R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 39

Lauderdale: The Town of Philandering Partners

Lauderdale: The Town of Philandering Partners

Every time an out-of-town hottie hits me up on one of hookup sites and then tells me that he can’t host because he’s staying with family or friends (who’s supporting all those gay guesthouses l wonder), my response is simple: don’t you know that Lauderdale is a gay town of philandering partners who expect them to have the room?

I laugh how many times l read in a guy’s profile he’s still search for that LTR, and then when he lands one, almost like clockwork, is sneaking around looking for new meat. Or the once dynamic duo agree to an open relationship. Sorry, men, after you stop fucking around with one another and only with other guys, you’re not partners,  you’re roommates.

But l shouldn’t beat up on our kind. Str8’s are just as bad. According to a sex survey of men 25 to 41 years old, the lust lasts just a year in any relationship. After that, what once was so hot is not, and you know what they say, cocks have a mind of their own.

So please Mr. Out of Towner, make sure the next time you come down to Whore City, U.S.A., you get your own room. And be available at 7:45 in the morning when a Lauderdale philandering partner can get a quick fuck before work.

64 Year Old Man Receives Penis Transplant. Viva Viagra!

64 Year Old Man Receives Penis Transplant. Viva Viagra!

In the old days, an over fifty guy who was impotent was handed a penis pump. Ever use one of those? Your dick ends up looking like a size queen’s wet dream but pull it out, and while it may be longer and thicker, it’s still too limp to fuck with.

Enter Viagra, the biggest selling drug of all time, and suddenly a lot of older guys, including senior citizens, felt like stallions. Hell, l see it in our local sex club. It don’t matter how much the guy looks like a troll, if his tool bongs up like a Jack-in-the Box, he’s almost guaranteed a pretty mouth or hungry hole.

I say all this because l hope our 64 year old who lost his original equipment to cancer uses his gift for more than just pissing. A 21 year old in South Africa who received the world’s first penal transplant a few years ago has a fully functional tool, so it ain’t there just for looks.

With transgenderism on the tip of everyone’s tongue these days, finally we can put all these discarded penises to good use. Maybe super wealthy Cate Jenner can fund the Penis Transplant Center in the name of humanity.

Seriously though, one of the dirty little secrets about the Iraqi War is that there are a number of servicemen who lost their family jewels to a suicide bomber and would be very happy to have something dangling between their legs again.

So now that dick transplants are doable, maybe there should be a separate box on the organ donor cards so many of us carry around in case a Mac truck decides to get in the way of our sedan or SUV.

Whatya think?

Sex, Intimacy –And Jim

Sex, Intimacy –And Jim

It’s a fact: Many of us – gay and str8 – either single or who may have partners no longer interested in doing it, are using sex as a substitute for intimacy.

Deep down, though, we know they’re not the same. Or do we?

Sure, there are the sex addicts who crave the endless attention and are only interested in their personal body count, and the asocial (if there is such a word) who look on guys as necessary evils who just happen to carry the appendages or orifices they desire. For them, the more anonymous the sex, the bigger the turn-on.

But then there are those who have been burnt in relationships where one loved more than the other, who are tired of the emotional roller coaster ride relationships can bring, or who have a significant other who no longer gives us what we need in the way of sex and intimacy but who we stay with for other practical reasons – co-mingled lives, financial realities, or just the desire not to be alone. Yet our need for intimacy remains and so we turn to sex to compensate, since sex, in the end, is easier to find. The more men we have sex with, the more we’re loved, right?

I’m also convinced guys, particularly younger guys, use coke and meth during sex to heighten the experience and put themselves in some state of euphoria so that the guy they just met – and who they may not even be strongly physically attracted to – suddenly becomes the love of their lives.

That is, until the drugs wear off.

