R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 32

Heeding the Red Flags

Heeding The Red Flags

Relationships end for different reasons. Sometimes they’ve just played themselves out, sometimes you grow apart – he’s on FM and you’re still on AM – sometimes he commits a no-no and sometimes you do.

But when they just don’t go quietly into the night but crash land, it’s often because you or he  didn’t heed the red flags.

I just abruptly  ended a long term fuckbuddyship. Or maybe Ted did. Who knows? I had a trio of fuckbuddyships back in New York that lasted years where good sex and some social foreplay were enough for both of us. But when you have sex – great sex at least for you – almost every week for two years with the same guy and you’re beginning to feel things he isn’t, something has to give.

We both clearly expressed we did not want a romantic relationship or as l put it, exchange diamond studded cockrings, though we often shared romantic moments. And l clearly understood at a certain point l was being used – for sex, for the candy and l don’t mean M and M’s which he never paid for, plus the added benefit of my private heated pool – but as long as l got something out of it – meaning being with him – l was content being used. But when l tried to bring whatever we had going out of the bedroom and turn this fuckbuddyship into a “friends with benefits,”(after all, in between screwing we talked about our lives and our problems), like maybe going for dinner or a movie before we screwed, he always made up excuses.

He also was always the one to text me at 10 of 10 at night about coming over. No advance notice even when l would broach the subject earlier that week or even that day –  as if l were a rentboy without pay on standby. Once when he contacted me on a Saturday night l was already in the bar but quickly got in my car to come home.

Because l wanted to see him.

And it wasn’t just physicality and personality that drove my minor obession. We were both creative types – l had been in PR, he ran his own small but growing ad agency – we shared a love of dogs, and even collected the same shit – mechanical antiques like old cameras and Edison cylinder phonographs. So, l admit it, when you’re gay hope springs eternal. But l wasn’t asking for the whole wedding cake, just some icing.Nor did l believe the M and M’s made the difference. For us, or at least for me, it was the salt and pepper on the steak, not the steak.

Finally, a few weeks ago l confronted him and asked him why he hadn’t cooled things six months or even a year before  if l didn’t, when in his mind l was getting too close for comfort, and separate as two civilized adults, something l would have regretfully accepted. suddenly he got all huffy and totally out of the blue called me an “arrogant asshole” and in the same breath the most unique person he ever met for telling it like it us and not giving a fuck what people thought ( l’m an old New Yorker and for us that’s our modus operandi – otherwise the Big Apple would eat you up).  l found that  to be a left handed compliment. There’s a line in Shakespeare’s Hamlet where Hamlet’s mother who married his late father’s brother after the brother had murdered him goes on and on and on about some insignificant comment, “Lady thou protests too much.”

Why the insults from Ted after two years of my hospitality instead of a civil “let’s end it then?”

Because he knew that meant the end of the free M and M’s.

But – but – l have nobody to blame but myself because l let things go on and thought with my dick and my heart instead  of my head.

I didn’t heed the red flags.

So what were the red flags l should have reacted to along the way?

More Wednesday.

 

 

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 gona 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 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 anymore 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. 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 resonse. 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 incapitated your abilty 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 pleaing 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

 

 

 

Hospital ride

No candu ll wait

Never an offer to compenstate

Coiukdnt host

Not kaying diwn the kaw when lgot too dewey eyed because he knew an end meant an end to everuthinh not responding at all

Pushing offer diner. Last minute notices

 

So for all geneoirsuty and hospitality i wss told l wasan arogrant asshole. The bvest comp!ment i got all day.

 

Frank

 

Homophobia: Our Number One Enemy

Homophobia: Our Number One Enemy

The Pulse shooter was no doubt the worst contemporary example of what homophobia can do when taken to the extreme. (Remember Hitler?)  The evidence is pretty solid that Omar Mateen was conflicted in his own sexuality, probably because of his conservative ethnic background and his intolerant wacko father. He married twice and beat both his wives, was a visitor to gay hookup sites and was even known by Pulse employees and patrons.

