R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 33

The Results of My Whip It Out Poll

The Results of My Whip It Out Poll

Last Friday l ran a poll on trends in male masturbation and discovered some surprising results among my predominantly over 40 constituents.

First, masturbation is not high on most of my guys’ “to do” lists. The majority of you said you only played with Mr. Peter once, if at all, daily and 48% said your weekly average was under 5. Good for you! While no doubt masturbation holds its pleasures, it can also be a big friggen waste of time, time that could be put to far more productive uses. Vaccuming the house, doing the laundry, working on the next great American novel …

Or Like real sex with another guy, huh?

And driving your sex selfies was porn or fantasy, either imagined or about some real episode, not virtual sex with a bro off the web or phone app, not bating with a buddy, and not using your mirror to get off. Kinda impersonal wouldn’t you say, but that’s the way the world’s going, right?

On a totally different topic, according to the U.S. Treasury Department, San Francisco which probably included Silicon Valley, topped the list of cities with the most married male couples (3.2% of its population). D.C. was #2 at 2.7%, New York came in at third at 2.4%, LA seventh at 1.1%, and my own Lauderdale, a big retirement town for gay men who made their money elsewhere, ninth at 1%.

I suspect, given the high ranking towns, money is a prime player in these matings. According to the feds, male married couples on average make $176,000, or $63,000 more than str8 married couples.

Any wonder why more and more of capitalistic America loves us?

 

 

 

Threesomes: II

Threesomes: II

Like I explained last time,  you’ve got spontaneous threesomes, and pre-arranged threesomes, both largely built on sex. Period.

Finally, we have the ultimate in ménage a trios: the polyamorous threesomes taken to the loving extreme.

I was at 2606, the once popular leather bar in Tampa, one weekend, when I started chatting with a hot furry leather man about life. During our conversation, he mentioned that he and his partner (who preferred watching TV on Saturday night to the comings and the goings of the Tampa leather scene) were recent San Francisco transplants. In S.F., Hot Man was an attorney whose clientele included three way relationships. Married marrieds with another man or woman in the picture, or just three gay boys or girls living together. But these were not just threesomes built on sex, not when property and 401K’s and kids and healthcare proxies and estates came into the picture.

I’ve known only one such kinda relationship myself up in Pennsylvania where I own a  summer home. Three guys living together and sharing the same bed. The jaded side of me wondered if they kept a calendar so they knew who slept with whom what night or, whether, lucky fucks, they played threeways every night of the week. But the serious side of me realizes there’s got to be more to it than that, just like in conventional long-term twosome relationships. What makes three people stay together in domestic, domiciled bliss?  It’s got to be more than a big dick or a tight ass. Common interests? Emotional ties?

But I think the most bizarre threesome I’ve encountered yet involved some guys from St Pete’s, Florida, whom I met on line. Kyle and Tim, two hot, seasoned men, said they were fuck buddies looking for a playmate and, on a long weekend in St Pete’s, my first visit there, we played the afternoon away at my guest house room in fuck/suck ecstasy. As I was showering up, Tim asked if I’d like to go to dinner, to wit he called Sal, his lover – his lover – on the cell to join us. So there we were, the odd quartet at an-all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant, Tim, Kyle, Tim’s fuck buddy, me who had just finished fucking around with the two of them, and Sal, Tim’s lover, who liked me, really liked me, and knew exactly what the three of us had been doing all afternoon.

Later, Tim who told me that he and Kyle had been fuck buddies, just fuck buddies, since college, also confided that he had a problem in making his romantic relationships stick. Sal was his third lover in as many years and he was wondering what he was doing wrong.

Duh?

Guess what Tim does for a living? Yep, he’s a psychologist.  And when Sal, whom Tim helped put through nursing school, suddenly left him one day for a younger and richer playmate, Kyle was beside himself on how Sal could have betrayed their polyamorous commitment.

Buddy, hormones are hormones.

 

Threesomes: Utterly Decadent or Somewhat Problematic?

Threesomes: Utterly Decadent or Somewhat Problematic?

It all depends. Partners welcome them now and again to revitalize a sexual relationship that’s becoming mundane, but many times, threesomes aren’t the equal deals in bed that gay fantasies have portrayed them to be.

