R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 38

It Was Only A Matter of Time

It Was Only A Matter of Time

Last night at closing at a popular gay club in vacation mecca Orlando, a shooter opened fire and killed over 50 and wounded scores of others, making it one of the worst mass shootings in US history. The FBI has already classified it as an act of domestic terrorism.

At about that same time two hundred miles away here in Lauderdale, l was leaving a very packed Hunters, the most popular gay dance club in Wilton Manors and fast becoming one of the most popular dance clubs in South Florida, period. The club had been running an underwear/jockstrap night and scores of guys, me included, were flashing our booties. If that same shooter had been our way he could very well have wiped out a hundred people or more easily.

I hate playing soothsayer but l’ve said many times it was only a matter of time before we were caught in the terrorist crosshairs. I always thought the perfect venue would be a gay bar or high profile event like a gay pride parade or even perhaps Memorial Day’s annual International Mister Leather contest in Chicago. With gay marriage on the books and LGBT rights deliberated by our Presidential candidates, too many of us think mainstream America, if not love us, will at least accept the inevitable  – our equal standing as citizens.

Well think again.

Back at the turn of this century when countries like Israel were being bombarded by terrorist attacks l often wondered why we hadn’t been hit.

Then came 9/11.

This Summer, Stay the Fuck Home!

This Summer, Stay the Fuck Home!

One of the gay rags here in Lauderdale recently ran a full page ad extolling very gay Tel Aviv as a summer destination: hot beaches, hot clubs,  hot men. Well, unless you’re one of the airheads I meet down here who barely know who the President is, you know what happened just this week. (Terrorist attack = four dead.) So would you go to Israel now for a fuck? Israel, which is arguable the most security-conscious country in the world?

I’m glad l did my international traveling when l was young. Greece, Egypt, Peru, Guatemala (l’m something of an ancient archeological nut), Eastern Europe, Italy, England (where l spent a college semester abroad as a foreign exchange student), Paris, Russia, most of Central and Latin America, Australia. You get the picture. Then it was cheap, ( l took a charter flight vacation and saw every major city in Italy for six hundred bucks), security was a kiss on the wrist, and again youth was on my side. You can’t take an elevator up to the Parthenon.

Today security is almost a sexual experience. Coming back from PA after l dropped off my ex last month, l flew out of Newark where l was patted down by the TSA rep like some potential trick feeling me up in the Ramrod. He stuck his hand down my pants to the crack of my ass and down my crotch. Hell, l was almost getting a hard-on. Nice.

And he wasn’t even cute.

Those of you who’ve traveled lately, though, know it’s no fun. Long lines, long waits, delays.

But this summer my advice is stay the fuck home. First there’s the Zika virus running rampant throughout Latin America. Hell, they might even postpone or cancel the Summer Olympics in Rio which would a devastating economic blow to Brazil, already fucked up. And if that wasn’t enough, just think what a security nightmare the Olympics will be.

The State Department has warned Americans to avoid Europe this summer, the continent’s High Season for tourists, because of potential and probably inevitable terrorist attacks, and you might as well add Eastern Europe and the Middle East (see above) to the list.

So how should you spend your summer vacation? My advice is to start working on your bomb shelter. If Trump gets in and tells Russia or North Korea to go fuck themselves, you’re gonna need it.

Another Installment of My Gay Advice Column, “Go Ask Daddy”

Another Installment of My Gay Advice Column, “Go Ask Daddy”

Buddy: l met this great guy and a month after we met he moved in with me. Everything’s cool except for one thing. He still stays in contact with his ex. He keeps telling me it’s over between them sexually and emotionally, but he admits they have lunch at least once or twice a week – their offices are close by – and talk on the phone even when l’m around. Now he plans to go away for a weekend to be at the wedding of his ex’s str8 sister.  I’m getting increasingly uneasy about it all but l don’t want to lose him by making what he feels are unfair demands. Am l the prick or is he?

