R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 30

Why I Hate The Holidays

Why I Hate The Holidays

Don’t you love all that warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides this time of year? You know, the stereotypical family around the table (with a few blacks or Asians or even gay marrieds  – or maybe a transgendered aunt, huh? – to be politically correct), carving the turkey or ham or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, the latest iphone, xbox, or luxury car.

Why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers at least me is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that. Sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on scotch or cheap wine or brandy. For many years, my sister and I were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas.

I did my master’s degree at the University of California in L.A. and was perplexed how, around the holidays, all the North Eastern traditions, not Latin American since we were so close to the border immersed in balmy weather, dominated the season. I felt the same way when I came down to South Florida to find Christmas trees under tents so they wouldn’t dry up under the 80 degree sun. But now I realize why – people want to return to the Christamases of their youths and for so many of us the East Coast or Snowbelt was home.

But after some moments of bittersweet nostalgia, the other, less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind, and suddenly my mythical holidays vanish. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. And every time we’d go to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mom’s slightly bent younger sister would jokingly coax grandma’s two boxers to “sic ‘em, sic ‘em!” Meaning us.

Worse, living with my psychiatrically unstable mother, gone now a full decade, who usually hosted the holiday family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. We’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father making nice with everyone, when Mom’s sister would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo! I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet.

Well, everyone’s dead and buried, and my sister’s back in New York with her hubby, grown kids and grandkids, and George and I have split so he won’t be down for the holidays either. Instead he’ll be all warm and cozy up at our home in PA that I still pay half the mortgage on. (Yes, he got the better end of the deal.) And he always has his adult nephew just across the border in Upstate New York who most likely will invite him over.

Me? I might go out with a few friends but if that doesn’t work out, I’ll be content to have my Marie Callender turkey dinner on my patio.

And so will my dogs.

Getting Off The Assembly Editing Way

Getting Off The Assembly Editing Way

It’s late at night and you know you should have been asleep an hour ago, or it’s early on a Saturday morning, like 5 or 6, and you want to sleep in late. But you have this compulsive, obsessive urge, no, absolute, unadulterated need to get off.

Maybe it’s the lingering tension of the day you need to release, maybe it was that cute guy ahead of you in line this morning at Starbucks, or Alex O’Loughlin in the last segment of “Hawaii-5-0” rising from his bed shirtless. Maybe it’s the way you got turned on by yourself walking pass your bedroom mirror naked, or just touching your body in bed for no reason. All you know, Mr. Peter is alive and well – very alive – and he won’t take no or later for an answer.

You’re too lazy to whip out some porn or boot up your laptop or tablet and pull up your Fave Five video clips on x-tube.com. So what do you do? You turn to your body’s biggest sexual organ, your brain, and start running those virtual video clips inside your head. While they may be of that real hot fucker you had last week, or last night, you know the one that keeps your dick twitching while your boring str8 co-workers babble on about their kids’ soccer match in the lunchroom, more likely you create a fantasy montage in your mind of the best of the best guys you’ve had or would like to have. After all, does when or who really matter?

The feel of Greg’s grizzly beard against yours, or the hairs on Hap’s chest through your fingers, petting Nelson’s furry belly or Tim’s muscular furry back or licking Dennis’ great fuzzy beefy butt. Tasting that nice cut seven incher with the mushroom head Bob waved in front of you on your last visit to his place by the beach, or maybe that hot no-name dick that stared at you impatiently from some gloryhole. Or Brice’s low hangers you like to grab from behind with his muscular legs spread and his butt in your face. You sticking your tongue up Holt’s hairy hole or what you think that hairy hole of your cutie at Starbucks smells like, before you slide in your tool and watch it go in and out as the hairs around that magical man hole envelopes it. Or watching Phil rub his beard against the shaft of your dick before he swallows it ….

There you go. Grab that dirty gym sock off the floor, clean yourself up and it’s –

Nighty night.

