R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 31

Overheard at a No Kill Shelter Between Two Mutts

Overheard at a No Kill Shelter Between Two Mutts

Translation from Dogezze courtesy Google/BowWow/Translate:

Smartass: So where did you come from?

Wimpy: l was with a real nice old couple. They didn’t even complain when l barked a lot and their neighbors were yelling to shut me up. Then the husband died and the wife ended up in a nursing home and their daughter who lived on the other side of the country didn’t want me. So here l am.

Smartass: That’s what happens when you get adopted by somebody who’s got one foot on a banana peel.

Wimpy: And what about you?

Smartass: l was with a couple who had a little bitch for a kid. She kept pullin’ on my tail and my cock – the pervert – so finally l bit her in the leg. They should have put her in a cage, but no, they threw me out instead.

Wimpy: So how long do you think we’ll be here before we find somebody new to freeload off of?

Smartass Who knows. But I hear on the street the best ones to nab are fags. And after the shit l just went through, l think they’re right.

Wimpy: l thought the politically correct term was gay.

Smartass: Jesus, we’re dogs, we don’t have to be politically correct.

Wimpy: Okay, then why fags?

Smartass: Cause they treat their dogs like kids. Buy us the best dog food, take us to the vet every time we have an ass-ache, take us with ‘em on all their fancy trips. And unless they’re the progressive types, no children around to bug us.

Wimpy: What about str8’s with no kids?

Smartass: l guess they’re okay, but they just don’t treat their dogs like fags do. I mean with fags you’re guaranteed you’ll be pampered.

Wimpy: All right, but how can you tell if someone’s gay?

Smartass: It used to be easy, but now with all this metrosexual shit it’s getting harder to tell the gay guys from the str’8 ones. They usually come in pairs. The guys wear nice tapered jeans from the Banana Republic, not baggy ones like the str8 ones buy at Wal-Mart. Or their hair is buzzed.

Wimpy: Hey, what about this guy over here? He keeps looking at me.

Smartass: Bingo! He’s wearing those super short gym shorts. He’s gotta be a fag.

Wimpy: So, so what should l do?

Smartass: Look cute stupid. Don’t fucken bark to get his attention – he’ll think you’re one of those noisey ones. Let him find that out later. No, just look him straight in the eyes, and keep staring.

Wimpy: He’s walking over!

Smartass: Great! Now don’t fuck this up! This may be our one chance at Daddysville.

Wimpy: Our?

Double Booking

Double Booking

O.K., you’re confronted with this delightful dilemma. You got two out-of-town guys off the apps who like you, really like you, I mean, you-could-hang-clothes-from-their-dicks like you. (Just no clothespins, thank you.) Only there’s one problem. Both of them will be in town the same day and only that day (business, family, or he’s holding a memorial service for his dead goldfish on the beach). And they’re not sure when they will be available that day to worship your dick, ass or you theirs.

Or maybe it’s new  local guys who want you the same day – same shit.

So, what you do?

Silly boy, you double book.

Hey restaurants do it, so do the airlines. Sure, I know, you should be so lucky to potentially have two the same day, but it happens.

But, you ask, why not just solidify the date with the guy you like, you really like and, if the other one just can’t do it another time, well, so be it. As my momma often said, better to grab the bird in hand than wait for the two in the bush.

But that’s not a very good strategy if you want to heighten your odds of getting laid. Why?  Those of you who play the web as addictively as I do know the answer already. Because guys on the web are notorious for not doing what they said they were going to do. Like come through when they promised they would. It’s happened to me twice with two out-of-towners just last week who were dying to see me until they spied the naked guy lying on the lounge chair next to them at the clothing optional gay guesthouse they were staying at.

So in the end, when two guys say they’ve got Tuesday free (and only Tuesday free) and you’re not sure yet what time each of them will be around and, more importantly, whether either of them will come through at all, you say, “sure buddy, why not?” to both.

So what are your possible scenarios?

1. One of them is real, usually the one who’s pretty direct and doesn’t go on and on with the dirty talk (that almost always means the guy’s getting off on line, not on you). You hope Mr. Right On Time is the cuter of the two but, bottom line, chances are you’ll at least get your rocks off.

2. Neither fuck comes through. OK, that’s why God created xtube.com.

Or:

3. Both of them come through, you lucky fuck, I think. Either (a) you hope you get a bit of a break between them so Mr. Peter can recharge or (b) if one date “blends” into the other’s time, you hope you can get a threesome going.

Just as long as you don’t end up the odd man out in your own bedroom.

