check in for a flight or have a cafe latte at the terminal’s Starbucks MUST go through a security check at their point of entry. That means moving the entire Security check operation to the front of each terminal. And that includes all employees too.

Secondly, pick-ups should no longer be permitted to hang loose curbside, unless they have a special federally issued handicapped waiver which would involve those individuals undergoing a background check. Parties would be required to meet their pickups in some personal waiting areas within the parking garages. At least no one could wreak havoc in a terminal. The airport would maintain special assistants for the wheelchair bound.

Frankly, after Pulse, l expected Security at the bars in Wilton Manors, Lauderdale’s gay ghetto and playground for millions of tourists and locals, stepped up but nothing changed. Sadly we all must face up to the fact that any venue where large numbers of people may congregate, be it an airport, a supermarket, a big box store, a mall, school, college campus, office building, or an auditorium size bar or dance club will need to implement serious security measures at their points of entry including metal detectors.

Of course, such measures will only add to the cost of doing business and may be the last nail in the coffin for the malls and big box stores which are already suffering punishing competition against online. Macy’s, Kohl’s, Sears and many others have already announced that hundreds of their stores would be closing in 2017, wiping out thousands of jobs while online sales for the past holiday season rose seventeen percent from last year.

When the fuck are we going to wake up that the nightmare ain’t no HD 3D big screen digital fantasy?

Homophobic Terrorist Off The Hook Because of Facebook? Maybe.

Homophobic Terrorist Off The Hook Because of Facebook? Maybe.

You may recall that just before last year’s Labor Day weekend, a homophobic scumbag known in central and south Florida circles named Craig Jungwirth posted a series of menacing messages on Facebook, like “if you losers thought the Pulse nightclub shooting was bad, wait till you see what l’m planning for Labor Day.” In one of his other messages he revealed the locale for his supposed attack: the bars of Wilton Manors, South Florida’s gay ghetto and a vacation destination for millions of both domestic and international tourists annually. And this was just one of a number of evil acts this unhinged guy committed on other gays.

Okay, they caught the jerk, living with his mommy, and threw him in jail to await trial on hate crimes or worse. But earlier this week he was freed because the judge claimed the case made by the prosecutors was “weak,” despite the fact the threats were sent from his mommy’s laptop. It turns out Jungwirth maintained FIFTY NINE profiles on Facebook and investigators were unable to identify which profile he made the threats on.

He remains in custody for two other petty,unrelated crimes but it looks like he’s been cleared of the charge that would have kept him behind bars for a long time.

Should we blame Facebook for this mess? I mean, why should anyone be allowed FIFTY NINE profiles? I was frozen out by Facebook once for 30 days because the shadow of my penis was supposedly showing through my shorts in a pic I posted. To get back on I had to take a pic of my driver’s license and e it to them to show I was me. And the prosecutors and FB who they turned to for assistance couldn’t figure out which profiles were Jungwirth’s?

Sloppy! Or maybe nobody gives a shit.

Will the gay community suffer the same fate as mainstream society where some nut who perpetrated a heinous act was later found to have been monitored, then dropped by authorities? In fact, the FBI had Omar Mateen under investigation for nearly a year, then stopped. Will Pulse be only the beginning of our own terrorist streak?

Will the bigots figuring they got a license to “bigot” now that their man is in the White House up their acts against us?

What do you think?

Mariah Give It a Break!

This almost isn’t even worth a footnote.

The pop media has been buzzing all week about Mariah Carey’s audio malfunction on New Year’s Eve. It’s obvious she’s pumping it for every ounce of publicity she can get out of it. With a wildcard President taking office in two weeks, millions of Syrian refugees flooding Europe, and acts of terrorism becoming as common as catching a cold at work, is the plight of some diva who was lip-syncing her own shit anyway all we’ve got to talk about?

Who gives a fuck?