I’ve had my share of them over the years and I’ve learned while men and combinations thereof are as varied as numbers on a scratch off lottery card, some common threads still apply.

You have the spontaneous threesomes that take place in some sex club/bath house venue or backroom. Here, two guys are screwing around and, all of a sudden, enters Mr. Number Three. Sometimes the original pair are so into it, New Guy tries butting in before realizing it just ain’t gonna happen. But just as often, the twosome are total strangers who just started getting it on 79 seconds before, and having a third guy to go down on the two of them while they’re warming up in the kissing department just adds to the fun.

Then, there are the threesomes with partners and fuck buddies. These can be spur of the  moment, too, like when a pair of belt loop boys, clinging onto one another all night at the local levi/leather bar, suddenly zero in on what would make them both happy, standing against the wall. But, more often, liaisons with pairs who know one another’s bodies and hot buttons like two well oiled machines tend to be prearranged, often on the web, or pre-screened as happens when the twosome is at a vacation hot spot or on some RSVP cruise. Such adventures give them an opportunity to size up, cock tease, and come on to Mr. Possibility. (Checking out HIV statuses doesn’t hurt either, particularly when the twosome are poz – or neg – boys.) With fuck buddies where their mutuality is based largely on good sex it’s less of a  issue, but partners are wise to fuck around off local soil so there’s less likelihood of Mr. New Guy becoming a threat to their relationship.

That’s because, as I said before, invariably there’s a subtle or not so subtle stronger connection between New Guy and one of the pair sexually and, yes, even emotionally, which may not end with the used condom or dirty cum rag on the floor.

So what combinations work the best? Two hairy guys into a smooth one or vice versa as a change of pace (like having pistachio ice cream instead of the usual vanilla, chocolate and strawberry); a top, a bottom, and a “versatile,” or, mommy, hold me back, three versatiles. On the other hand, three lids or three pots just don’t make for exciting three-way romps.(That’s why pre-screening is a must.)

What’s the hottest threesome I ever had? When two hot hot guys who I had product-tested separately – sometimes I just get lucky – had voiced an interest in meeting one another and I offered to play host – as long, of course,  I could join in. Surprisingly a good time was had by all. It was one of the few menage-a-trois I had been involved in where every guy got equal billing. In fact, if the cameras had been rolling, we would have the streaming porn show of the month.  Ah, but no sound track please. That’s because while Steve had his tongue up Jerry’s hairy hole and Jerry had his mouth on my tool (adds a new meaning to that iconic line from “Sunset Boulevard,” “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille”) we were chatting about the latest sales at Targets!

Go figure.

More on Threesomes  Wednesday …

 

My “Whip It Out!” Poll

My “Whip It Out!” Poll

Psychotherapists and sex therapists agree: there’s no “normal” when it comes to the amount of times a guy masturbates.

Some guys just have a higher sex drive than others, or maybe more opportunities. Some do it a lot because they’re in love with themselves, others to release sexual tensions (like seeing the same fucken hunk every morning in the line at Starbucks), or maybe they just haven’t been getting much lately. But as l’ve said before, as opportunities for virtual sex have imploded with the internet, some guys actually prefer that over the real thing.

Or maybe we’re a little anxious whether that prospective employer plans to check our Facebook page and sees that behind our nerdy exterior lies a real jerk and you j-o as a diversion. Or maybe it’s a rainy Saturday afternoon and you’re just fucken bored until you remember there’s a new video on Bound Jocks you meant to check out…

Unless playing with yourself is negatively impacting on your life, like being obsessed to jack off over your sister’s new hubbie’s brother – at her wedding  – or being chronically late for work because your toothbrush reminds you of a hard dick … hell, what’s the problem?

So take my poll. How many times do you “do it?” I’ll publish my results in a future blog. My thanks to Men’s Fitness Sex Files column for the medical data.

Take Our Poll



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Take Our Poll

Fetishes: Strange Bed Fellows

Fetishes: Strange Bed Fellows

Fetishes are like having a threesome, or even foursome. There’s you, there’s him, and there’s your respective fetishes, right there snuggled up in bed with the two of you.

And ah, the crazy, quirky stuff we’re turned on by. Now, I must admit that guys into fetishes do have a creative flair.  O.K, O.K., maybe stained, smelly jockey underwear and body hair doesn’t sound kinky by today’s standards, but I got a bit turned on when my Luxembourg biker boy who fell in love with me on Daddyhunt asked for mine for his 35th birthday. So it cost me $12 to send it. A small price to pay for the love of my fans.