Daddy: He is, by putting you in this very uncomfortable position. Did you ever discuss with him why they broke up? How long after before you met him? Were you only a boomerang boy? Did he move in with you because the other guy threw him out? Do you really believe when he’s away for that wedding weekend that the sparks of temptation won’t rekindle?

 

Maybe you don’t want to lose him, but what’s worse, losing him or your own self-respect? Suggest you go with him on this wedding junket (if he was planning to stay with his ex’s family tell him the two of you will grab a motel instead) so you can get to know his old clan. If he resists, be bluntly honest, no matter what his response, that all this shit with his ex is bothering you plenty and that it might be smarter for the two of you to live apart (translation, he get his own place), and see whether what the two of you got going is real. How he reacts to your ultimatum will very revealing how he really feels about him – and you.

 

 

 

Looking for A New Guy In My Life

Looking for A New Guy In My Life

I’ve had it with my decades old relationship with seventy something George who’s old fashioned, cranky, obstinate and unappreciative. Here l would go up every fall to our home in PA to drive him down to Fort Lauderdale to spend the winter at MY house and reverse the process each spring, and for that he complains that l’m dragging him down so he can critique everything l do and fuck up my tourist season sex. Gee, thanks. Summers l go up to PA, no man’s land, and become a Mets widow.

Enough.

I’ve had with guys my age who don’t think l’m good enough for them but who for the most part look like trainwrecks or Jenny Craig failures because of too much smoking, too much drinking, too much drugging, or too many lonely nights with their refrigerators.

And while l feel blessed to have a second gay career as a daddy, pop culture obsessed young guys old enough to be my grandson with their smooth, chicken breasted, ironing board bodies and often retro fem demeanors who keep hitting me up on the hook up sites bore the hell out of me.

So, l’ve decided to launch my own campaign for the guy l want. My specifications?

No younger than 35 or older than 50

Furry, and the furrier the better

Boyishly handsome

Bearded

A natural man’s body, no gym bunnies or steroid junkies, please

5’6 to 5’8 so l can look him in the eye

Intelligent, educated with a real job

Just a regular guy, no retro fems or over the top macho men need apply.

And to get my campaign rolling, l’m getting a custom T-shirt made that will read:

Front: Cute hairy daddy with $$$ ….

Back: … looking for a cute hairy guy with brains.

Think that will fly?

Hey, he can even live with me in my on-the-water home with heated pool free if he agrees to pick up the dog shit from the backyard every morning

The Warren Beatty Complex

The Warren Beatty Complex

Remember Warren Beatty? No, not the aging producer of today, but the Warren Beatty of the 60’s, (rent “Splendor in the Grass” to see what I’m talking about), the boyish, incredibly handsome actor who flicked from one beautiful woman to another, never considering any long term relationship until Father Time began to take its toll on his once hunky looks, and he decided to get legally hitched to the attractive but not all that beautiful Annette Benning and sire some kids. The rumor that he was actually gay I don’t think was ever substantiated, but whatever his true motives for marrying the first and, so far, only time in his life when he was well into his fifties, it seemed he had decided to “sow his oats” until he had exploited every last drop of his to-die-for looks and overt sexuality before taking himself off the market.

Ditto, by the way, for George Clooney.

There’s also a theory among some sociologists that beautiful women will fuck their youth away with super-masculine men, but when that biological clock for having kids starts ticking down, they choose the nerdy, pseudo-effeminate nurturing type. My gay neighbors told me they were the butchest guys among a sea of heteros at a birthday party for the son of a straight couple they knew.

Well, as a gay man on the north side of 50, I seem to see what I call the Warren Beatty Complex in a lot of gay male pairings. Sure, you’ll have your share of thirty-something, forty something dynamic duos that may last a few years before threesomes no longer work to revitalize the romance; but when it comes to something more permanent, more and more what, at least, I’m witnessing is the still pretty-but-beginning-to get-haggard guy settling down with some much older and grayer Plain Paul. The ones where you ask yourself, “what the fuck does he see in him?”