The same holds true with the undercurrent of loneliness from all these guys on the cyber hook up sites that hit one another up to either fantasize about having sex, sex laced with words of endearment, sex that conveniently will never happen because thousands of miles separate them, or who just want to shoot the breeze with a fellow brother and feel some kind of connection. And not just guys in the boonies where you would expect it but also guys in some of the largest urban gay meccas where men are as plentiful as cockroaches, who ironically, either by choice or by default, are as isolated as some farmboy in the middle of Nebraska.

We all know technology has killed most bars (and even most bath houses) as cruising grounds where you could look the guy in the eye before you grabbed his crotch. Just count the number of men the next time you’re out who are on their smartphones GPS’ing their latest hottie who is sitting on a toilet seat ten and a half yards away, instead of catching the eye of the guy across the way who wants them. And who maybe, just maybe could change their lives and be more than just a hard dick.

Could it be all that soulful hugging we see in the bars when buddies get together, whether or not sex has been or is in the picture, could all this genuine camaraderie be their way of expressing a kind of man-to-man intimacy they don’t experience much anymore between the sheets?

And yes, too many of us sit alone in the dark by our laptops, content to conduct our social and sexual lives on a screen, where fantasy is better than reality because we can mold our fantasies into just about anything we want, create personas that make us more desirable than we could ever be in life, or have 10 message sexual encounters which are not always all about sucking and fucking but are often intertwined with virtual intimacy. Camming with a guy in Dubai who asks you if you’re a good kisser somehow makes you feel human even if all he and you are are 0’s and 1’s

Maybe it’s a sign of the times, a fall-out of living in such a modern age, that true intimacy between two human beings has been lost when we need it the most.

Yet some of the most satisfying in-the-flesh sexual experiences may have little to do with hard cocks and hairy butts. It’s when two guys, obviously turned on by one another’s physicality and masculinity, can just lie there silent in one another’s arms and forget for a brief moment the outside world exists.

Like Jim and I.

Jim reached out to me on Adam4Adam but the first time we connected it was a disaster. He roared into my house like a bull in a china shop and threw himself so hard on top of me I felt almost suffocated. Getting up I ordered him to get the fuck out which he did.

About a week later, he messaged me again. I was about ready to block him.

“I’m sorry. It’s just want you so bad.”

“Ok, let’s give it one more try. But this time we take it slow.”

We did and that made all the difference in the world. We’ve gotten together at least a dozen times since and each time seems more passionate than the last. Is it love, hormones, lust?

Who knows?

Who cares?

 

 

Cosmetic Surgery: Yea It’s A Guy Thing Too

Cosmetic Surgery: Yea It’s A Guy Thing Too

I’ve made no secret of the fact that l’ve had a few touch-ups along the way. Botox and Dysport for those forehead wrinkles, various fillers to plump up my cheeks and diminish the bags under my eyes, and coolsculpting to rid myself of those stubborn love handles.

Obviously l’m not alone. Americans had nearly 14 million cosmetic procedures performed last year to the tune of 10 billion dollars, with procedures done on men up 6%. Older men need to compete with younger men in the workforce or maybe it’s all about looking prettier and feeling younger.

So what are the stats?

69,000 botox injections ( mostly to reduce forehead wrinkles)

13,000 hair transplants ( l guess a lot of young guys l see in the gym going bald opt for the much cheaper Yul Brenner look)

28,000 eyelid lifts

62,000 nose jobs

19,000 breast reductions (so why are so many of us trying to build up those pecs?)

24,000 liposuctions ( l opted for coolsculpting which isn’t cheap but is non-invasive.)

But one thing l will never get done is laser hair removal. 16,000 procedures were done last year. To me hair on a man is super sensual. And after all you can always take it off but you can’t put it on.

Me telling guys at the bar pulling on my chest hairs that it’s on there with Velcro is a lie.