But when distance isn’t the issue, what’s wrong with just some good-old fashioned dick and ass? Isn’t what God gave us enough? As I’ve hypothesized before, has this oversexed society we live in desensitized all of us, gay and straight, to the real deal? Or are the jaded among us who’ve played the game too long now find ordinary play, well, a bit “same old, same old?” The result: we’re always looking for a fresh angle to rekindle that hard-on of old.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical. Maybe you were bedazzled by your daddy’s big toe on the beach when you were three and you’ve been fixated on men’s big toes ever since. Who knows?

Sure, there’s the conventional fetish list: feet, piss, hairy chests, pits, asphyxiation sex, chains, smelly socks, e-stimulation, tits, bondage, jockstraps, pumps, ball torture (one of my hot fuck buddies loves me to mallet his tied up balls), work boots, big asses, tackle weights, heavy bellies, and cucumbers (yes, cucumbers). But then there’s the kinkier kink, a few of which I’ve had the dubious honor of encountering in my notorious gay career:

Bush hair. Some guys trim it or even shave it off (why?), but there was one guy into it big time. The thicker, the hotter.

Forearm hair. See above.

Guys dressed, not in carpenter’s pants, but ties and three piece business suits. I never did make it with the guy to find out when, and if, the clothes came off.

Watching Gilligan’s Island on DVD while he was getting fucked. Now, I find porn actually a distraction while doing it, (after all, you got me, what do you need the porn for?) but 40 year old sit-coms?? Maybe it’s a kind of sailor fetish, you think?

Puffing cigarette or cigar smoke on my cock as he sucked it (Actually kinda hot, just no flicking ashes, please).

Using a vacuum hose to get his dick hard – vacuum pump, fine, but a vacuum cleaner??). I remember while I was still working in the hospital line when a straight guy came into our ER, the hose of his Oreck still engulfing his cock. Beats Viagra’s cautionary four hour erections.

Having his Yorke, Natasha, lick his balls while he was going down on me. I declined the offer when he wanted me to lay my family jewels in front of his little doggie’s long, wet tongue.

It’s come to a point the next guy may want a full size cut out of Raquel Welch in her prime, maybe from “One Million, B.C.,” standing by the bed to get turned on.

Wouldn’t just slipping him a Viagra be so much simpler?

 

Fuckin’ Around (and “Married”)

Fuckin; Around (and “Married”)

Regardless whether you’re 25 or 55, when you think you’ve passed that plateau with a guy and entered into “relationship” territory, chances are you and he vow to be loyal to one another and only one another forever. And I’m sure, at least I hope, there’s a certain percentage of guys where that works. Unfortunately, the cynical side of me thinks that for many, if not most of us, the day arrives when bedding down with the same body all the time becomes, well, boring, and sooner than later we’re on the prowl again. Only some of us want our cake and eat it too. The stability of a relationship and the freedom of a whore. And this includes guys who are truly “married” legally.

Enter infidelity, cheating, or in gay (and straight) vernacular, “fuckin’ around on the side.”

Now, how you define cheating depends on what rules you go by, or better yet, whose.

Open relationships usually begin with guys pledging only to screw around as an unbreakable, non-negotiable unit. You know who I mean, the belt loop boys who cling on to one another in the bar or at IML, or cruise the sex clubs or bath houses or the web as a pair.

But this illusion of fidelity may only last so long or work only for so long for one part of the partnership. Threesomes sound naughty but, in reality, can become troublesome if one partner prefers New Guy over his seasoned bed partner. It’s hard to fight favoritism when you’ve got that fresh hairy butt hole in your face. That’s why “wedded” duos who are smart play in anonymous arenas or on trips where New Guy fades faster than a post-cum hard-on. It’s when such liaisons happen closer to home that temptation can lead to twosomes on the side. Eventually, something has to give. Either partners agree to give one another space just as long as new guys aren’t visible (no calls at home, trysts at his place not their place), or the relationship collapses.