When sugar daddyism isn’t in the equation, it’s either the mirror and former pretty man’s psyche telling him he can no longer live up to his once wild reputation as a heartbreaker; or he’s decided voluntarily to hang up his jockstrap, at least publicly, and spend Friday nights at home watching TV with his designated partner, tired of having to be endlessly “on,” looking for some stability in his life, and finally waking up to the fact that a gym bunny lover isn’t necessarily the secret to happiness. And probably is as fleeting as confetti on New Year’s.

These guys I classify as the lucky ones, the ones who’ve played and played and played, and just when the needle in that long playing record gets stuck, “find” someone as a  companion/lover for their – should I dare say it? – old age.

But I think for many gay guys, pretty or not, the scenario is not all that rosy. Waiting for Mr. Right, or I should say, Mr. Perfect, often an illusion colored by our own sub-culture’s perpetually adolescent fantasies, they, in the process, pass up decent guys who could really care for them for some empty-headed humps who can’t even spell the word commitment. Then, one day – in their late forties or late fifties – or for the well preserved among us – in their sixties – they wake up and realize Time has run out and they are no longer partner – or bedroom – material.

They’re the guys you see hovering around the bars and sex clubs, thin and brittle, or swollen and triple-chinned, but with a shadow of past sexiness lingering in their faces, still trying to play a young man’s game, still thinking they look hot in their leather harness, blotting out reality with too many rounds of two-for-ones.

They’re the guys on the hook-up sites who, at an admitted 55, say they are still seeking an “LTR.” Or are still waiting for “Mr. Right.”

Is it that Beatty had his epiphany before it was too late?

 

Another Installment of My Advice Column “Go Ask Daddy”

Another Installment of My Advice Column “Go Ask Daddy”

Buddy: l met this real cool guy on the web and he just may be the one. We’ve chatted on line, exchanged pics, and spoke on the phone. Now we wants to come visit me for a week. He lives in a small town in Indiana, l live in the heart of Chicago’s Boystown, and this would be his first trip to the Big City. So do you think l’m going about things the right way by having him stay with me?

Daddy: Rule Number One: unless you’ve met the guy and fucked him and the fuck was great, never, l mean never invite him over to stay with you for more than a weekend or a few days. What if you find out he’s a heavy smoker or he does drugs or his pix were taken when the first Bush was President, or he measured the size of his dick from his asshole? A few days of bullshit can be tolerated but a week could feel like an eternity.

 

If you don’t believe me ask my friend with emphysema who invited a new buddy over for a week and found out he smoked like he had stocks in R. J. Reynolds.

 

The Guy Bar: An Endangered Species?

The Guy Bar: An Endangered Species?

Not that long ago, guy bars were a refuge from nerdy bosses, bitchy women, and young boys who sucked their fruity drinks through a straw. You know, where guys dressed Basic Butch (a ten year old tee-shirt, 501 button-fly jeans -no underwear – and boots). Now when I go to some sleazy, stand-up watering hole, there’s spiked hair youngens drifting around ogling at the Daddies. Or drag queens as tall as basketball stars rummaging through the crowds. Listen, I got nothing against you, girlfriend, but I don’t want to look at drag queens in a butch bar.

Or the other Saturday night in Ft. Lauderdale, my home, at what was supposed to be a “man’s” watering hole our local leather bar, the Ramrod, I felt they had just let off some tourist bus from Miami filled with giggly, hairless, pudgy boys and their girlfriends tittering at the matinee meat surrounding them. Maybe the bar was running some junket on behalf of the Fort Lauderdale Tourism Bureau: “You, too, can stroke a real live Hot, Butch Ho-mo-sexual!”

Even the attire worn by some of the guys no longer fits the mode. Leather vest, Bermuda shorts in floppies in a leather guy bar? Back in my day in the now sanitized, once seedy West Village of Manhattan, you would have been castrated right on the street. And in my last visit to Manhattan last November, the “new “Eagle” on the Westside advertised Thursday as “Code Night,” yet I found women and sneakers strutting the bar. Huh?

Although I blame some younger gays for corrupting our bars by bringing in girls even to heavy leather bars, in the end I think they’re only accelerating an inevitable trend to “blended” bars and the demise of the truly pure gay bar.