 

Sam The Leatherman

Sam The Leatherman

Now there’s this head-to-toe leather guy named Sam from Nashville who’s been hitting me up for years on bear411, telling me all the evil, decadent things he’d like to do to me, or have me do to him, to which I’d politely reply, “Sounds good to me,” or “Next time you’re here…”

Finally, after about at least three years of this bullshit, he hits me up the middle of last  month with the usual, and I reply with the abrupt but honest response, “Enough with the fantasy. You ever gonna come my way?” meaning Fort Lauderdale. To which he responds two minutes later, ”Yea, I’ll be there next week.” Okay,” says I, frankly more than a bit surprised, “give me a shout out when you’re here.”

Now, I do have a few things going on in my shitty little life besides keeping track when hedonistic out-of-towners who claim they want me, really want me, are going to be in town. I always leave it, “let me know…” or if they look especially interesting, I’ll give them my smartphone number to text. I’ve learned from the Gay School of Hard Knocks that, at best, two out of ten actually follow through. The others sit bare-assed on their lounge chair at the clothing-optional pool of their clothing optional gay guesthouse and take the easy way out by making it with the bare-assed guy two lounge chairs away.

Anyway, it’s last Saturday night, I’m getting ready to go out to the Ramrod (I had had fun the night before), checking my mail one last time when Sam, the Leatherman shows up on bear411 with a “hi.”

Suddenly my memory bank reminds me he’s supposed to be in town around now, so I reply,

“Here yet?”

“To which he responds, “I’m at the Leather Inn,” a seedy motel/male whorehouse with slings in every room near the airport. Now I’m really not up to screwing around that night so I say:

“How’s tomorrow evening?”

And this is what he says. Keep in mind this is a guy who’s been practically stalking me for the last three years:

“Oh, I had a really busy week (meaning he’d been here all week and this is the first time I’ve heard from him) and this was my first chance to check messages (bullshit, when I’m on vacation I’m checking the hook-up sites five times a day) and I’m leaving TOMORROW.”

I didn’t even bother responding.

Want my cynical assessment of all this?

He was never in town. My smartass “Enough with the fantasy” triggered his reply about coming to town just a week later. That’s because Sam the Leatherman probably only exists in cyberspace and is a virtual persona living off pics that are at least ten years old. God only knows how many other Sam the Leatherman’s are out there.

After all, if he wanted me as bad as he claims, wouldn’t I have been the first on his hit parade, not the last?

Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.

The End of The Road

The End of The Road

Having been straightjacketed the whole winter by George, now safely deposited at our home in PA ,who thought a wild Friday nite was watching a Sanford and Son marathon on TV Land, l am ready to become a pig’s pig. So while he watched his beloved Mets in the living room a few weekends ago before my flyback to Lauderdale, I was texting my fuck buddies back home to be ripe and ready for Daddy Ray.

G and l have decided to call it quits after forty four years of living in sin, on the grounds of incompatibility., something we realized early on but ignored because it was just easier. to. Hey, when you’re splitting the bills it’s hard to pull out.

Rightly or wrongly, I’m fighting old age with every fiber of my being while G, ten years and a generation older than me who came out in the closeted fifties compared to me, a child of the liberated sixties, is content with old age swallowing him up. The kicker is since we co-own the house in PA, l will be continuing to pay half the mortgage, taxes, insurance and association fees on a place l probably will never return to. You can understand now why l call G my 78 year old boy.

Looking back at it all now, my endless decades as a jock widow and philandering faggot (G once said watching the Mets  on TV was better than sex), l realize l was never relationship material. I did so much alone because he didn’t want to join me – international traveling, the gym or just going out to feel alive – that l came to like, yes, prefer it. And while l flew up to PA when he suffered a health crisis a few years ago, and took him to three different hospitals last summer for his cardiac condition, he freely admitted he, who hates planes, would not fly down to Lauderdale if some personal emergency happened to me. So if l going to be alone, hell, at least let me be alone to do whatever the fuck l wanna do with whoever l wanna do it with without explaining or cajoling or deceiving.