The long assumed hypothesis that men who are homophobic are actually lashing at the gay tendencies in themselves they cannot accept was recently borne out by a study conducted by the University of Geneva, Switzerland, and published in the Journal of Sexual Medicine. Two groups of men, one who were identified as homophobic, the other well-adjusted heterosexuals, were shown a series of sexually arousing photos, some depicting str8 behavior, others gay. The men from the homophobic group tended to spend more time on the gay oriented pics versus the heterosexual group who spent equal time on both.

Dealing with an individual homophobic is one thing But how do you deal with homophobia on an “en mass” basis?

Get ballsy.

It was the mid-seventies and George, my ex, and l had gotten our first apartment together on Staten Island, New York City’s forgotten borough. Now Staten Island was at that time and probably still is the most Italian American county in the U S. Hey, l’ve got nothing against Italians – Italian men are at the top of my hit parade followed by Middle Eastern guys (my ex is Syrian American) – but you can’t deny the fact that when any conservative ethnic group is concentrated in one geographic locale to the point everyone is practically kissing cousins, distorted attitudes against people who are considered “outsiders” will breed. Being Catholics doesn’t help either.

One night G and l decided to check out a restaurant in our neighborhood. It was obvious from the moment we walked in we were the only male couple in the place. The hostess gave us a twisted smile as she led us to our table way in the back by the kitchen even though there were a few open in more desirable spots. We waited for our server to greet us and give us our menus, but after twenty minutes of sitting there like two boobs while the strange glances grew louder, l quietly told G, “Get up. We’re leaving.” Even though he had a crazier temper than me, he gave me a quixotic look but followed sheepishly behind me as l rose and walked ever so slowly to the entrance. I wanted to make damn well sure as many of the patrons in that damn place saw us. Then turning around and facing the sea of hetero faces l shouted at the top of my lungs, “Our money is as good as anybody else’s” and walked out.

History has since proven how much society at large wants our gay bucks. Though just a few years ago down here in Lauderdale, George and l had a similar experience at a “Thank God It’s Friday. (No, G had left his pumps home and it was a no mascara day for me.) This time we left quietly, but the next day l wrote a complaint letter to the Customer Relations Department, corporate, accusing TGWF of discrimination against gays in what is supposed to be one of the gay friendliest towns in America. Included with corporate’s letter of apology were two fifty dollar gift coupons to give them a second chance. I guess my complaint trickled down to that restaurant because the next time we went there to eat we were treated like royalty. Maybe there was a code on the coupons, “Treat them well. We don’t want to turn off our gay clientele.” And if there was? We got two free dinners didn’t we?

Fast forward to our current Presidential campaign, one of the craziest in our history. Pence, Trump’s running mate, is perhaps the most homophobic politician in recent memory. As governor of Indiana he proposed HIV funding be diverted to underwrite conversion therapy camps. His reasoning: eliminate homosexuals and you eliminate AIDS. I guess no one told him in places like Africa, it is largely a heterosexual disease.

So if God help us, the Republicans win the White House, given the research done in Geneva, we may have the first closeted vice president in our history. Only he won’t be one to win any awards from ACT UP.

 

 

Website Watch Its

Website Watch Its

After all, sex is 70% fantasy and 30% lube, so how can you tell if a would-be web hottie is just leading you on and has no intentions of ever bedding down in the flesh, or is someone you shouldn’t have even bothered wasting keystrokes on in the first place?