 

 

Sign Up for Your Free Download of Chapter 1 of My Latest Work of Erotic Gay Fiction

Sign Up for Your Free Download of Chapter 1 of My Latest Work of Erotic Gay Fiction

Go to https://www.facebook.com/rpandrewsgayfiction and click the blue sign-up button for your free download of Chapter 1 of my latest work of serious erotic gay fiction, “Buy Guys.”

It’s the story of Blaze and Pete, two young, handsome drifters with nothing and nothing to lose. Blaze convinces Pete, who is falling in love with him, to leave dreary New Jersey and lead free and easy lives as male prostitutes in sunny Fort Lauderdale, posting their profile on the male escort site, Buy Guys. Blaze, however, soon pulls Pete into a much larger, more dangerous scheme, a scheme that eventually threatens to destroy them both.

Published by Wilde City Press; available:amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

Says the critics:

“Well written … I naturally assumed by the title that the story would be about two guys in the sex trade but I had no idea that this would also become a kind of mystery… the sex scenes are quite graphic … (and) Blaze and Pete use sex as a way to bolster their finances and get out of debt. More importantly, they try to deal with their pasts and it is with this theme that they find themselves involved in kidnapping, murder and drug use … RP Andrews gives us two characters that represent what can happen when the wrong choices are made and he does so in a way that they hold a fascination for us.”

Amos Lassen Reviews

 

 

Is This An Attempt at Character Assassination or What?

Is This An Attempt at Character Assassination or What?

Comey’s sudden revelation about more e-mails just a week before the election smells. Oh, he insists it wasn’t politically motivated. Cut the shit.  It even goes against Justice Department’s own policy on election meddling.

And what does the communications between Hil’s assistant and her dumb bell husband Anthony Weiner who threw his career and marriage away because he thinks with his dick not his brain have to do with the  the next President of the U.S.? The FBI concluded its E-mail investigation a few months ago and slapped Hil on the wrist, but emphasized she did nothing criminal. End of story.

If I were Obama,  once the election is past tense, whoever wins, I’d fire the fuck.

I’m sure Sir Trump has a bellhop job available for him at one of his hotels.

 

It’s Halloween Weekend …

It’s Halloween Weekend …



… what better time than to share with you one of the twisted tales from my short story collection, “Basic Butch,” available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. A lot of the horror we hear about this time of year is pure fantasy, but all my stories are based in reality. They could happen, and, hell, maybe they have.

This one is called “Hooked” and takes place – when else – than on Halloween…

Handsome but tormented Simon was determined once and for all to find out the identity of the mysterious, well-built man with the hairy chest but no face shot who had been stalking him for weeks on the gay sex websites. What Simon was not ready for that rainy Halloween night was finding the guy hot, hard, and ready, at his doorstep…

Simon made sure he had enough provisions for the weekend. He had even brought the commode his old man had used only once before he died closer to his desk so he wouldn’t have to go all the way upstairs to take a piss. He pulled the drapes in his room so there would be no distractions and left the lights off in the front of the house so any trick-or-treaters would think no one was home. He turned his smartphone off and left the answering machine on his landline phone off. He was determined to get to the bottom of his mystery web buddy if it took him all weekend.

Just then, he heard the rain they had been threatening all day suddenly hit the flat roof of the garage. Good. That would keep the little Halloween bastards home tonight for sure.

Simon had been surfing the web and the phone apps for sex for a while now, ever since Geo died and he no longer went to the bars or visit the baths. Along the way he had met a few hot numbers, Jersey boys like himself or an occasional out-of-towner, since most Manhattan gay guys didn’t have cars. It didn’t take much to convince them to make the trip to Paramus—one came as far as Cherry Hill; after all, his nine inch uncut dick that he displayed proudly in his private photo files was worth the gas and the tolls on the Garden State or Turnpike, and his suitors were too impressed by his man-pole to question why he plowed them with all his clothes on. Fucking away in the bed where he was made 27 years ago, before mom split for another guy, and dad, a constructor worker, got slammed by a crane.

Then, two weeks ago, it started happening. Whether he was on BuddyBear.com, SlickDick.com, Jockstrap.com or Leatherman.com, suddenly this guy—“Tom”—appeared in all four of his message boxes. All with the same pic—hot hairy chest and abs and a tease of a dick shot but no face and the same message, “Could show you a good time. A real good time.” Nothing else.

When he searched for the guy’s profile, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if someone had hacked the sites, had hacked his messages. And when he responded, asking for stats, like height, weight, age, dick size, and a face shot, he just got the same response. Faceless pic and the message. He tried deleting the guy’s e’s, but they reappeared. He contacted each site’s webmaster but they claimed nothing was wrong with the site and the guy wasn’t even registered.

Now yesterday, “Tom” was coming up as pop-ups every time he opened any one of the sites and no amount of pop-up blockers or deletes got rid of them.