Now, closed relationships have their own set of advantages and problems. One guy in the relationship is getting itchy, or isn’t getting it at home as much as he’d like, or at all anymore (hey, libidos aren’t always in sync). But he sees value in maintaining the relationship for other reasons: emotional support, companionship, economics (like splitting the rent or mortgage) or just having someone to come home to to argue with. Beats sloppy licks from your poodle.

But he understands his partner well enough to know that even bringing up the subject of side sexcapades could mean an end to the relationship. So begins the deceit: the work-outs at the gym when the only exercise he’s getting is fucking someone’s ass; the late nights at work; the out-of-town family visits or business trips. Guys in closed relationships never leave their smartphones on when home or when they’re with their partner, almost always communicate with their liaisons by text or e-mail, and are always ready with a back-up lexicon of excuses to cover their ass.

But why, oh why, do we stray in the first place? It makes life so complicated, doesn’t it? Physical release and warm flesh aren’t the whole story, not when you can get off in seventeen uncivilized minutes with xtube, some porn, or a fleshlite, and not even have to use mouthwash. (It’s a fact: 17 minutes is the average length of a sexual encounter.) No, I think the real culprit is our insatiable need for an ego kick, to lust and be lusted after. All fun, no strings.

Crazy, ain’t it?

 

“Looking for An LTR :” You Sure About That? II

“Looking for An LTR :” You Sure About That? II

“Waiting for Mr. Right but in the meantime I’ll take Mr. Right Now.”

If I see these lines in one more hook-up site profile of a guy over 45, I’m gonna puke all over my laptop keyboard which would not be a smart thing to do. Manhunt or Grinder are not the place to meet a lover or even find a date; maybe, maybe Match-dot-com might be.

But worst, you’re not only bullshitting guys like me who read your profile, you’re bullshitting yourself.

Why? Because if you’re still looking for an LTR at 50, good fucken luck!

I can hear the moaning already, “Oh, how can you say such a hurtful thing,” or the dozen comments like “You totally wrong dude. I met my Harry when I was 57 and he was 47 and we’ve been together for ten years and I ain’t supporting him.”

OK, OK, can meeting the love of your life at 50+ happen? Sure. Does it happen? Absolutely. But your odds are as good as trying to get rich overnight blowing your paycheck at Vegas or Atlantic City.

So, here are the depressing facts from a long-time Observer of, and Participant in The Life that those of you who bought the lifetime admission ticket to Gay Fantasyland don’t wanna hear.

When we think of an LTR we think of commonality in thinking and interests and style, and commitment to another human being emotionally. But, in the end, the only way any relationship will last is if both parties are ready to let go and compromise. That’s why I’m convinced that the older we get, the less we’re open to giving in, no matter what we say or even feel.

I mean, do you really wanna give up your side of the bed?

While there may be young guys who truly want an older man sexually and emotionally, not necessarily financially, and older guys who are seeking guys their same age, I think these factions are outliers. Instead, from my experience, the over 50 gay crowd can be broken up into a few groups, none of them very enticing.

There’s the 50 and over guys who may or may not have had an LTR in the past, maybe got burnt by one of them, may or may not be still interested in sex, or get their jollies from the web or porn, and are quite content to lead a solo life.

There’s the 50+ men who have partners with whom they may or may not continue to have sex with, together or separately, and who, at most, are looking for a reliable fuck buddy, not a lover. Hell, Fort Lauderdale where I live is a town of philandering partners.

There are the 50+ guys who are looking for an LTR or say they are who have nothing to bring to the table. Simply put, they’re train wrecks; they may have been pretty once, but now they’re out of shape, sick, alcoholic, drugged-up, with no real job, no money, nothing. So they say they love you – love without responsibility is bullshit. Hey, after not giving a damn the last 30 years, wouldn’t you want to hook-up with somebody who did and live off his dime?

And then there are the fifty plus guys who still look good because they take care of themselves, have their shit together, are stable and reliable, who are either panting after the 25 year olds who want a daddy in bed, or are waiting for a fifty plus guy who’s a 10.5 even if they’re a 7.

OK, so what’s my advice to you men pushing the Big 5-0? If you’re honest, really honest with yourself, about wanting a partner, DON’T FUCKEN WAIT til no one is interested in you anymore or you have to question whether their motives are genuine or money-driven.