He uses the phrase “you’re hot” or facsimile thereof at least ten times in the first two messages.
The level of “dirty talk” – “and after you’ve given my hairy butt hole a tongue bath …”  –  accelerates until every orifice in the human body has been explored virtually twice.
His profile goes on for seven paragraphs about his philosophy of life/Buddha /karma/yoga/meditation/favorite music or pastimes besides fucking, but doesn’t give you one fuckin’ stat about himself (incidental things, you know, when you’re contemplating sex, like height, weight, Manhunt age, cock size, usually measured from the crack of his ass, preferences in bed).
He has come on to you but goes on and on in his profile about his partner Jake (“I love ya man!”). O.K., so what is he doing looking for dick?
He asks for more pics, preferably the nude, hard-as-a-power-pole variety.
He says he’s falling in love with you (he means the 2 by 3 inch pics you touched up on Photoshop). This instant love is particularly prevalent among supposedly lonely boys from Eastern Europe and Russia. If you’re stupid enough to fall for this bullshit and continue a dialogue, he eventually will cry poverty and ask you to send him $$$.
He works at Gaymart but has a schedule so impossible to shoehorn your way into, you think he was the President.
He asks for more pics.
The “negotiations,” where, when, what fuckin’ color T-shirt you’ll be wearing when you two rendezvous outside in some turn lane on Somewhere Drive, go back and forth over dozens of messages and several weeks. This is especially true of out-of-town “guests,” some of whom are just flattering your very vulnerable ego so they can have a cheap place to stay.
You’re at the point where you ask, “O.K., when, where?” His response: “cool” or “kewl.” What the fuck is “cool/kewl” supposed to mean?
You suggest, “How about Wednesday at 5, your place?” If his response is “That sounds like a plan,” 9 times out of 10, it’s a plan that goes nowhere.
He asks for more pics.

If any of these superlatives comes up on your hookup site or app radar screen, don’t waste your time. But, by the same token, feel flattered. In all probability, you’ve just become this guy’s private porn site. Ask him for his address so you know where to send the Windex to clean all that cum off his pc or smartphone screen.

 

 

What Did Last Night’s Mr. Ramrod Contest Have To Do with The Presidential Debate?

What Did Last Night’s Mr. Ramrod Contest Have To Do with The Presidential Debate?

Last night the Ramrod, Fort Lauderdale’s leather bar, held its annual Mr. Ramrod contest, you know, to choose the so-called hottie  we will be sending to next year’s  IML. The crowd has been getting lighter and lighter every year but my favorite bartender, John, who actually puts liquor in my drinks, blamed the debate, but l think the real reason is Father Time. Scanning around the crowd, I guesstimated the median age was about 45. It’s gettin’ real depressing and kind of pathetic when you see these guys who look like grandfathers still hobbling around in leather with their asses hanging out. Young guys are just not stepping up to the plate and l predict the scene as we once knew it will be history within a decade.

Anyway, I watched part of the debate before I left and recorded it to catch the rest of it when I got home. Bottom line: as usual, they brought up topics that are meaningless to all of us when it comes to what will happen to this country. I don’t give one fuck what dirty words Trump used in describing women  (we already knew he viewed most women as fuck machines) or about Hillary’s 33,000 missing emails. Trump, in particular, used diversional tactics, like bringing up Bill’s past indiscretions –  again what the hell has that got to do with what the next President will do for me – to take the heat off himself without giving much in the way of specifics on how he planned to deal with our problems. For all her excess baggage, Hillary still came out as a sane, reasonable and highly knowledgeable individual and certainly probably the most qualified person to ever run for the office. She did her best to not waste time responding to Trump’s bullshit but masterfully offered her rather detailed recommendations on what could be done on various issues. Even if you don’t agree with her strategies, would you rather trust a guy who says leave it up to me, l’ll handle it?

Sure Hil’s  had her fuck ups, sure she’s made mistakes, and Trump jumped on her for all the things he felt she screwed up on as Senator and Secretary of State. But it’s easy to jump on somebody when you’ve never done the job yourself. Meanwhile, he supposedly lost almost a billion dollars in 1995 which he used as a tax write off so he would not have to pay taxes for almost another 18 years. Give me a break! He can’t even run his businesses right and he’s up Hillary’s ass?

Polls taken during and right after the debate gave Hillary a slight edge over Trump in terms of who the public thought won. Hell, she should have been 30 points ahead.  I may be an agnostic but I hope to God this edge gets her into the White House.

Hillary summed up the night best when she said, “When they go low, you go high.”

The Comings and Goings of Cumming

The Comings and Goings of Cumming

Funny how no two guys cum quite the same way. I don’t mean the mechanics. No, what I’m talking about here are the special effects.

First, you’ve got the silent cummers.  Those who grew up in strict Catholic households and disciplined themselves to shoot in silence. By the time you realize he’s sprung his load, he’s got his shoes on.

Then there’s the dirty talkers, straight from a student script of the USC Film School’s Porn Screen Writing 101. “Fuck yea – yea, man, here it comes, man, ready for it fucker?– Huh, buddy, huh? HUH?” And he keeps that truck stop buddy motif going right to the last drop.