Tonight, though, as he started making his endless rounds of the sites—some nights he’d visit them ten or twelve times between TV repeats and cold chicken from the frig—“Tom” didn’t show. In fact, his first e-guest for the evening was an old regular on SlickDick.com, that is if Mack, a 20 year old hairless bottom from Totowa, could be classified as “old.”

“Sure you don’t want to plow that ass of mine for Halloween?” he messaged with a new shot of those baby smooth melons, his muscular legs spread apart enough to show a dong that practically touched the floor. Funny how the guys with the biggest dicks wanted to get fucked the most.

Simon kept his fly unzipped and dick handy and gave it a couple of strokes but Mack was starting to get boring and his worked-up hard-on quickly faded.

On BuddyBear.com, he had his typical share of “woofs” and “you’re a hot fuck!” from hungry guys anywhere and everywhere, places he’d never visit, tonight from Wheeling, West Virginia, Johnstown, PA, Palm Springs, and even one from Berlin, his fifth international fan to date. After all, that chest of his had actually once deserved it even if the pics he posted were two years old. Thankfully, his buzz cut didn’t date them. Simon used to respond with a “thanx—much appreciated” but now he just deleted them. He had gotten his ego kick.

The rain had picked up and was hitting the window outside his desk hard like his stiff dick against his hand just before he stuck it up a guy’s hole.

He was surprised to have a message waiting for him on Jockstrap.com. Usually those conceited gym bunnies only looked. He knew that from the number of “admirers” who, according to the webmaster, had viewed his profile.

“Hey, bud, you got some hot pics there—and we’re practically neighbors,” read the message from Bobbie, a rusty bearded rebel boy type from Garfield. Slim with just a bit of chest and belly fuzz, a few pube hairs sticking out from his boxer shorts, and that handsome Black Irish face and smile that didn’t quit. He wore a cap that read “Montana Mountain Man” but Simon didn’t think it was hiding any receding hairline.

“So just how neighborly would you like to get?” messaged Simon back with a butchy grin. He could feel his dick pressing against his half open fly.

“Well, you up to trickin’ AND treatin’ tonite?”

“As long as you don’t mind getting wet. Rainin’ like hell outside”

Pause.

“Got any butt shots to share?” messaged Simon.

“Sure—give me ten—I’ll send them over for your very private inspection, sir.” He could almost see him standing at attention at his pc.

Simon was dripping. This would probably end up like so many other encounters, a lot of dirty talk and dirty pics but no cigar. But what the fuck. He was half way there already.

Just then, what sounded like an army began banging on the door and ringing the bell non-stop. He waited a few minutes, hoping they would give up. But they didn’t.

“Better make it quick before my man meat explodes,” Simon messaged back, then got up to get the door.

He looked at the three teenagers, all males, seventeen, eighteen he guessed, dressed in jeans and pullovers whose only costumes were some cheap drugstore masks around their necks. They looked more like potential hold-up boys than candy grabbers. The rain had let up.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be trick or treating?” said Simon with a pissed off, what-the-fuck-are-you-bothering-me-for look.

“Man, just give us some stuff and mind your own business,” grunted the shortest of the three who was still a good six foot.

“Why don’t you just go back and fuck your girlfriends,” said Simon, reaching from behind for the doorknob. Suddenly the tallest one grabbed his wrist. Simon pushed him off, then, with a haughty air of self-confidence on his face, lifted up his T-shirt clear to his throat and faced the trio head-on. They all looked dazed like deers in front of the headlights. The middle one turned around and began throwing up in the bushes on the side of the house.

“Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” said the shorter one, unable to turn away.

“The same thing that’ll happen to you if you don’t get the fuck out of here—NOW!”

And with that Simon slammed the door, breathed deeply, and double locked it.

When he got back to his laptop, He was there. Tom. Same cockteasy pic with no face. Only there was something different.

His message had changed.

“Ready for me to show you a good time?”

Simon sat down quickly and messaged him back, still pissed-off by the boys.

“Who the fuck are you?’

“Someone you’d like to know.”

“Don’t give me any shit. Why are you bugging me?”

“Because I know everything about you even if you don’t know shit about me.”

“Like what, fucker?”

“Like why you never take your shirt off in public anymore and all those hot pics you got on your profile are horseshit.”

Simon began to sweat. He tried to hold his hand from shaking as he key-stroked.

“And why don’t you have any face shots, fucker, huh?”

“We have a lot in common, you and me. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Look, if you want me to fuck you, come over and let’s get it over with. Otherwise, fuck-off.”

Simon pulled the plug from behind his laptop and popped out the battery, then popped it back in so everything shut down instantly.