Just last week, I ran into the webmaster of one of the popular hook-up sites in our local western bar. I casually asked him how his love life was going and his response was simple but all-telling: “Oh, I’ve got a few 8’s hanging out there but I’m still waiting for that 10.”

Now this guy, who’s in his mid 40’s, isn’t bad looking, lost a few pounds, and started going to the gym, but at most I’d classify him a 7.

Know what I said to him before I went for another Bud Lite?

“Don’t wait too long.”

He and so many other guys remind me of, of all people, my Aunt Ann on my father’s side who, though no beauty, had plenty of moneyed suitors when she was young, none of whom satisfied her. This guy was too old, this guy was going bald, this other one wanted her to move, another one only owned a hardware store, etc., etc., etc. Then in her early 40’s in an era when an unmarried woman over 25 was considered a spinster, Aunt Ann, apparently in desperation, married a full class loser, five years her junior, a divorced guy when divorce was still taboo, with two grown kids he never saw, who worked in a local factory, listened incessantly on his transistor radio to the New York Yankee games, and smoked three packs a day. My last vision of Uncle Sam was him sitting in the corner of their living room, sucking oxygen through a tube.

So remember, if you’ve found somebody that you click with, even if he doesn’t have blue eyes and a seven and five-eighths of an inch dick, don’t throw him under the bus because you’re waiting for Mr. Perfect.

No Mr. Perfect is perfect.

Hell, even the one of the hottest guys in Fort Lauderdale who I had the privilege of fucking is starting to lose his hair.

As for me, a guy who broke off a decades old relationship because we had grown apart, no more emotional roller coaster rides for me. Just my own private stable of fuck buddies – I have three genuinely handsome guys, all younger than me, who really dig their Daddy – is all I need.

“Looking for an LTR”: You Sure About That?

“Looking for an LTR”: You Sure About That?

Right off, this sermonette is for gay guys. I really think gay girls are wired differently and take relationships seriously from the first peck on the cheek. As a lesbian fellow faculty member at the university where I worked once said to me after we had come out to one another, “When two guys hit the sack, it’s all about sex. When two gals hit the sack, they’re married.”

Yet for all the fancy free, free-as-a-bird frivolity and indiscriminate fucking this lifestyle purports to offer, more guys than may even admit it to themselves are desperately hungry to get off the whirling gay merry-go-round. To settle down for a quiet, boring existence with a life partner, soul mate, or whatever hackneyed phrase popular culture chooses to use at the moment. Not a series of bed-hopping two month flings so you can boast about your string of “ex’s,” I mean something solid.

I can sense that desperation in the countless gay website profiles I scan, some that go on for paragraphs on what the profiler is looking for in another man, way beyond dick size and tits. I see that same desperation in the tired, expressionless faces of guys in the bars on a Saturday night, still hanging in there at 1:15 for more, I think, than just a quick fuck, even if they’ve fooled themselves into thinking that’s the only reason.

But “The Life,” with its non-stop emphasis on physicality and sex, sets the odds against us right from the beginning. How can you expect most guys to buy into another person’s likes and dislikes when they’ve never romped in bed? Straights, though certainly not always, can often make it on personality and socio-economic draws. But when it comes to man-to-man connections, sex, whether we like or not, is almost always the first ingredient. Guys who say they want to “get to know you first” often don’t stand a chance at getting to first base. After all, some would argue, if the lust isn’t there, can a LTR ever take root? (Maybe.)

That’s why, in my mind, guys who may even be ready for a Long Term Relationship, let alone those of us just in it for dick and ass, are intimidated by some of these “walks on the beach” web profiles because the guy’s expectations sound too high. Hell, Manhunt, Bear411, DaddyHunt with their provocative pics and explicit sexual habits rap sheets, are not e.harmony.com’s. For a lark, I checked out match.com which offers gay listings. It was somewhat comical, guys talking about their spiritual side or whether or not they ever wanted to have children. Nice virtues to consider but, come on now, men, do we initially connect discussing world peace?

When we think of an LTR we think of commonality in thinking and interests and style, and commitment to another human being emotionally. But, in the end, the only way any relationship will last is if both parties are ready to let go and compromise. Every LTR is different. Some relationships are as tight as threads on a screw, others as loose as a fist fucked ass, but hey, it’s whatever works that counts, as long as the guys know they’re willing to bend for one another (figuratively speaking). Without that flexibility, LTR’s can’t happen, I don’t care how great the sex is and how much you both like film noir. That’s why I’m convinced that the older we get, the less we’re open to giving in, no matter what we say or even feel.