 

Being A Daddy: Variations on a Theme, Part II

Being A Daddy: Variations on a Theme, Part II

Like I mentioned on Monday, I’m in the envious place of currently juggling five daddy lovers. I told you about Jamie and Matt.

Then there’s Dennis.

Dennis, a handsome blue eyed  lrish native, 42, just likes hairy older guys and fell for this aging faggot who he likes to call uncle (hey whatever works, right?) instantly, right down to my “cute”nose. A fierce bicyclist with furry legs of steel and a lightly furry swimmers build, “nephew” Dennis, like Trust Fund Matt, can carry on an intelligent conversation and has taught me a lot about prevailing European politics and the European Union that Ireland wants to stay a part of despite Britain’s xenophobic-motivated decision to pull out. We’re also fellow creative souls, I the blogger and fiction writer, he the music writer, who do our thing not for money but for the satisfaction it gives us.

As l suspected early in the game and Dennis confessed to me after our third romp, he was brought over by an older American he met ten years ago at the Gay Olympics in Chicago. They no longer have sex – the guy’s on meds  which are a definite erection killer and frankly is beginning to like ‘ em younger. Me? Both Matt and Dennis are old enough to be my sons, and as they say vice is nice but incest is best. They also sort of share something else: Dennis, who plans to become a permanent U.S. resident come the new year, is actually quite financially comfortable for a guy his age, with a significant amount of money in the bank, a pension once he reaches 55,  and even property back in Dublin which he rents. The difference is Matt fell into it and doesn’t how to handle it; Dennis worked for it and knows exactly what to do.

Forty eight year old Eddie lives in Miami but works in Lauderdale as an lT programmer. With Eddie, things are a lot simpler, no grandiose conversations or waxing and waning about his life. He just likes Daddy Ray’s daddy dick up his very, very hairy man hole, a request to which Daddy Ray is more than happy to comply.

And guess who’s back in my life? Ted, yes Ted of my “Heeding the Red Flags” series ( https://str8gayconfessions.com/2016/10/17/heeding-the-red-flags/ ), who after two years of playing my fuck buddy left in a huff  and called me an arrogant asshole when l told him the candy train was over, and l’m not talking about M and M’s.

A month later who contacted me on Scruff but Ted. “How are you doing?” he texted in his rounded metrosexual vowels. Me? I would have written in my usual New Yorkese: “So, how ya doin’ buddy?” Again being a no bullshit guy and knowing what he was leading up to, l just spit it out: “So do you want to play again?” “I’d love to but are you sure?” he replied five seconds later. My response? “Let’s rewind the videotape and start fresh.” A day later he was back in my bedroom as if nothing had happened, and this time we got it on without the dubious benefit of Lady T.

Now you know why some of us describe Lauderdale as Teflon Town?

A few weeks ago, another handsome hairy, bearded guy, in leather chaps and a leather shirt, who looked vaguely familiar hit me up on Scruff.  “Remember me?” he messaged.( https://str8gayconfessions.com/2012/05/07/this-dad-has-two-sons-2/) I looked at where he was at – Chicago – and then it all came back to me. “You’re half Egyptian, half Italian, right?” (A fucken dynamite combination.) “Yea, we played at the gay guesthouse you were staying at in Halstead.” “You’re the one who lost his dad at 39 to steroids?” I messaged. His lover had been a bodybuilder who went overboard on the chems to bulk up and fucked his liver. “38,” he corrected me, ” but like l told you then if l was going to have another dad, that guy would be you.” He likes his dads short, he’s 5’11,  and unlike so many of the flakes l meet down here who have shit,  Jack  who will be turning 40 in January, has a good job as a bank officer, built his own home in the sticks and is a regular responsible guy who would make any dad proud.

We chatted a bit more and l invited him to spend Thanksgiving weekend with me. The annual Leather Ball is scheduled for that weekend and Jack dug the idea of us going as dad and son.

But even if nothing comes of this little fantasy, it’s still nice to know that my sons – past and present – remember their Dad.