He sat there, limp-dicked, his face as blank as the screen, for what must have been a half hour. He felt paralyzed, to a point that he took advantage of the commode, and took a piss.

Then he remembered about Bobbie and his promise to send some more pics. He booted up.

Bobbie’s pics got him hot again. Nice, real nice shots of a hairy butt, furry low hangers swaying in the breeze. He clicked on “Reply.”

“So how soon can you come over?” messaged Simon, thinking quickly whether he had enough lube in the house.

“Give me a half hour. What’s the address? I got GPS.”

“You read my profile, didn’t you—I’m a top,” Simon typed with a cautious stare.

“I sure fucken hope so. My boy butthole needs some Daddy dick lovin’”

Simon sniffed his armpits, then his crouch and debated about taking a shower. But his first priority was finding that lube. He was about to get into the shower, hard-on and all, when he heard a loud knock on the door. It couldn’t be rebel boy. Not that quick. Well, if it were another bunch of trick-or-treaters, he’d just answer the door butt naked and this time let them get a gander of all of him.

He swung open the door, his hard-on bobbing in the rain.

It wasn’t rebel boy, greased up for action.

It wasn’t kids looking for candy.

The guy—he was about five foot nine, maybe five foot ten—wore a light blue fisherman slicker, a rain cap pulled over his face, and dark sunglasses. A heavy salt and pepper beard covered the lower half of his face that was barely visible in the street light.

“I’m here to show you a good time,” said the guy in a deep, masculine voice, low and monotoned. “A real good time.”

Simon’s dick instantly shrunk. He turned around, trying to hide his schizophrenic reaction of shock and delight at finally meeting his web stalker. The man followed him in and shut the door.

“So, you say you know everything about me,” said Simon, slumping into an armchair, with a cool, Okay-what’s-next stare.

“And now you’ll know everything about me,” said the man.

And with that, he opened his slicker wide to reveal a dark, matted chest and belly that Simon was acutely familiar with, having seen it dozens of times on his laptop screen. Then, walking out of the shadows, the man took off the jacket, his rain cap and glasses, and flung them on a nearby end table.

Simon couldn’t stop staring at his half naked stranger. He could tell he had been handsome once. But all he saw now were deep, creviced scars like someone had played tic-tac-toe on his face with a knife. One of the gashes went right across his left eye that seemed permanently sealed.

Simon felt his dick coming alive.

“Halloween is about the only time of the year I can go out without a baseball cap and glasses,” said the man with a shrug and self-effacing grin. “Kids think it’s a cool disguise and want to know where I got it done.”

“Some alley I guess,” said Simon, still trying to look non-committal when his crotch told him differently.

“I used to teach at Rutgers before my little incident,” said the guy, lighting up a cigarette. “But afterwards, they were good about it and gave me on-line.”

“On-line?”

“Teaching on-line. That way I never have to see my students and they never have to see me.” He sat down on the sofa across from Simon.

“No it wasn’t a gay bash,” continued the guy, still trying to make light of the whole messy memory. “Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a bunch of fucks came in to rob the 7-11 I was buying a pack of these in.” He gestured to his cigarette. “Hell, I was lucky. The guy behind the counter got so macheted up, he died.”

By now, Simon couldn’t take his eyes off him. Nor could he hide the growing lust on his face.

“Tom, it’s Tom, Simon,” said the guy anticipating Simon’s next question.

“So you know my name, too.”

“I used to come into the Carlstadt branch of Bank America all the time.” He smiled like he had gotten away with robbing the bank.

“I’m still there,” said Simon.

“You know,” Tom said slowly, almost in a whisper, “I think I wanted to screw you the first time you handed me back my deposit slip.”

Simon said nothing.

“I know all about your little accident,” he continued, a tiny pompous grin coming to his mouth. “I’ve been hacking computers since I was 17 and when I came into the bank one day and heard you were in the hospital, I hacked Beverly Memorial’s system and got enough to piece together what happened to you.”

“You mean, when Geo and I were free-basing one night and the fucken thing blew up and spit all over us?”

“Geo your lover?”

“No, we were just fuck buddies. Went out and got high a lot together and screwed whatever we could pick up, or one another when we had a slow night. Funny how the shit hit me on the chest and belly and arms but missed my face and my dick.”

“And Geo?”

“He didn’t really get hit much at all, just one bad burn on his hand.” Simon stood up and moved closer to the sofa, his eyes locked on Tom’s “Then six months later Geo goes and OD’s—all by his lonesome self. Funny, ain’t it?”

“And after that—this was before my little 7-11 run-in,” continued Tom, “I saw you never wore those tight short sleeve shirts again at the bank. The ones that showed off your biceps.”

“So you noticed.”