So what are the real reasons why butch bars are fading almost as fast as the Nehru jacket did? (See Wikipedia> 1960’s> Men’s Fashion Trends.)

More guys today are either partial to the dance circuit or chi-chi bar where they can feel all festive and bubbly, often with some hip straight girl on their arm, and coke up their nose, and check out the local butch bar to be titillated, not seduced.
More seasoned folk who remember the old days don’t go out drinking as much as they once did. Hell, most of them won’t admit they’re in bed on a Saturday night by 10.
Whatever our age, most of us are doing our “cruising” and a lot, lot more on the internet in our underwear, or our smartphone on the run, at work, in the gym, on the beach, even in the supermarket.

Bottom line, despite all this bullshit about bars supporting our grandiose “bear community,” or “leather community,” bars are businesses first, out to sell drinks where the profit margin is higher than the national debt. So, butch or not, leather or not, if some sweet young things or girl tourists stroll in and put their money down on the bar, that’s all that counts. Otherwise leather bars would enforce dress codes.

If dogs could drink, they’d run free dog biscuit nights.

 

A Bittersweet Memorial Day Memory

A Bittersweet Memorial Day Memory

Memorial Day is usually tied to sun, fun and hotdogs. But after meeting Mitch, my Memorial Day memories will be forever bittersweet. Here’s my story which you may be reading right now on your tablet while you bask on the beach, your patio or country porch. I reads like fiction but it’s all true.

I only knew Mitch a few weeks out of my petty life but I know I will never forget him. In fact I think of him more times without thinking than I wish I did.

One Saturday night at 2606, the leather bar in Tampa, I was stalked by a dissipated, bloated guy, probably younger than me. I tried to be polite with some non-committal small talk but each time I delicately got some distance between us, he popped up again to leer. Finally, inevitably, he went in for the kill.

“So buddy, what exactly are you waiting for?” he asked in a guttural, butchy tone.

Without hesitating, I blurted straight out: “Me.”

Well, Mitch, my sturdy little furry New York City Jew boy, was the closest “me” I think I’ll ever meet in my life.

I don’t quite remember who came on to whom on Manhunt that late Tuesday night, but there was no doubt his rough-hewn bearded face and naturally muscular, slightly stocky hairy body donned only in 501’s and a profile that emphasized, “looking for older, masculine hairy guys only – facial hair a must” caught the attention of my dick. That and the fact that, despite measurements that read “9 inches,” his screen name was “beefyhairybottom.”

I mapquest his address to a non-descript house off dingy 13th Street just a few blocks from Lauderdale’s leather hangout, the Ramrod, and drove over. Wishing to make a good first impression, I threw my tank top in the car and followed his instructions to walk to the rear to a small dilapidated guest house. I knocked on the splintered wooden door.

“Who is it?” shouted out a deep voice with that distinct New Yorkeese accent I knew so well, having spoken it myself most of my years.

I announced myself.

“It’s open,” he shouted back.

I walked through the foyer, if you could call the three feet that separated the door from the rest of his space a foyer, and parted the plastic shower curtains.

There he stood, naked except for a pair of leather boots, designer boots he would tell me later, a relic from his fat cat Manhattan days, holding a mini- blow torch of a butane lighter beneath the end of a glass pipe. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out just as quickly, then reached out and carefully handed it to me. He had said nothing about partying either in his profile or in our e-mails but I grabbed onto it anyway. Our eyes – both cat eyes, green but with a flash of blue in the right light – met as I clutched the pipe tightly so not to drop it while he held the lighter beneath the bowl end and gestured for me to gently shift it back and forth.

“Suck it in but don’t hold it – the shit can crystallize in your lungs,” he cautioned, still staring into my soul. “Not a good thing.”

I dropped my shorts and stood naked, our faint six pack abs almost touching.

“Leave your boots on,” he whispered. “I like that.”