You also have to be ready to deal with a lot of mental angst. Family, even pets dying, medical crises, economic downturns… the list goes on.

So, ask yourself, when you idealize those “walks on the beach” you have stuck in the fantasy lobe of your brain: are you really ready?

Will you ever be?

More, next time …

The Jungwirth Affair

The Jungwirth Affair

Now l don’t know if this made the national gay wires, but just before the big Labor Day weekend, a scumbag known in central and south Florida circles named Craig Jungwirth, using the pic of someone else, 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.

Now Jungwirth is a gay man who already attempted to screw other gay men by committing fraud. He posted on the web bogus activities for SoFlo’s annual, highly popular Bear Weekend, and guys bought tickets from him not knowing he had nothing to do with the event. And this was just one of a number of evil acts this unhinged guy committed on other gays.

Obviously nothing happened, and whether the threats made a dent in business that weekend is hard to say. Yeah, things were a bit quieter than we usually experience, but you gotta remember Hurricane Hermine was hitting the West Coast of Florida and usually a lot of Tampa and St. Pete’s guys and gals would come down on these long holiday weekends to party in Lauderdale. Instead they were back home protecting their property. But it was obvious everyone was still on edge.

Thanks to the FBI and assistance from Facebook, authorities were able to trace the threats made in his name to Jungwirth though he denied he was the culprit. He is now sitting in jail awaiting trial, but, get this, he may walk away Scot free since some legal experts feel his rantings may be protected under the first amendment freedom of speech clause. For in order for charges to stick, authorities must prove intent, l guess uncovering a garage full of bombs, guns and ammunition that can be linked to Jungwirth.

Go figure.

 

9/11: I Was There

9/11: I Was There



It’s hard to believe but this weekend we mark the fifteenth anniversary of 9/11, which I personally experienced, and after Pulse, I wonder if we are any safer today than we were then. BTW, I used my experience in Not In It For The Love, my novella of unconventional love, betrayal and redemption set in the New York City of 9/11. Available from Totally Bound Press and amazon.com.

 

Bin Laden’s death, however euphoric, was bittersweet for those who either lost people they knew or loved, or who were there when it happened.

Both were my worlds.

In fact, 9/11 was one of the one hundred and one reasons why I left NYC for SoFlo back in 2002.

At the time I was the Public Relations VP for the Staten Island Division of NYC’s now defunct St. Vincent’s Hospital System, and we had a corporate meeting scheduled that Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. at the Motherhouse as we jokingly referred to St Vincent’s in lower Manhattan. Living – and working – on Staten Island, New York’s forgotten borough, I would usually take the S.I. Ferry into the City if I had business, but that morning I instead drove my car over the Bayonne Bridge which connected S.I. to New Jersey and took the PATH subway system which had recently opened a station in Bayonne. It left me off right on Seventh Avenue and 14th Street, a short walk to the hospital.

I arrived a bit early, around 8:30, and decided to kill time having an overpriced cup of java at one of the coffee shops on Seventh. Then, at about 8:50 – the time the first plane hit – I began my walk downtown.

Up to then there had been no sounds or commotion, but as I strolled briskly to my destination – Seventh and 12th Street – I noticed more and bystanders looking up. “Why?” I thought until I looked up too. From this vantage point, the WTC usually resembled a picture postcard that tourists from London or Peoria would send to the folks back home. Only now, there was a gaping hole with billowing black smoke right smack in the upper third of one of the towers. Funny, but in person and real time, it looked fake, like a Grade D sifi movie from the 50’s, and actually appeared more real later when I saw the moment replayed again and again on TV.

I called my secretary back on Staten Island and told her to turn on the TV in our office to see what was up. It was the last time that day that I used my cell phone. Apparently there were cell towers on top of the WTC, and soon after our cells’ only use were as paperweights.

When I got to our corporate PR offices in the hospital, my colleagues were glued to the television although we could all see what was transpiring right outside our office window. Everyone probably thought the same thing I did, that a traffic helicopter or small private plane had gone bad. After all, the Empire State Building had been hit by a plane in 1947. But after the second jet plowed into the other Tower, we all knew this was no accident, and our corporate PR boss immediately mobilized us into action teams. You see, St. Vincent’s was the closest hospital to Ground Zero and our job for most of that terrible day was to control the media circus that soon converged at our doors.