“I’ve noticed everything about you. Everything.” Tom leaned over, grabbed Simon by the cheeks of his ass and pulled him close. Then he began to stick the tip of his tongue into each of the scars that dotted Simon’s belly like moon craters.

“Why, why did you choose me?” asked Simon. His lust and anger had now turned to self-pity and pity for this stranger but he was determined not to cry.

“Because we’re brothers in pain.”

As Tom worked his way up to Simon’s chest, most of the heavy carpet of hair that once covered it now reduced to a few wisps, Simon gently glided his fingertips into the deep, rocky crevices that lined Tom’s face. Each time he did, his dick twitched.

Suddenly there was a loud bang on the door.

“Shit,” said Simon, “I forgot about Bobbie.”

“Bobbie?”

“Yea, a kid I just connected with on Jockstrap. I invited him over.”

“So?”

“Just let him keep banging. He’ll give up eventually.”

“And spoil his Halloween?” said Tom, laughing. He grabbed Simon’s hand and led him to the door.

Rebel boy stood there, the rain dripping from his Mets cap, and looked at the two of them. Simon stark naked and Tom, wearing jeans, boots and a heavenly hard-on. A confused but tempted look came to Bobbie’s face like the time he caught a gander of some apparent straight guy in a suit pulling his dick out in the park at lunchtime just for Bobbie’s private admiration.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said stumbling on his words but not looking away. “I must have the wrong address.”

“Bobbie, isn’t it,” said Simon, the pompous glare of a priest delivering mass on his face.

“Simon? Are you Simon?”

“Come on in,” said Tom, grabbing the kid’s hand, “before some Dracula out there decides to rape you.”

“I don’t understand, your pictures—”

“So you wanna stay or don’t you?” said Simon with a defensive look.

“Sure, sure, I’ll stay,” said Bobbie with conviction and a smile, throwing the duffel bag on his shoulder to the floor.

“And what’s in there?” said Simon, that pissed-off expression returning to his face. “I hope it’s not dildos. If that’s the story, you don’t need me—I mean—us. And if you’re one of those circuit boys trying to look butch who likes to party and wants me to mainline some Tina, just fucken forget it …”

“No, no it’s nothing like that,” the kid said almost apologetically. “I was going to ask you while we were chatting, but you logged off so quick.”

“Ask me what?”

“If I could video our little session, you know, as a souvenir.”

“Got a wide enough lens to get us all in?” said Tom with a smirk.

Bobbie stared first at Tom, then Simon. “No, I just wanna watch this time. I mean, I’m not usually into spectator sex, but this time—”

“Does all this make your dick go soft?” asked Simon, stroking his checkered chest.

“No, no way, man,” said Bobbie, his stare now as solid as a gold brick. “In fact, you fucken guys are giving me the best god-damn fucken hard-on I’ve had in months.” He unzipped his fly and whipped out a nice, cut, thick seven incher that made Tom and Simon’s tools twitch in unison. “This one I want to enjoy.”

It didn’t take the kid long to set up his tripod and camera, as Simon undressed him, giving Bobbie’s blazing hard-on a few strokes. Tom got naked. About ten minutes later, as Simon and Tom were deep into it on the living room rug, Bobbie got up from the arm chair and instinctively sandwiched himself between them.

“I—I want to feel your pain,” he said glancing back and forth at the two of them and took a heavy drag of Jungle Juice.

“Poetic, ain’t he?” said Tom to Simon as he leaned over and grabbed his jeans that he had flung on the floor a few minutes before, unlacing its leather belt from the loops. Then, with his dick in front of the kid’s face, Tom slowly wound the belt around Bobbie’s throat, tightening it ever so slowly with every turn as Simon fucked Bobbie slow and deep doggie-style. A few minutes later, the kid shot his load and appeared to pass out. Tom leaned over and gently licked the warm juice off the living room floor. Then, pulling out of Bobbie and laying the kid gently down, Simon aimed his stiff tool at Tom’s face and shot, his cum dripping down the crevices of his scars like snow melting down a mountain.

It was about 6 a.m. when the kid woke up. He got up from the sofa where he guessed they had stowed him and looked around. Seeing no one, he decided to go up the stairs. There in the master bedroom, Tom and Simon were sprawled on the bed, sleeping on their stomachs. He went over and, without disturbing them, slowly stroked their hairy butts, then went back downstairs, packed up his camera, got dressed and left. Thinking about the tape he had made, Bobbie felt his hard-on halfway there as he stumbled down the front stairs to his car.

Tom awoke a half hour later, got out of bed and pulled the drapes apart to let in the morning light. Then he turned around and lightly smiled at Simon, who threw off the blanket that had enveloped them.

“Think Bobbie enjoyed his fifteen seconds of pain?” asked Tom.