Or to paraphrase Sally Field when she accepted her Oscar, they like me, they really like me.

At least this week.

 

Will Facebook Be Blamed For Allowing a Possible Criminal To Go Free?

Will Facebook Be Blamed For Allowing a Possible Criminal To Go Free?

Just before the big Labor Day weekend, Craig Jungwirth, a scumbag known in central and south Florida circles for stalking gay men and who has several restraining orders against him, allegedly 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.

Jungwirth was arrested, incarcerated and was charged with the federal crime of making threats on line. The source of the messages was traced to a pc in his mother’s home in Orlando where Jungwirth, essentially broke, was living at the time.

But here’s the kicker: Jungwirth has FIFTH NINE Facebook profiles and the federal prosecutors have yet to identify which, if any, of these profiles were used to make the threats, which could lead to Jungwirth being released on bond or even exonerated of the charges. His defense is attempting to make the case that with Wi-Fi accessible in many public places, anyone could have made these threats by hacking Jungwirth’s connections. The prosecutors are currently obtaining search warrants to check FB further.

Regardless whether Jungwirth is guilty or innocent, why does anyone have or need FIFTY NINE profiles? Shouldn’t FB limit that perhaps to 5, and have posters provide their SS number so there is a way to police and link any postings?

Meanwhile, the FB Convent Nuns worry about male genitals showing through clothing, and will suspend individuals who post such pixs. I was one of them.

Give me a break!!

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Being A Daddy: Variations on a Theme, Part I

Being A Daddy: Variations on a Theme, Part I

A few weeks ago all three of my regular fuck buddies decided to take a hike, and for a while there l felt like box office poison on the hook-up sites and apps. (“Box office poison” was a term Hollywood pundits dreamed up back in the 1930’s to describe stars whose movies were no longer profitable for their studios.)

Then, almost overnight, l had a slew of guys chasing me, and currently l’m juggling five daddy lovers. Hell, it’s actually becoming so bewildering l think l’ll need a scheduling app.  I know, l know, right now you’re saying everybody should have such problems, you lucky fuck.

I wouldn’t say l’m lucky, just blessed.

There’s Jamie, who’s 53 but looks 30, scrawny, moderately hairy with a mouth that doesn’t quit. (Ten hours down on my crotch may break the Guinness Book of Records on cocksucking.) His stamina aside, l’m most proud of how l’ve helped him lift his self-esteem out of the sewer. Apparently he was in the habit of pleasing everyone but himself but he’s a cute guy with a compact body and some nice equipment and l not only told him so but showed him so. “Nobody ever sucked my cock, period, let alone the way you do.” He replied. Hey, l hold the 1999 Mid Atlantic States’ Cocksucker of the Year Award. He’s also not taking any more shit from so-called friends who critique him. Now when they bug him he’s beginning to utter my two most favorite words in the English language, maybe because they’re simple and direct: “Fuck off.” I told Jamie when someone brings too much negativity into your life (negativity – a very overused word in the seventies and eighties) and they ain’t your boss or your sugar daddy or your momma whose basement you’re still living in because you’re broke, drop ’em.

He told me about a buddy he hadn’t seen in a while who instead of asking Jamie how he was doing went into his litany about wanting to commit suicide. Listen, people truly serious about doing themselves in just do it. The ones who keep talking about it are looking for attention. The guy refuses to take his psychotropic drugs or re-enter counseling so at a certain point you have to cut ’em off. Which is exactly what Jamie did.  That’s my boy!

Then there’s 47 year old Matt, a bearish, bearded, even furrier than me hunk of man who confessed he had eyed me from afar for years. Finally the stars were in alignment and we connected. The chemistry was instant and l discovered quickly not only was he physically stimulating – he’s also doubled degree and super smart, so that in between doing the nasty we actually had serious conversations about politics, economics and the world-at-large. Hell, l think he’s been the only guy in my checkered gay career who l described as Machiavellian to his face as he went down on me and knew what the hell l was talking about.