I think the end came for me when he gripped that l had forced him to come down to spend this past winter in south Florida in MY house. This is after l went up to retrieve him and drove him down in his car (he has macular degeneration and can’t deal with highway driving) and then had to reverse this whole humiliating task last month to finally rid myself of this obstinate, constantly confrontational albatross who rarely agrees with anything l say.

So financially comfortable living in America’s paradise, l am content to lead the aimless life of an ego hungry sexual creature in between writing my next piece of serious erotic gay fiction. If a handsome guy old enough to be my son wants me to fuck him, should l complain?

Hey, like l said to one my docs, retired men spend their time playing golf, collecting stamps, or having sex.

My hobby just happens to be men.

And for those of you who sigh, “How sad. Do you really want to be alone at this point of your life?” I answer:

No, but I was alone a long time ago.

Or will this be my last call effort to find someone on my wave length?

When you’re gay, hope springs eternal.

Memories of My Own “Mommie Dearest”

Memories of My Own “Mommie Dearest”

It’s been a decade – yes, ten years – since my mother, a life time nicotine addict, died peacefully and painlessly in her apartment down here in South Florida at 84 of a brain tumor. And while I still think of her bitter sweetly at times, my fondest recollection of her was that she was a bitch.

Buying all that Freudian mumbo jumbo when I was in my teens about how a domineering mother and submissive father made you gay (today I’m convinced it’s in our genes), I blamed her for my atypical life. I never quite reconciled that, though, with the reality that my father was my first sex object and gave me some of the best hard-ons of my youth.

My mother’s family came from a little town in the Ukraine, and my sister and I often referred to Mom as the “mad Russian,” as she was constantly ranting and raving about something with a terribly negative view of people – including her husband – while my father, always the diplomat, stood quietly by. Once when I was grown and long out of the house, I boldly confronted him as she was off on one of her temper tantrums with this demand: “Why don’t you rap her already?” He just shrugged his shoulders.

In hindsight, I think my mother had real clinical psychiatric issues. She may have been dipolar, with a heavy dose of a Napoleonic Complex. Perhaps, deep down, standing at just four eleven, and growing up in Depression poverty of immigrant parents, she felt insecure and inferior and never outgrew her tomboy scrappiness and aggressive often “in your face” character for, in her mind, it was the only way she would be heard. Though she was forced to drop out of high school a month before graduation because she needed to help her family, Mary was intelligent and savvy, and everything I know about handling money I learned from her. Yet she was obsessed with being the center of attention wherever she went, and had the emotional maturity of an eight year old. But if it’s true opposites attract, it was these very qualities I think that, besides her beauty, drew my father to her.

All this made living with Mom hell. You never knew what would set her off and when, which made holiday family gatherings or just simple Saturday afternoons sheer stomach wrenching experiences. And when my father, who never smoked, rarely drank, and seemed to be in terrific shape for someone who was not an athlete, dropped dead at 74 in the bathroom after coming home one night from a VFW meeting, I blamed cohabitating with this crazy woman for forty years as the cause of his early demise. After all, she was the one who smoked like a fiend – shouldn’t she have been the first to go? Overly critical of him while he was alive, my mother was totally lost when he left, demonstrating the best performance by a widow in a leading role, though her grief did not stop her from trying to sell his three month old Cadillac to friends and co-workers at his wake.

My sister dropped out of the family theatrics early in the game, marrying at 22 and moving to Long Island, leaving me, the single son (my closet homosexuality, interestingly enough, never became a subject of family discussion) to watch over Mom. One Thanksgiving, in my feeble attempt to keep the family together, I drove all the way to extreme northwest New Jersey where my mother, without consulting either my sister or I, had moved to after my father’s death, and brought her to spend the night with me on Staten Island which, in holiday traffic, seemed half a world away. The plan was for us to drive over the following morning – Thanksgiving Day – to my sister’s on Long Island, another marathon on the LIE.