Except for the fact he was a bit taller than me at 5 foot eight and younger, I could have been staring at myself in the mirror. Buzzed cut, balding, scruffy beard, broad hairy shoulders, tight muscular arms, hairy chest and abs, thick thighs and calves, again all covered in fur, he was the idealization of manhood in my mind.

My brother. My clone.

Even though he was Jewish and I was a Lutheran, we were both, I learned later, Slovak/Russian mutts with that hint of Mongolian in the slant of our eyes. We had the kind of bodies my so-called friends would chide me were made to lay down railroad ties until I retorted I made three times the money they did.

About the only obvious difference besides age was Mitch’s huge fat cock (versus my more conventional six and a half) and his super erratic behavior. He was jumping around and rambling on as if someone had shot a tube of Ben Gay up his beautifully furry, manly butt.

“You want another hit?” he asked.

I never searched out for the stuff but if a trick had some to share, well…

“Yea, but I want Mr. Peter to cooperate,” I replied, grabbing my semi-erect cock. “You know junk and hard dicks are alien enemies.”

“Don’t worry. I got Viagra. Want one?”

I had already taken 100 mgs, figuring I had to be up and ready to fuck the shit out of him, but accepted the generosity of this beautiful stranger and popped another. I wanted to make damn well sure I would keep “beefyhairybottom” happy.

His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before. Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.

Throughout all our carousing and stroking and kissing and licking one another’s armpits and sweaty matted bodies, Mitch continued to babble on almost incoherently, not so much because of the junk streaming through his veins but, as he admitted, because he suffered attention affective disorder and didn’t take his meds for fear they would fuck up his high. Yet despite his ungrammatical soundbites, I learned a lot that first night about my clone.

That he was 42, had grown up in Westchester – read comfortable – a graduate of NYU, with a CPA’s license he had never used, how his parents were snowbirds with a place in West Palm, and how he had avoided working at a real job like the plague while somehow living the highlife in a beautiful Chelsea duplex. He proudly pointed to the framed page hanging on his wall from New York magazine circa 1989 crowning him one of New York’s sexiest men (“I know had a lot more hair then, but I still look good, huh?”) and gloated how he had gone from one successful business venture to the next, his last selling designer sunglasses on line netting him an incredible $25,000 a month which, when he wasn’t smoking it away, he lost on the poker tables of Atlantic City. Bottom line: he had come down to South Florida with $300 to his name to be near mommy and daddy and their wallets, and where he could live cheap, as exemplified by his $500 a month apartment, the size of my walk-in closet, that, despite the hole in the wall, he prided himself in finding.

As far as men went, he liked them about his height (“tall guys are goofy looking – most of the porn stars are short like us, anyway”), hairy, with facial hair, and in-shape bods. It was as if he were reciting my own private wet dream. He tapped my hard earned six pack, then his own. “It has less to do with the gym than with genes, believe me,” he concluded smugly.

As predicted, Mr. Peter was rather shy that night, though I did succeed in fucking Mitch for awhile before my hard-on succumbed to the stuff. But it almost didn’t matter. We rolled around in our mutual sweat, mouthing our pretty but pretty useless genitals when we weren’t yanking on them like two adolescent boys exploring their puberty dicks.

Then came my moment of inspiration.

“You ever get fisted?” I asked, eyeing his toy box to the side of the bed with its eclectic collection of dildos and not wanting to disappoint that hairy, manly butt of his.

“Once, back in New York, but the guy was too rough, didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Well,” I boasted, holding up my right hand, “a cast of this hand is in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame.”

With that, as he lay there facing me, I gently entered him, and we were both elevated to a new level of Endless Ecstasy. In the past, I had found fisting a guy as exciting as doing my laundry but it was different with Mitch. As he groaned and gyrated on the bed and I slowly went ever deeper, we became one.

Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.

In the end, what I thought would be a 47 minute quickie turned out to be an all-nighter. With the heavy shades drawn on his single window, it was hard to tell morning had arrived, whether we liked it or not. My sole focus now was to get off, but with all the shit I had smoked and slugged down, it seemed a miracle to get my dick up enough to finally squirt, stroking the heavy fur on Mitch’s chest and abs as my erotica while he faded into blissful oblivion. Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.