Seventh Avenue which fronted St. Vincent’s was closed, the blocks surrounding it barricaded, and ambulances, physicians, nurses, and other healthcare personnel waited patiently for victims that never materialized. Yes, there were casualties, but for the most part, you either walked out of the towers or you were dust. It was there, keeping the press outside at bay, that I witnessed the collapse of the two towers. From that point, ten or so blocks from Ground Zero, there were no sounds of destruction. A thick cloud mushroomed from the site like an atomic bomb, then nothing. It was easy to forget people were still in those buildings.

Health personnel who lived in the area came by to volunteer; and other residents of the Village began forming a line around the perimeter of the hospital to give blood. I remember two gay boys, obviously aware of the ban on blood donations by homosexuals because of the AIDS epidemic, asking me, “Are they taking gay blood too?”

Later in the afternoon, I was assigned to staff one of the tables that had been hastily stationed just outside the hospital entrance, manned with lists of who had been brought to our place. Like zombies out of “Night of the Living Dead,” people who were searching for family or friends in the chaos listlessly came up to our tables to see if we had their loved one. They were obviously exhausted not just from the shock of the day but the fact that the Greater New York Hospital Association had no master list, forcing people to wander nomadically from one hospital to the next. And here, right behind me, on St. Vincent’s brick facing, they began posting those heartbreaking “Have You Seen…” notices that would engulf the City in the weeks ahead.

At about 7, I was released, but because the PATH system was out of commission – the WTC station had been obliterated in the disaster – my strategy was to somehow get to the Staten Island Ferry terminal. I grabbed the subway but when the conductor announced two stops into our ride that there would be no further stops in lower Manhattan, a sea of us fellow Staten Islanders who all shared my strategy vacated the train en masse for the long trek by foot to the terminal which was only a block or so from Ground Zero.

By pure happenstance, I tagged along with two black nurses from Beth Israel who knew the way. No one had any idea whether the Ferry was even running; the rumor that afternoon was that the Ferry terminal on the Staten Island side had been turned into a temporary morgue. The cops we encountered on our hike knew nothing; and we found firefighters and other emergency personnel, shell shocked by the day’s events, sitting on curbs, exhausted or openly crying. Wisely, my new nurse buddies had the good sense to ask for face masks from one of the ambulances along the way, which we put on as we approached our destination.

The scene resembled Pompeii after Vesuvius. A heavy white coating enveloped everything in sight, while in the middle of this surreal world a lone jogger trotted underneath the abandoned West Side Highway, a drop of normalcy in a sea of insanity.

Yes, the Ferry was still running – we would get the last boat out at 9, the last that would run for a week – but as we made our way upstairs to the platform, we could see the terminal had been turned into a temporary trauma center. It was also evident that the dozens of cots that covered the terminal floor had remained untouched.

The first reaction of people that morning, fearing what might happen next, was to get the hell out of lower Manhattan as quickly as possible. For Staten Islanders, many of whom worked in the Financial District, that meant the Ferry. In their haste and panic, some who had been injured in the chaos waited until they got home to come to my own St. Vincent’s to be treated. But the largest influx of victims of 9/11 that we would see in the coming weeks and months were those who came to our Psych ER.

Living in New York City, there was no way to escape the ongoing gloom which descended on its residents for months. It was especially dismal on Staten Island, home to many of the Wall Streeters, cops and firefighters who never walked away from the rubble, where every day our local paper announced dozens of funerals and memorial services. Barbara, the secretary of my CEO, knew Ralph, her firefighter husband and a first responder to the scene, was dead when she saw his rig crushed under the concrete and steel of one of the towers on TV.

I attended Ralph’s funeral at Our Lady of Sorrow Church, a few blocks from the hospital, and there, at the entrance like a receiving line at a wedding, were Barbara; Ralph’s mother, Anne, retired from the hospital’s Maintenance Department; and Sue, his sister, a lab tech. I knew them all.

The Church was standing room only, maybe the only benefit, I thought, of dying young.

And I know Barbara and her family were strangely grateful for another reason.

At least they had something to bury.