But when my mother saw some light snow falling that holiday morning, she refused to budge, and my frustration in seeing my carefully orchestrated holiday plans go down the sewer reached the point of no return, and in a sudden fit of rage, I knocked this seventy something woman to the floor. She pretended in typical Mary style to be injured – she wasn’t – and all I thought was how I, a senior health care executive, was going to be charged with elder abuse of his own mother. We later buried the hatchets and spent Thanksgiving as the old lady and her fag son in a local diner.

When guys later on in my life would tell me they knew they were gay when they were practically still in diapers, I would look at them with a jaded eye. Then one night I was watching an old western on TCM and realized that I had had a crush on one of the handsome cowboys when I first saw the flick with my mother at the Central Theater in Passaic, New Jersey. I checked the listing for the year the film was released and saw I was five years old.

But I think my greatest life lesson if not imparted by Mom certainly was of her making came a few years later when I was 8 and my sister 3. At the time, my mother worked in a cookie factory, and one of her co-workers offered to pick the three of us up for a Saturday romp to Seaside Heights on the Jersey Shore. How I, even more than my sister, looked forward to that day. So that morning, with sand pails and shovels and blankets and beach chairs in tow, we trotted down to the pre-designated spot where Mom’s friend would swing by and pick us up. Only she never came. After an hour of our futilely waiting and me counting cars whizzing by, Mom forced us to face reality and turned us right around for home.

What I learned that day I never forgot and has, rightly or wrongly, guided me throughout my life: never put your faith in other people; always rely first and foremost on yourself; and always, always have a Plan B.

Mom and I probably fought hundreds of times during the years we shared this earth together, but even when she told me never to come back, I did like a bad penny and played the good son to the end, and, when I moved from NYC to Fort Lauderdale in 2002, I brought her down with me. (Mind you, she had her own place – you can only carry that loving son shit so far.) That’s why, given our roller coaster relationship, I found it strange, even alien, that in her last days as the tumor was eating away at her brain, the boisterous, cranky bitch I had known all my life had become a serene, even pleasant little old lady.

The last time I saw her in her apartment – she was by then on hospice care – I was dressed up for a staff meeting at the college where I taught rather than in my usual jeans and a T. Her final words to me as she gazed with a silly ass smile were, “You look nice.” The following morning, just as the hospice nurses predicted, she was gone.

So when the funeral director allowed me to view her one last time in her coffin before shipping her body up to the cemetery in Jersey to be with my father, I made sure to place a pack of Winston Salems and a lighter by her side.

After all, that was the least a son could do.

 

 

Beach Bear Weekend is Back On –Sort Of

Beach Bear Weekend is Back On –Sort Of

A few weeks ago, I reported that this year’s Beach Bear Weekend in Fort Lauderdale had been pirated by  scam artist and that none of the sponsors mentioned in the PR had agreed to participate. But since so many guys had already booked their flights, a Beach Bear Weekend has been put together to satisfy our hungry masses:

Friday, May 6th

Noon – 4:00 pm: Sebastian Street Beach

6:00 – 8:00 pm: ARCHETYPE – Portraits by Blake Little – PUBLIC EXHIBIT OPENING. Stonewall Museum. Details: http://www.stonewall-museum.org/event/archetype-portraits-by-blake-little-public-exhibit-opening/

Thereafter: Come back to the Beach, Bears, and elevate your spirits beachside at McSorley’s Beach Club and Roof Top Lounge overlooking the beach at 837 North Fort Lauderdale Beach Boulevard. Details: http://mcsorleysftl.com/about/

Saturday, May 7th

9:00 am – 11:30 am: VIP Brunch – Sold Out – Ritz Carlton Fort Lauderdale, 1 North Fort Lauderdale Beach Boulevard

Noon – 4:00 pm: Sebastian Street Beach and the return of the Fort Lauderdale Air Show. Details: http://fortlauderdaleairshow.com

7:00 pm: BeachBear Weekend Food and Wine Event – Join us as we migrate to the north end of Wilton Drive and dine at some of our favorite restaurants in Wilton Manors. Choose from among Bona Italian (954-565-7222), Galanga Thai Kitchen and Sushi (954-202-0000), Le Patio – the quaint continental bistro (954-530-4641), and Sozo Sushi Bar (954-630-1916). Each of the restaurants is looking forward to welcoming BeachBear Weekend attendees and is standing by to take your reservation! Finish off dinner and indulge with a visit to JP’s Chocolate Shoppe, 2410 Wilton Drive (954-368-5533), and perhaps a last-minute Mother’s Day gift ….