When a guy one time at a bar in Tampa totally not for me finally asked me indigently what l was looking for, l answered simply: “My clone. If l had a twin brother, we’d never leave the bedroom.” Well Matt may be a bit taller than me – Christ who isn’t as l continue to shrink – but he’s been the closest guy to my ideal man whom l’ve run across in a long time. And since we’re both “Daddies” it was fun to compare notes on our respective boys until we realized no one quite satisfied us as we did one another. Strange, ain’t it?

Now Matt comes from a wealthy black Irish family that traces its roots to the days of George Washington – real estate was and continues to be their game – and the lucky fuck gets a payout every month from a family trust fund, so he doesn’t have to work. In fact he was so spoiled and naive when he moved out of his family’s mansion in Boston to attend Parsons School of Design in New York, one of the most prestigious schools of its kind in the country, he just thought electricity was free. That is until Con Ed knocked on the door of his Manhattan apartment and threatened to shut him down for non-payment

I mention all this since despite the trust fund and despite the fact he now lives in Florida where the cost of living is a lot lower, he’s perpetually broke. So Fellow Dad Ray is helping him to budget. After all, l didn’t retire at 55 because l knew nothing about money.

Friday: Dennis, Eddie and a Surprise…

 

Reactions To The Election in My Shitty Little World

Reactions To The Election in My Shitty Little World

From my retro hippie 55 year old neighbor the morning after the election:  “I’m literally crying.” She was planning to make mourning armbands this past weekend and asked me what color I wanted. I told her black of course.

From my sister and brother-in-law who live on Long Island and are staunch Republicans when I asked them if they had sex all night to celebrate their man’s victory: “No, but we opened that 3 for 10 bucks bottle of wine we bought at Walmart that we had been saving for a special occasion.”

From one of my favorite gym buddies who is perpetually high since he grows grass in his backyard Wednesday morning at Crunch: “Don’t talk to me about the election, can’t you see I wearing three mourning veils?”

From George, my ex, living up in PA at a home I still pay half the mortgage on, and who never voted in all the years I’ve known him including this election, “That’s my man.” Wonder why we split?

To one of my fuck buddies who kept texting me Friday night about the political situation until he finally asked, “So what are you doing?” My response: “About fucken time you asked me. Now get that hot butt of yours in your truck and get over here.” Twenty minutes later he was in my bedroom  and we grieved Hil’s loss by him wearing a new harness I had just ordered from Fort Troff, the one where all your junk hangs out of a cock ring that hooks to the harness. Very, very, very hot.

And finally  from one of my adorable meth head buddies Saturday night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar:

“What election?”

My Gay Predictions for 2017 in a Trump America

My Gay Predictions for 2017 in a Trump America

I usually run my gay prediction blog around New Year’s but since I don’t know where the hell I or any of us will be by then, here it is:

The value of real estate will go up if your house has a nuclear bomb-resistant shelter. Just in case Prez Trump pisses off the wrong dictator.

Veterinarians with a heavy gay cliente (like down here in Lauderdale where there are almost as many vets as pizza parlors)  will become informants for the government, interested in compiling lists of societal deviants.

Attorneys will be swamped with gay married couples seeking annulments so there’s no paper trail.

“Butch it up” online courses will become the rage.

With bigots feeling legitimized by Trump’s election, some enterprising sports gear company will manufacture a “Bash ‘Em!” bat guys can wear snugly around their dicks like a condom but that can instantly inflate when they need it. You’ll have to show your drivers license to buy them which will now include sexual orientation so gays will have to come up with own means of defense – like hand guns.

Gay bars will be converted into Evangelical Christian prayer houses, or holding stations for those being transferred to the conversion camps in North Dakota. (See below.)

Male escorts and porn star super hunks who can pass for str8 in Trump’s New World will be auctioning off their services to the less fortunate on E Bay starting at ten thousand dollars for a two-hour fling. Two thousand dollars additional if you like getting fisted.