Then you’ve got the St. Vitas’ Dance Boys. You think the guy may be having a stroke. His body is quivering, his eyes are rolling into the back of his head, and he’s barely breathing. And all you’re wondering is how you’re going to explain it to the paramedics, or worse, your partner who just returned from Walmart and thought you were cleaning the oven while he was gone.

Finally, you’ve got the screamers. No matter how butch they’ve been up to now, and I don’t care if they’ve fucked the shit out of you for the last 45 minutes, when it’s their moment for that DeMille close-up, they’re screeching at the top of their lungs like some silly adolescent girl happily losing her virginity. You either hope your very straight Bible Belt neighbors aren’t home, or thank God you live in a gay ghetto.

But somehow, no matter how we cum, just about every one of us will give out a giggle of relief after it’s all done. Just why is that?

Is the sexual climax God’s ultimate joke on us?

 

From The Storm Front: The Day Of and The Day After

From The Storm Front: The Day Of and The Day After

A glimpse of Matthew Thursday evening from my backyard.

Around 1:30 Thursday afternoon, satisfied l had done all l could to protect my property, I decided to take a coma nap on an old sofa beneath the overhang of my enclosed patio. With my three dogs, of course who follow me like the pied piper. This way l figured l would hear the arrival of Matthew up front and personal which all the news crews and meteorologists who l think get off on this stuff said would storm in around 3.

Only it never really happened. All through the rest of the afternoon into the evening and then the night when Matthew was to be his most wicked, all we got was some wind and some rain but nothing to cause you to wait an hour in line for gas. In fact, by 5:30 the news crews, hunger for anything to save face after their mega hyping, were reporting on somebody’s uprooted tree in Palm Beach. OMG.

I spent the evening watching “Stormy Weather” (appropriate, right?), that I had recorded off TCM a few weeks ago. A classic forties flick, featuring an all-black cast and some of the leading talents of the day – like band leader Cab Calloway in his Zoot suit – or any day – like a very young Lena Horne. And some of the most jivin’ dancin’ ever put on film.

In the end Matthew would leave his deadly mischief to Floridians further up the coast. As this morning’s Sun Sentinel, our local paper, blared on its front page:

“MATT-WHEW! A slight wobble to the east, and we avoid the worst of the monster storm.”

So all that multi-billion dollar, cutting edge weather forecasting technology with planes dropping down into the storm to measure all sorts of shit, like whether Michael was cut or uncut, and in the end, as it often is, we were spared by a roll of the dice.

Or maybe with all the gay people now living down here in South Florida, the Gay God decided to be kind.

So l spent the better part of today undoing my storm prep and trying to get my house back to its loose and lazy self.  But l have no regrets about taking the better safe than sorry strategy. As my orthopedic surgeon who l saw just a few days ago pointed out, if you have shutters and don’t use them and then have damage, your insurance company will politely reply screw you.

Remember all those microwave dinners smartass me made, figuring l could heat them up on my very clever portable butane stove? Well, me and my doggies will be having Chinese for the next three days for dinner and chicken pot pies for lunch.

Florida is Also Up There On The Hit Parade When lt Comes to Porn

Florida is Also Up There On The Hit Parade When lt Comes to Porn

So we’re not only a battleground state being wooed by both candidates almost every day and who some politicos say may be the state that crowns the new President, according to the experts in adult entertainment, Orlando, Florida, yes, the family vacation capital of the world and the home of Mickey Mouse, lnc., leads the country in the most porn oriented DVD’s downloaded, streamed, or rented. (Is that people’s subliminal way of saying fuck you goody-two-shoes Disney?) And when it comes to producing all that delectable filth, Florida is number 2 right under Los Angeles.

The bucks in producing or starring in porn aren’t what they used to be though, given all the free stuff so readily available on the web. Besides hook up site profile pics that guys visit again and again to get off (with all due modesty, I’m one of those profiles given the repeat offenders who l track checking me out), there are zillions of videos on sites like xtube and pornmd. What makes them particularly exciting is that they are sent in by amateurs – guys like you and me – and if you have an especially kinky fetish like having goldfish stuck up your ass, there will be at least 509 guys who like that too.