Thereafter: Come back to the Beach, Bears, and hunt down some fun – just don’t be a pig about it

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

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

Buddy: Billy, my bf and I have been together for over two years, though we’ve lived in our own pads. Recently, he bought a house on his own (he makes more money than I do), and has asked me to move in with him.

Sounds great, huh? But there’s one problem. I’m pretty out at work and with my family, but Billy is an exec at a very conservative company, so he’s still pretty much in the closet. His family doesn’t know either and he’s never offered to have me meet them. And now that we may be living together, he’s asked that I confine my “stuff” to my bedroom only.

I’m beginning to rethink this living together idea, but I love Billy very much and don’t want to throw everything away. What should I do?

Daddy: Listen, you both gotta be on the same page on this issue of out or not out. And I can tell you from experience, most guys who stay in the closet publicly almost never come out. There’s nothing wrong with that provided you can live by his standards, which is not easy to do. In fact, it sounds like you’re already getting frustrated. Worse yet, it’s HIS house which means you have very little say in what goes on there. You’re basically a roommate with benefits. And that may include not only COD (Cock On Demand), but also kicking in some towards the mortgage and utility bills which cynic me says may be the real reason he invited you to live with him in the first place.

My advice: Have a blunt talk with your Billy, and if your gut (not your heart or your dick) tells you he ain’t gonna move on the issue, and given his employment status he probably won’t, maintain your own living space, or I hate to say it, GET THE FUCK OUT FROM UNDER before you regret in the years ahead you hung around.

Who Needs PrEP or Condoms? It’s Fort Troff’s Raw Pup To The Rescue

Who Needs PrEP or Condoms? It’s Fort Troff’s Raw Pup To The Rescue

For you gay men who don’t what I’m talking about, (shame on you – you’re condemned to watch porn with your hands tied behind your back), Fort Troff is one of the largest, if not the largest on-line male sex toy stores and accessories in the business. Hell, even if you don’t end up buying their stuff, their site is worth more than just one visit. Their models are hot, young, humpy and big donged men, and their product “demo” videos can rival any porn site.

Now they’ve come out with a new product to have safe sex without killing the kink. It’s called Raw Pup, and essentially it’s a big, flexible dick cylinder you stick up your butt. Your top man then slides his cock into the cylinder and bangs away.

First the “fake” cock adds some dimensions to the under-endowed and makes any guy feel proud of his piece; and secondly, while it simulates the sensation of raw bare back sex, in reality, the top’s dick never touches the bottom’s skin directly so even if he spurts his load, it never goes inside the other guy. (Hey, sorry you guys who like to be bred.)

Fort Troff even sells a Mount and Knot accessory that allows the bottom to easily insert the cock cylinder up his manhole before his top ever shows up, thereby avoiding a break in the spontaneity of the moment, something slipping on a condom almost always does. (It’s like a porn director telling his actors to hold their erections while he changes the camera angle.)

Nor does Fort Troff have a monopoly on these new safe sex products with kink. Check out the Manhunt Toy Shop’s “Penis Extenders” like its cloak cock enhancing sheath which slips over the top’s real tool to add inches of pleasure plus protection for the bottom.

No, I don’t own stocks in Fort Troff, but the national Centers for Disease Control and every Health Department in the country that have been bemoaning the continued rise in the HIV rate among gay men, despite thirty years of preaching about safe sex, should award Raw Pup the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.