Shrugging his shoulders, Simon tapped on the mattress for Tom to come back to bed as his dick, unassisted except by Tom’s smile, rose in anticipation.

After Pulse, Is Wilton Manors Asleep At the Wheel for Halloween?

After Pulse, Is Wilton Manors Asleep At the Wheel for Halloween?

For those of you not familiar with Fort Lauderdale, Wilton Manors is our gay ghetto and its bar district and guesthouses and all that comes with them a magnet for tourists across the country and around the world. Each year, at least since l’ve lived here, the town, or l should say sponsoring organizations like our Gay Pride Center this year, organize what they call Wicked Manors, a Halloween celebration and block party rolled into one with Wilton Drive closed to traffic. Seniors with their lawn chairs, couples with their baby carriages. along with us come out to gawk at some of the craziest costumed revelers this side of Pluto as if it were New Year’s in Times Square.

But everything changed after Pulse, or at least l thought it would. Yet in reading promos about the event and checking its website, not one mention was made about increased security in light of what happened in Orlando. If there will be increased police  presence or even undercover  cops dressed as leather boys or drags, don’t you think they should have said it to give would-be attendees some sense of security  and that maybe, just maybe, would serve as a deterrent to some nut job out there contemplating mayhem?

No, nothing, zilch. Call me a party pooper (actually l like that), but if l were running the event this year, l’d see entrances were limited (with barricades and police everywhere else), backpacks and other excess baggage were prohibited (think the Boston Marathon/Massacre), and that people entering were inspected in some way.

“Sorry buddy, l gotta grab that bulge between your legs. All in the name of a safer Wilton Manors.”

After all, it’s Halloween and people can come in looking like an alien with plenty of places on their body to hide a bomb or gun. About the only guys you wouldn’t need to feel up are the ones wearing only a jockstrap. Then again, they could be “in transition” and since they haven’t got any male equipment between their legs while they save their bottle tops to finance the operation, that bulge could indeed be a gun in their pocket, I mean jock.

For those of you too young to get the joke, there was a saucy, buxom comedienne and film star named Mae West, popular in the thirties, who said to a would-be paramour (l think he was a very young Cary Grant) in one of her films before the censorship code was enforced in Hollywood, “ls that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Now the Big Apple’s Halloween Parade has become something of an international attention getter, but l noticed in their online promos, there is only one entrance for participants and l’m sure police coverage will be the size of a small army, which probably dwarfs Wilton Manors’ or even Fort Lauderdale’s police force. There was a dispute between the Pride Center, sponsor for this year’s Wicked Manors, that couldn’t afford increased security in light of Pulse, and the city of Wilton Manors that claimed they didn’t have the bucks either.  But are we smarter or safer than NYC with bars like the iconic Alibi and on-its-way-to-becoming iconic Hunters ripe for a boom boom finale? Or even my favorite watering hole, the Ramrod ( it’s my favorite because a significant number of the guys are old – like me) that is so small and confined, a Pulse copycat could wipe out most of South Florida’s leather community in three minutes on a packed Saturday night.

There was a time when l thought we here in South Florida, unlike big city targets like NYC, Chicago and LA, were safe. After all, what were they gonna do? Blow up the beach?

I know better now.

Sir Don and Lady Hil: Any More Excess Baggage?

Sir Don and Lady Hil: Any More Excess Baggage?

In this age of digital media, nothing is scared nor secret. While I’m still voting for Hillary, the naked hypocrisy on both sides is becoming irritating. But I wonder how the world would have reacted if past Presidents or President Wannabes were under the same relentless 24/7 cable news watch as they are today:

Washington slept here. And here and there, maybe with every chamber maid from New York to Virginia?

Jefferson, the author of “The Declaration of Independence” made babies with his slaves.

Andrew Jackson and his bigamous wife thought she was divorced from her first husband when she married him but wasn’t.

Buchanan, possibly our first gay President, had his BF live with him in the White House and was known to be a cross-dresser.  Boy, I wonder what the smartphone videophiles would have done with that.

Honest Abe may have had a thing going when he was young with a fellow law school buddy.

Grover Cleveland had an illegitimate kid.

Some suspected Run Around Harding didn’t die of a heart attack while in office but was poisoned by his homely wife who had had enough of his shit.

Most of the country never knew they had a President who was paralyzed, the result of polio, since Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s inner circle made sure he was never photographed in his wheelchair. (Only one picture in his wheelchair exists.) Or that he died of a stroke while with his girlfriend or that revered Eleanor had a possible lesbian relationship with a “mannish” reporter.

Eisenhower, as Head Commander during WWII, had a Brit girlfriend on the side.