Banana Republic and Abercrombie & Fitch will file bankruptcy. So will all those online pharmacies that sell generic Viagra for a buck a pill.

Real estate in places once inexpensive for Americans like Belize, Costa Rica and Bolivia will go through the roof as gays with $$$ leave the country in droves. (South America may be too expensive and, shit, who wants to freeze their asses off in Western Europe.)

For those who ain’t got the bucks to defect, there will be secret “final” orgy parties where after their last fuck with a guy or one of those Fort Troff’s fucking machines, participants will OD on the drug of their choice. Hey, if you’re gonna go, you might as well be as high as a kite doing it.

There will be auctions and phone apps where you can sell your beloved doggie cheap if you can’t take him to wherever you’re going. In return you will receive a hologram key chain with his little picture to remember him by.

The fashion and entertainment industries, decimated of all their gay hotties, will resort to digital animation.

Bootleg businesses will start setting up shop outside the conversion camps VP Pence will be building in North Dakota for all the poor suckers who couldn’t escape otherwise, businesses selling contraband to the inmates like grass, Ecstasy and sun lamps.

For a hefty price, you’ll be able to download the manual, “How to Fake Str8” which guarantees a short sentence in the conversion camps provided you agree to fuck and marry the horsiest looking girls Pence’s Army can find.

Those guys who aren’t twinks can opt out of the camps in exchange for working on the chain gangs  that will be rebuilding our roads and bridges and tunnels Trump promises to have done.

All First Ladies come up with a cause, and First Lady Melania Trump’s will be to visit the conversion camps and identify the prettiest guys too precious to work on the chain gangs to serve as bell hops or pool boys at one of her husband’s hotels.

And for the truly desperate, there will always be the Kate Jenner Transgender Surgery Center. Kate, formerly Bruce, being a good Republican, will offer discounted prices on “The Final Solution.”

Okay, you can light that joint now. Just make sure it’s the medicinal variety. Trust me – l tried it once with my paralyzed buddy who needed it to kill the pain he got in his legs – it’s better than sex.

Too bad one of the states that put Trump over the top – my Florida – just approved it.

Okay, So Now What?

Okay, So Now What?

“Unfuckenbelievable.”

That was the text my neighbor leaving for work sent me at 7:30 a.m. this morning while I was still asleep with my doggies. She and I had watched the election returns together the night before until around 10 when already the trend towards Trump was building. But I honestly expected to wake up to a tie which would then have to be decided by the House of Representatives. But as her one word message told me, that was not to be.

When our country was in its infancy and the ink hadn’t dried yet on the Constitution, people wanted to bestow on our Chief Executive Officer the title of King, but savvy and wiser than most people give him credit for George Washington sternly refused, and it was he who came up with, “Call me Mr. President.”

Well, good old George is probably flipping his powdered wig right now, because the narrow-minded   have won over the fair minded to elect America’s first monarch, King Trump. During the campaign he offered little in the way of specifics on how he would fix things  – “Just trust me” – or when he did,  they were draconian – ” ship ‘em back.” One fight with North Korea’s nuclear happy nut job and we may soon be talking about San Francisco or Honolulu in the past tense.

Now your basic job as President is to play manager over people smarter than you, known formally as your Cabinet. But l don’t care if Trump recruits a cabinet of Albert Einsteins. If he didn’t listen to his advisors during the campaign, do you think he will listen to anybody now that he has the power?

So how did it happen?

From the start, Trump’s popularity lay in his role as a Washington outsider, and it was this disgust and frustration with our do-nothing politicians I think that above all gave him the votes he needed to win.

While Hillary did well in the cities where the intelligentsia, the professionals, and, yes, where us gays tend to reside, Trump, the billionaire, succeeded with the rural folks, “the common man,” i.e., White America who want things the way they were when women and minorities were second class citizens and gays stayed in the closet. Sexism by men as well as women against Hilary and pure undiluted hatred of the Clintons also played a role.