“You are one beautiful man,” I said, scanning him slowly from head to toe, never expecting to see him again. He smiled faintly, turned over and fell almost instantly to sleep as I walked out.

 Two nights later as I canvassed the websites to see if anybody loved me, Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college and had an 8 a.m. class and I know Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me?

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was out of Elbow Grease and we spent the next hour rambling from all-night drug stores to a 24/7 porn shop on Dixie Highway which only had some small canisters left.

Lighting up in the car, we began another trip to Arousal Land and it was that night that Mitch – or was it the G? – confessed he hadn’t enjoyed being with a man as much as he had with me in a very long time.

This time neither of us came.

As we walked out from his place to my car together an eternity later, he gestured to his new little compact Cooper sitting in the front lot that his parents had leased for their 42 year old only child. By 42, I was a vice president with half a million in the bank and two houses.

“I’m a little pissed at them, though,” he whined, “I really wanted a convertible. After all, this is South Florida.”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” I said.

“Hey,” replied Mitch not at all defensive. “They made me the egocentric fuck I am today. It was always Mitchy you’re so handsome, Mitchy, you’re so great, Mitchy, you’re so smart. So why shouldn’t they get their Mitchy, their little boy, a convertible, huh?”

The cynical former New Yorker slash former public relations exec in me knew it would happen sooner or later if I continued these liaisons with a meth-head, beautiful as he was to me. Sure enough, a week later, early on a Saturday afternoon, after inviting me on line to his lair, Mitch followed my, “yea, why not,” with, “I’m out of stuff. Got any $$ so I get some for us?”

Usually, the “I’m not going to fall for this shit” side of me would have responded, “thanks but no thanks.” But, hell, I had gotten high twice on his dime so, I rationalized, I owed him, right? I left the hundred bucks in twenties in my mailbox while he went to meet his dealer in Miami and I took a nap. Our plan was to rendezvous around 9. When I didn’t hear from him by ten I figured I had been taken but decided to call him anyway.

“Sorry, he wasn’t ready with the shit,” Mitch explained, all apologetic. “I’ll be over at your place by 11. Promise.”

Now, call me paranoid, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable about letting a confirmed druggie know where I lived but I had been getting increasingly claustrophobic about his place. Besides, he didn’t want me to use Crisco when I fist fucked him on his air mattress since he claimed it smelled up his humble abode. My house, with central air, eliminated that logistical problem.

Mitch made good on his promise and we spent the night and most of the next day in Druggie Heaven. And the Crisco helped me go in deeper, so that by the end of that night Mitch had become a full-fledged fistee graduate.

While I instructed my lawn man that morning about some new palm tree plantings, Mitch catnapped. But I noticed that when all the stuff we had been taking wore off, my usually very animated and boisterous stud, my butch Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in his cord, became very quiet and subdued, almost shy.

“My generation needs drugs to have sex,” he explained. His observation made me feel old and superior all in the same moment. And when later he was leaving and asked if I wanted to keep what crystal was left – “after all you paid for it,” – and I told him no, he was surprised.

“You mean you don’t need all this shit?”

“No,” I repeated, very matter of factly.

“You know something,” he said, grinning. “I admire you.”

I didn’t hear from Mitch again for over a week and figured that was that. Maybe he was disappointed that his hypnotic hold on me had not quite succeeded as he had hoped. Translation: transform me into a crackhead fuckbuddy just like him. Then, one o’clock one night, out of the blue, he called, explaining he had taken advantage of a freebie in Key West, courtesy of a couple he had known from his NYC days who had fought most of the weekend but kept him amply supplied in stuff. He wanted to see me, said he missed me, and could I come over now?

His hair was a mess. Apparently he had tried to buzz cut himself but with no second mirror the back of his head still had uneven blotches of hair, making him look like a cross between a slightly deranged, homeless guy and an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. I pulled out his Oster and evened things out. Even then, just touching his head, my dick sprung to attention.