And as l told you before, even this aging gay man had his fifteen minutes of fame on hotoldermale.com just a few years ago when most guys my age are watching the shit not doing it.

You can find my blow by blow saga of my little excursion into the world of porn at:

http://wp.me/p1LdPf-n3

It’s gotta be at least five years ago when l did my shoot, but last winter with our bars full of tourists a young guy walked up to me.

“Are you Ray Andrews?”

“Yea,” l replied with a quirky smile.

“Hot Old Males?”

I nodded my head.

“Hot!” he quipped, then walked on with his buddies into the ocean of horny men.

Ain’t immorality great?

 

 

On the Storm Front

On the Storm Front

Those of you who follow my blog know l live in Fort Lauderdale, Ground Zero or pretty close to it for Matthew, a Category 4 hurricane and the worse to hit the continental United States in decades. I am writing this around noon on Thursday where everything here is strangely peaceful with only the growing breeze a reminder of the possible devastation just hours away.

It’s like sitting on a time bomb.

Growing up in Jersey, l remember hurricanes, which l guess were the remnants of the much larger ones that had hit further South, as something of a fun experience. That vision changed with Wilma which hit here in 2005. I was now already living in Lauderdale three years. The wind rustling under the hurricane shutters was an eerie sound I’ll never forget, and when it was all over, while damage in my neighborhood was confined to some loose roof shingles and downed branches, the fence between my property and my neighbors was history. We had no water for two days and resorted to the water in the pool to flush the toilet, and, worse, no power for three weeks. The gas stations had no generators, the grocery stores without refrigeration were stripped, and everyone returned to the farmer’s life of old when folks went to bed at 8.

My biggest priority? Charging up my phone and laptop. My neighbor who had a gas generator let me use one of her plugs.and l felt like civilization had returned to my life.

Wilma ended being classified as a Category 2, and l thought then if a Category 4 ever hit us, it would be the end of South Florida. Now strangely after an eleven year stretch of nothing, that is exactly what we are facing. Looking out from my screened in-patio as l write this at all the beauty that makes living here so special l realize it is as fragile as a glass menagerie and in a matter of hours from now could literally be gone with the wind.

And a lot has changed in those eleven years since Wilma. Florida is now the third most populated state in the country and millions of people, including many gays, have moved down here since, not aware how bad a hurricane can be. We also now live in this age of high technology where many have done away with their landline phones. That’s fine, but what if the cell phone towers are blown away? I have kept my landline more because I am an old-fashioned boy, but I also bought at the dollar store a cheap plug-in landline phone which

could come in handy when all else fails. I don’t know if all of you are aware of the fact that the phone is powered by the phone line itself so regardless what happens at Florida Power and Light, l could still communicate with the outside world.

Despite the dire predictions from officials that Florida is in for it no matter where you are, largely because of the sheer size and breath of the storm, some guys and a few neighbors l’ve been in touch with think nothing will happen. Taking the better safe than sorry strategy, l filled up my car earlier in the week before the long lines and “out of gas” signs materialized, and had most of what I needed in the way of canned stuff and water to get by while the grocery store shelves grew empty. I have one of those portable butane stoves campers use to heat things up, and this morning I microwaved what could that l can reheat later on my little stove before the power goes and the stuff ends up in the garbage. I’ve got my old fashioned can opener, and my lantern and battery operated radio, but discovering just yesterday the C and D batteries l had stowed away after Wilma were corroded, l spent several hours searching in vain for any store that still had some left. My neighbor managed to find some on her way home from work – after waiting an hour in line for gas.

Also yesterday morning l went down to our town’s public works department for free sand bags which l picked up for myself and my two neighbors. We live on a canal but its height is largely controlled by the city. It’s the street level front and side doors we’re concerned about if the torrential rains expected flood us. That’s why l carry flood insurance, even though l’m not in a flood zone.

And unlike some of my compliance neighbors who still have their patio furniture scattered about their backyards, my shutters are up, lawn stuff and plants brought in and stacked against my house inside my screened-in pool enclosure (that who know’s may also become history), and now all l can do is wait for the inevitable.