But did apathy also help the Trump train? While blacks vote mostly Democratic, less showed up at the polls this time than when their man was running. And last night while I was watching the returns, two of my regular tricks texted me “Looking?” as if they were oblivious to what was happening. Here in Florida, where nine million cast their ballots, Trump took the state by just one hundred thousand votes. Had more gays and minorities voted, would the outcome had been different? Many other states mirrored such close tallies.

Plus hundreds of thousands of votes went to third party candidates who had no chance of winning, votes that might have gone to Hillary. What were these people, some suspect pissed off Sanders supporters, trying to do? Make a statement? Who’s listening now?

This morning, Trump talked of bringing us together but that was just talk. I sincerely believe that a Republican Administration, with the Pubs in control of Congress, and Pence, the homophobic’s homophobic as VP and businessman Trump’s close political advisor, will likely mean a roll-back on many of the hard fought for rights we now enjoy. Kiss potential legislation that promises us equal rights under the law when it comes to housing and employment goodbye. And as the Republicans have done with making it harder and harder for women to have an abortion, King Trump and his gang of righteous assholes will do everything they can to eviscerate gay marriage.

The only hope is that there may be enough Republicans in Congress who hate his guts who will stonewall him; or he does something so outrageous like ruffling the feathers of that nut in North Korea to impeach him, but that would only leave us with gay hater Pence as President.

Even worse, Trump will have the chance to appoint as many as three new justices to the Supreme Court during his reign, no doubt tight assed fucks who will put the progressive social agenda back twenty years or more.

I’m most concerned that Trump’s mere election as President will empower the bigots and homo-haters to lash out at us in ways that could make the Nazis’ actions against the Jews child’s play, convinced their actions are now legitimized.

As good old Bette said in “All About Eve, “Fasten your seatbelts. We’re in for a bumpy ride.”

Me and my neighbor plus a couple of buddies of mine were already contemplating defection to Bolivia where we’d open an All-Gay B and B Resort if Sir Donald won. All the help would be under 25, their only attire a jockstrap.

Hey it beats hangin’ around till they ship us all to those concentration camps they’ll be building for us in North Dakota.

 

 

VOTE, DAMN IT!

Given what’s at stake with this election, arguably the craziest in our history (l’m an amateur historian when it comes to our Presidents) it just might be most important thing you do in your life.

 

 

Pic is from a Hillary rally l attended last week here in Fort Lauderdale. As the third most populous state in the country after California and Texas and before New York, Florida may very well be the state to crown our next President

The Web is Dead

The Web Is Dead

I don’t think l’ll create as much of a hullabaloo with that pronouncement as when the Beatles said God is dead. But what l mean is the traditional hook-up sites like Manhunt that started the whole 24/7 sexual smorgasbord phenomena, even when they have mobile versions, are losing out to the new Boys in Town like Scruff or Grindr. Guys seem to dig the whole GPS thing, you know, zoning in on a guy two weight presses away in the gym or six yards from him in a crowded bar or even in Checkout Aisle 6 at Walmart while he’s stuck in 4 behind some mommy with two brats pulling on her too tight pullover while she unloads enough food from her cart to supply the bomb shelters we’ll all need if Sir Donald wins.

Why the shift in popularity from the laptop bound sites to phone apps? I just said why. It’s  quicker. In the time it takes to boot up my laptop,  I can go through the  dozen or so hookup sites  on my phone and check to see if anybody loves me.  That way my ego can be deflated in about 57 seconds vs. 10 minutes.

But like I’ve said before, phone apps are not necessarily more productive for the bedroom as more and more guys l’m convinced are either just flirting or playing games. While they’re at work!

This year, for the first time since smartphones became an indispensable part of our lives, purchases conducted on phones eclipsed, though just slightly, purchases done on laptops. So can the same thing be true when it comes to getting sex for real or virtually?

I think so.