So how’s the Census job working out?” I asked.

“Oh, I gave that up – too much bullshit for too little dough. I’m on Rentboy.com now,” and he proceeded to pull up his ad.

“Italian Stallion?” I asked as I scanned it. “OK, but why are using Larry? That sounds so Brooklyn Jew. Why not Vito or Tony or Joey or something?”

“The name Larry worked for me back in New York,” he gloated. Then he opened his bureau and, reaching for his wallet, flashed a seemingly endless sea of bills.

“I could make a lot more back in NYC but there’s also a lot more competition. And hell, eight hundred bucks for one night ain’t bad, huh?”

We lit up again.

“You know,” he continued to ponder in one of his rare, less erratic moments, “I bet we could sell ourselves as a tag team and make some serious dough. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there looking for a dynamic duo like us. Hell, we could pass ourselves off as brothers. Shit, now that would be some gimmick.”

All I kept thinking was how I would make the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest guy to have the balls to attempt to sell his bod on Rentboy.

“Yea, but aren’t most of these guys looking to get fucked? I mean, how can you perform if you’re …?”

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

“Oh, I’m a total top to my johns but I tell them that, after all, I am 42 and sometimes the Snake ain’t up for biting, and they’re content to get fingered fucked or have me shove a dildo up their ass just as long as they can feel all this fur of mine against them.”

He stroked himself, then seamlessly moved his hand ever so lightly up my abs to my chest and looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I know we could be a winning team.”

A few days later a far more frantic Mitch called me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he pleaded. “Can you loan me $50 so I can get to my parents? They’ll give me some dough once I’m up there and I’ll pay you right back.”

“But what happened to all that money you showed me the other night?”

“Ah, those fuckin’ Indians stole it all,” referring to the poker tables at the casino the Seminole Indians ran in Hollywood, “and my last two johns were no-shows.”

Suddenly the Daddy in me creped out.

“But Mitch, you gotta get your shit together. You’re an intelligent adult. You know that.”

“I know, I know – I will…” he replied, more to pacify me than attempt any moment of self-realization. “You’re beginning to sound like my father who keeps telling me to check out Gamblers Anonymous.”

I stuck twenty dollars in the mailbox, enough to fill the tank of his compact, and woke up to the reality that he was beyond redemption. That was about the only reason why I hadn’t fallen in love with him I kept telling myself, right?

I was just about ready to leave for L.A. Fitness the following afternoon when Mitch, unannounced, showed up in my driveway.

I told you I’d pay you back,” he said, laying the twenty dollar bill on my kitchen counter.

I never did get to the gym that day.

Memorial Day weekend was coming up, but while I looked forward to another all-nighter in High Land with Mitch, he had different plans –another escape to Key West and the battling lovers. But he was emphatic about connecting as soon as he got back and going to Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay beach, that coming weekend.

I believed him.

That Thursday night, Mitch sent an e-mail on Manhunt. I had just posted some new provocative photos on my profile to show off my hard won gym body.

“Fucken awesome pics, bro.”

The following Tuesday came and went, Wednesday, Thursday. I e-mailed him on Manhunt, called his cell, even called his other cell number he used for Rentboy. No response. I passed his address twice, looking for his little car in the front lot. No car. In my gut I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe he had had a confrontation with his warring friends or a drug dealer or a john. Maybe he had somehow O.D.’ed ….

Finally, that Thursday night driving home, slightly plastered courtesy of Alibi’s three dollar Long Island iced teas, I decided I would stop at his place and this time knock on his door.

A voice yelled out to me as I began to walk back to the guest house. It was the landlord or property manager, a tall, skinny, thirty something, pleasant enough looking guy with a faint goatee.

“Looking for Mitch?” he asked politely.

I nodded.

“You a friend of his?” the man asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mitch is dead.”

“What – what happened?” I stammered, though surprised at myself that I was not entirely stunned by the news.