The Kennedy brothers, Jack and Bobbie, may have had Marilyn Monroe drugged to keep her mouth shut about her affairs with both of them. Yes, she wanted JFK to leave Jackie and marry her, and supposedly Jackie knew all about MM.

Lyndon Johnson was a womanizer with a capital W. A running joke of the time had a party girl lying down on a bed when she hears a voice with a familiar Texas twang whisper, “Move over honey, this is  your President.”

By the time we get to Bill Clinton, hiding indiscretions were a lot harder. The media was too big and diverse to hide from.

But my question is: is there more shit to dig up today or just better ways to find it?

Not Heeding The Red Flags Can Have Serious Consequences

Not Heeding The Red Flags Can Have Serious Consequences

Case in point: after over forty years of marriage in New Jersey to a woman and two kids and a grandson, Eddie decided to play the gay life in Fort Lauderdale. (He has not seen his grandson since his divorce.) Now white suburban married couples for the most part socialize with other white suburban married couples, unlike us gay men who meet and fuck around with all kinds of guys (like a corporate attorney making with a Macy’s clerk)  and over the years get to read people.

So after sowing his oats, Eddie who doesn’t even drink, falls in love with a HIV poz former meth head. Or at least that’s what tall, humpy, hairy Jack tells him. All us PF’s – Professional Fags who have been around the block – tell Eddie that if Jack’s a good fuck, fuck him,but don’t have him move in with you until you’re absolutely sure he’s clean.

“But l love him,” replies naive Eddie who has fallen for the Made for Logo movie about romance and gay men.

Red flag # 1: blind trust.

So Jack who has shit and has been sleeping on a buddy’s sofa, moves into Eddie’s beachfront condo and is available anytime Eddie wants him. One morning while still in bed, Eddie overhears Jack on his cell bragging to a buddy that he just snared a daddy to take care of him. Eddie confronts Jack, tells him he may be living here for nothing but he still has to contribute to the utility and food bills to which, of course, Jack totally agrees, gives Eddie a heavy tongue kiss and spreads his ass cheeks for Eddie’s hard pole.

Red Flag #2: Failing to shift reality from the bullshit.

Jack starts exhibiting strange behavior. Sits in his truck for a while after running errands instead of coming right up. Is overly passionate but impotent, doesn’t finish Eddie’s great Italian dishes, and has trouble sleeping. Eddie shares these behaviors with his best bud, me, who having done the shit tells him point blank, “Eddie, Jack’s still a user.” Eddie can’t believe it.

Red Flag #3: Failing to believe someone who knows better than you

Finally, coming home from the gym early, he catches Jack, who’s almost a foot taller than Eddie, red handed, pipe in hand, and orders him to pack up his stuff and leave. Last Eddie hears, Jack leaves town to pair up with all old buddy and fellow meth head in Atlanta.

A month later, Eddie calls me, all crazy, tells me Jack stole his gold jewelry including an heirloom bracelet from his grandmother, no doubt to hock for meth money.

My response: “You’re lucky that’s all that happened.”

Fourteen years ago when l had just moved down here, both main stream media and the gay rags reported on a savage murder of an elderly gay man who had just retired here in Lauderdale at the hands of a young hustler who he invited over. A month ago, that same guy, now pushing 40, voluntarily confessed to the cops in some small Midwestern town he was now living in that he had seen Jesus and felt compelled to unburden his guilty heart of the crime he had committed so long ago and so far away.

Cut the shit.

Lesson: when you know nothing about the Life and are naive and perhaps too trusting, take it slow, listen to your buddies who know better –

And heed the red flags.

Before it’s too late.

Heeding The Red Flags: ll

Heeding The Red Flags: ll

I told you Monday about a long time fuckbuddyship that l wanted to turn into a friend with benefits but instead went up in a burst of flames because l misread the signs. I didn’t heed the red flags, the red flags that clearly said, call it a day, Ray, what you want you aint gonna get from this guy.

Red Flag # 1

I always played host but when my other half no longer interested in sex was down from our PA home for the winter here in Florida and l couldn’t host, neither could Ted even though he claimed he lived alone. If he had a partner that was certainly no big deal in this town of philandering partners but more and more l wondered if he was married, like married to a woman which he denied, or was so closeted and paranoid he didn’t want his neighbors to see him bring a strange man into his house (bullshit). Or maybe wanted to keep the candy use confined to my place and not potentially poison his (maybe) or didn’t want me to know any more about him than he was willing to tell me (quite possible). At that point if l felt l didn’t get some reasonable answers to reasonable questions from a guy l was bedding down with almost weekly, maybe l should have pulled the plug. But l didn’t. Little advance notice on our liaisons was also something l didn’t fight and should have.