I originally parked my car in my carport, but then concerned the roof of the carport might collapse, l moved it to my driveway away from any possible trees. I placed important docs in my car figuring if l and my three doggies would have to make a quick getaway everything would be right there. But my neighbor, always ready with the what ifs, (“What if your car got crushed?”) convinced me to transfer the stuff to a bag l could grab along with some clothes if we had to make a quick getaway.

But a getaway to where?

One of my fuck buddies, who lives in a seven hundred dollar a month efficiency apartment, texted me, said he was trying to get a few guys over and would l want to join in. But sex is the last thing on my mind right now. There’s my house l want to be here for, of course, but l worry more about my three dogs than even myself. If the roof is blown away and we all go together, fine. But if l survived and they didn’t, l don’t think l’d wanna live. They’re with me right now sitting beside me as l write this, blissfully unaware of what may be ahead for all of us.

If all our twenty-first century technology or l are blown away, this may be the last message l’ll be able to post. If not, l’ll try to be back here tomorrow on the other side of Matthew.

In the meantime, I will take what will probably be my last hot shower for a week, have some lunch, get depressed by the latest advisories on TV while l still got TV, and just cuddle up with my dogs.

And wait.

Another Installment of My Advice Column, Go Ask Daddy

Another Installment of My Advice Column, Go Ask Daddy

Buddy: l often travel domestically for my job and so have plenty of opportunities to play in cities across the country. But whether it’s on a hook-up site, phone app, or a local bar, l always hesitate when a guy who lives nearby insists he come to my hotel to play. Sometimes he says he’s partnered or has four roommates or lives with his mother, but even though it may be a deal breaker and l’m horny as hell, l just don’t  feel right about inviting a stranger up to my room. Tell me l’m paranoid.

Daddy: No, you’re thinking with your first head not your second. Hate to bust some guys’ fantasy bubble but stats from the big boys like the FBI show there’s a much greater chance shit will happen – like robbing you or worse – if he comes to your place than if you go to his. While the reasons you describe for him not being able to host may be valid, you really have no way of knowing they’re just a ploy to get you alone in your room, do a number on you, then quietly slip away. If you have a buddy system with someone back home, you might text him you’re about to play with “Long and Hard” on Manhunt but that ain’t gonna do much good when he’s strangled you with your own tank top for kicks. So if he insists, your place or no dick, just move on. Unless he’s a repeat fling from a past trip you’re be safer to hit the local tubs. Or x-tube.

Duh! He Said THAT?

Duh, Did He Say THAT?

Every time l open Growlr, that phone app appealing to the bearish type and their admirers, l’m asked to sign up for its paid “Pro” membership. Why? Seven out of the ten hits l get are for masseurs, sex parties, guys cleaning houses or guys renting or looking to rent rooms. Of the other three that are actual hits to have sex, most are halfway around the world or not my type at all or are looking for me to open my privates. Hell, these fucken hookup sites are more and more becoming like baseball card trading venues. Show me yours and l’ll show you mine.

Anyway, two recent messages perked my interest for their naïveté, or maybe their stupidity.

One was from a newbie to Lauderdale, a 57 year old retiree from Ohio who was searching for a younger man, preferably under 30, who he could, as he put it, “shower with my love and affection.” Jesus, buddy, get a reality check.  While l’m not saying they’re aren’t younger guys attracted to older men for their seasoned confidence, most are looking to be showered in dollars, free housing, and maybe the keys to your BMW. “Love and affection” come in distant thirds.

Then there’s this beefy older guy who cleans houses for a living and was looking for a room to rent since he and his bf (who presumably had the apartment or condo) are breaking up. Out of curiosity, l checked out his profile where he described himself as “engaged.” Not for nothing, but aren’t we carrying it a bit too far, applying hackneyed str8 terms str8’s don’t even use much anymore to gay matings?

I very nicely messaged him back saying maybe he needed to update his profile since it was obvious he and his hubby-to-be were no longer “engaged.”

His response: “After l move out.”

Okay …. I guess he doesn’t want to ruin that “beat the shit out of me” sex till it’s over over.