“I don’t know much but from what this friend of his from New York, an ex-lover I think, Todd, told me – his number was on Mitch’s cell so the cops called him – Mitch was driving back from Key West late Monday night and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Mitch had mentioned to me more than once how he had gone without sleeping or eating for days when he was on a perpetual crack/G/jerk-off binge.

Forty-two fucken years old and he was gone.

“His – his parents know?”

“Yea, they asked me to clear out his apartment and box up his belongings but there was a lot of stuff, a leather harness, leather vest, toys, drug paraphernalia, you know, I didn’t think they should see. You’re welcome to take what you like …”

I smiled my bleak thank you, turned around and drove home, happy I was dead ass drunk, happy that I had at least learned what had happened to him, happy that the super hadn’t told me what the accident had done to that beautiful body and beautiful face.

And yes, strangely at peace knowing he hadn’t just abandoned me.

A few nights later, I responded to Mitch’s last e-mail to me on Manhunt with a “thx hot man.”

That Saturday, when I went to Sebastian, I made sure to park in space #42.  A month later, I became Rentboy.com’s oldest toyboy. And believe it or not, my first trick, a retired dentist in town from Palm Springs, asked if I had a twin brother to play tag team with me on his butthole.

Imagine that. 

 

 

 

It’s a Fact: Using Your Phone on the Gym Floor Fucks Your Workout

It’s a Fact: Using Your Phone on the Gym Floor Fucks Your Workout

When l would be up in PA at my house for the summer, l’d use a local Planet Fitness which had signs posted all over the  place that no phones were permitted on the gym floor. Here in Lauderdale local gyms apparently don’t have the balls to implement such a policy. Hell, l think there would be a revolt.

But don’t you get pissed when some guy is sitting on a machine you wanna use, babbling on and on his phone about how he’s just found the love of his life,or is pretending to be in the office, does two reps and goes back babbling?

Well according to a Kent University study, using your smartphone during your workout is not only a distraction from what you’re there for; it slows you down and lowers your heart rate, exactly the opposite of what you want to achieve.

The study, which monitored students on treadmills, found phone chatting and texting  reduced running speeds by 10%; both lowered heart rates by 5%.

But some good news: the same study  found that listening  to music boosted both speeds and heart rates. So next time raise the volume and cut out the chit chat.  After all, you’re not just in the gym to stay healthy. It’s to look hot, and what’s the point of talking to your bf, present or future, if your gut is hanging out?

Is All This Porn Numbing Us To Real Sex?

Is All This Porn Numbing Us To Real Sex?

In my heyday when l used to strut the catwalk known as Christopher Street in Manhattan’s once seedy West Village, getting porn to tide you over til the next weekend of barhopping and bathhousing meant checking out one of the book stores or sex shops for mags like “Men.” or the latest hot Stryker video. If you were too far from a city, you’d opt for the U.S.Mails where the stuff always came shrouded in plain postal wrap, a dead giveaway some scandolous shit was inside.

Today, all you have to do is boot up your laptop or flick on your tablet or smartphone. Porn is everywhere, to the point you can’t avoid it if you tried. Every hook-up site, besides all the naked pics of their members, is hustling porn sites, their own included, even their toy stores or sites like Fort Troff are hard-on material. Then there’s xtube and PornMD. Type in you like goldfish stuck up your butt and up will pop at least 2173 videos, mostly amatuer, of guys who like that too. In fact, so much smut is free you wonder who is buying all those streaming gay videos. Ah, God Bless Capitalistic America.

Hell, though no surprise, l read in my local paper where a female college student complained she was being distracted by a male student in the row in front of her who was watching porn on his phone while the prof lectured on the downfall of the Roman Empire. Wonder who was paying his tuition.

But is this all too much for Mr. Peter?  Are we on overload? Is that why thirty somethings are having a hard time getting hard? Or guys opting for virtual sex – dirty talk, pics, sexting, camming  or just using a fuck machine to keep themselves happy  – rather than the real thing because it’s oh so too easy to access?

Is all this stuff numbing us to the real thing?

When l visit a guy and he asks me if l mind if he has porn on while we do it, my response is simple:

“If you need porn, you don’t need me.”