Red Flag #2

Once when l had no candy he said he’d wait. So was it l he enjoyed or the free M and M’s? I often wondered when he changed from a shy guy to a passionate animal whether he wasn’t one of those “str8’s” who needed a few drinks, or in this case a few puffs, to do it with a man. Should l have brought up contributing to the candy fund and if he ignored that call it day? But l didn’t.

Red Flag #3

Late in our fuckbuddyship l expressed my desire to get off the hook up sites merry- go-round and said if l knew we would have regular sex l would take all my profiles down. His response? He said he was flattered. Nothing more. Once l told him l loved him in my own way. Again a weak smile but no reaction. If my intentions were like throwing grass seed on the ocean wasn’t that the time for me to cool it? But l didn’t. Or for him to just spit it out: “Ray, l like you, we have great sex, but like l told you before, that’s as far as l want it to go.” But he didn’t and think you see now why.

Red Flag #4

Ignoring my requests to do something beyond the bedroom, like dinner. (In our last confrontation, he said he didn’t want to go out to dinner because he didn’t want to give me the wrong idea about “us.” Huh?)  Shouldn’t that have been a clear sign all he wanted was the sex and the candy?

Red Flag #5

But the clearest red flag that l overlooked because l was a jerk came in July of 2015 when a terrible infection in one my sinuses would not clear up with antibiotics, forcing me to undergo an outpatient procedure under general anesthesia to drain it. The last time l had been in the hospital was when l had my tonsils removed at four and l had great trepidation about the surgery since it was being performed in the cranial area and carried the remote but potential risk of vision loss or brain damage. I casually mentioned to Ted the Friday prior to my surgery l would have to report to the hospital that Monday morning at 5 a.m. and would be taking a cab since l didn’t want to inconvenience any of my friends.

“I’ll take you,” he insisted, “no one should go to the hospital alone.” All through that weekend l left numerous voicemails and texts to confirm he was coming but never got a response. So Monday a.m., l took the cab – alone. The surgery went without a hitch and l didn’t bother contacting Ted about any of it when, out of the blue, a week or so later he texted me. “Wanna be bad?”, his lead-in for wanting sex.

Now any one else would have waited till he pulled up to the house, then blast him. But being the practical faggot, l figured why wreck a good night of sex. When l nonchalantly asked him about my ride, he said he had come down with the flu. That’s the first time l heard the flu incapacitated your ability to throw out a ten second text, “Sorry, sick, can’t take you.” l overlooked the whole thing and looking back realized l shouldn’t have.

But in the end Ted has done me a favor. I mainly bought the M and M’s to have them around for him. So since our arrivederci, l’ve been on an M and M diet.

Is there a lesson to be learned from all this? Sure, but it’s something l realized long before l met Ted.

If they don’t want you, they don’t want you.

All the pleading and pestering in the world won’t make a difference.

When l saw early in the game a friend with benefits wasn’t in the cards for Ted and I, and realizing how awkward it was becoming for me to continue to see someone who l cared more about than he did me, l should have ended it right there.

I didn’t need the red flags to tell me that.

Friday: Not Heeding The Red Flags Can Have Serious Consequences

 

Tomorrow Night’s The Last Slugfest Between Sir Donald and Hil….

Tomorrow Night’s The Last Slugfest Between Sir Donald and Hil….

…and while Hillary’s war chest, largely the result of wealthy donors, dwarfs Trumps, the story is in the details. Unlike Hillary, most of the billionaire Don’s donations were five or ten bucks, much like Sanders’ supporters, which implies he still has the Average Joe and Jill solidly behind him, like the blue collar workers who love him because he speaks their language and include bigots, skirt chasers, and white supremacists.  You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to realize there are a hell of a lot more of them out there than the one per centers.

There are even women, despite his sexist comments and suspected “inappropriate” behavior, who remain loyal. When Big Gun Republicans like Paul Ryan were deserting their Party’s Top of the Ticket man, women were flashing placards, “Better to grab a pussy than be one.”

Plus there are some Millennials who wanted Sanders and hate Hillary who may vote for a third party candidate. Throwing their vote in that direction, a vote Hillary would have gotten, could put Sir Don in the White House.

Let’s hope tomorrow night’s debate speaks to the issues and doesn’t sound like a TV version of the National Enquirer. Then again, the last two debates were rating winners, so maybe dirty talk is all the American people wanna hear.

Me? l don’t care if the President is a drag queen, a transgender in transition, or somebody who fucks their dog. All l wanna know is what ya gonna do for me.

If l were Chris Wallace, the debate referee, I would stop either of them in mid-sentence if he or she starts talking about the opponent’s indiscretions, or his damn tax return or her fucken e-mails, and stick to the issues.