R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 40

Is Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors, America’s Newest Gay Ghetto, Going Mainstream Already?

Is FL’s Wilton Manors, America’s Newest Gay Ghetto, Going Mainstream Already?

Squirt.org, a popular gay hook-up site, was forced to remove its ads on advertising boxes in Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors after one city commissioner, a gay man to boot, protested that the ads were inappropriate (“after all, there are schools …”) and the city should have higher standards. Squirt responded that their ads are all over other cities without an issues but agreed to take them down.

Okay, dare I remind all you holier-than-thou jerk-off that without the gay boys Wilton Manors would have remained a low rent, in-the-sewer ghetto and probably would not have morphed into a high priced (some say over-priced) real estate goldmine fed by gay men from across the country and around the world wanting a slice of this sub-tropical paradise, plus the millions who each year visit WM’s watering holes and restaurants and shops and guesthouses and neighboring motels and guesthouses and male whorehouses and gyms – should I go on? Without Wilton Manors, Sebastian Beach and Club bath house and the Gay Guesthouse Strip off Birch Street a few blocks from the ocean would be a shadow of what they are today. And if your kids have two daddies and living in a gay friendly neighborhood bugs you because of a few “ads,” it’s time to move.

Before there was an Alibi, Wilton Manors’ signature gay bar that started it all, there was an abandoned supermarket named Piggly Wiggly where a now deceased buddy of mine met his wife as they were shooting up smack. A few years later I bought a one bedroom condo a few blocks from the then new Alibi as a snowbird getaway from New York for twenty five thousand dollars. A decade later, at the height of Fort Lauderdale’s real estate boom, as more and more gay men discovered this oasis kissed by the sun where all ages were welcomed, (unlike kewpie doll Miami), that same condo sold for one hundred and seventy five thousand dollars. Today, even after the bust, real estate prices have rebounded close to their pre-bust levels.

So who do you think fueled this transformation? But as with Miami’s South Beach, where it was the gays who saved the art deco hotels from the wrecking ball, but who were eventually driven out in significant numbers by higher rents and, some say, gay bashing, Wilton Manors is quickly forgetting its roots.

Okay, so maybe don’t have a Squirt ad by a school bus stop. But in the heart of bar row, what’s the problem? I mean the model in the ad was wearing a tank top and looking quite ordinary. It’s not like he was flashing a crotch shot or padding some paramour on the rear.

When shit like this happens, as frivolous as it may first sound, it’s only a matter of time when the local PTA starts complaining about leather boys parading on the drive.

Look at NYC’s once seedy West Village, now High Rise Yuppie/Guppie Condo City, or San Francisco’s once iconic Castro, where gay shops are now told to make their window displays tasteful. Gay ghettos as we knew them are disappearing – is that what we want? Can’t we hold on to what we created?

And it all starts with someone complaining about an ad.

The Facts about Cyber-Smut

The Facts about Cyber-Smut

Hey, I’m no stranger to all the hook-up sites and porn that are in infinite abundance on the web. Hell, every month I come close to my data usage limit on my laptop and “mobile devices” because I linger too long at the well. Well, here are some facts about all this smut, courtesy of South Florida’s NEXT magazine:

Seventy percent of men ages 18-34 visit an adult site in a typical month. I’d bet it’s higher among retirees – after all, when you’re not working anymore, what else is left to do but play golf and think about (and have) sex?

Adult entertainment is a $14 billion industry. Yep, there’s a lot of money in a freebie like cum.

Twenty eight thousand internet users are viewing adult entertainment every second. Do I count for more than one if I have all my hook-up sites opened AND xtube too?

The average time an adult movie is watched is twelve minutes – about the same length of time as the average sex act.

But the stat that surprised me the most was that a new adult video is being created just in the U.S. every 39 minutes. I mean, do you ever wonder, and I’m just talking about gay porn now, where all these beautiful, big donged, mostly young guys (unless you’re a devotee of daddy porn) come from? Are they all broke str8 or broke gay boys? College jocks earning their way through school? Out-of-work actors? Meth heads? Preachers’ sons? And that’s not even counting all those luscious men waiting at their laptops for you to buy some video chat time with them.

Jesus, I wonder if the Department of Labor counts them when it releases its weekly employment stats.

Three Life Truisms

Three Life Truisms

At least they have been for me. Some of you may say they sound like the babblings of a cynic. But I feel strongly they’ve grounded me as a realist.

The first came when I was eight and my sister was three. 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, and after an hour of our futilely waiting and me counting cars as they whizzed 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 count on other people unless you have no choice; always rely first and foremost on yourself; and always, always have a Plan B.

A second truism was told to me years later during my college years from a fellow English major at the commuter university we attended in North Jersey. His name was John Homer, an artistic type and the more flamboyant member of the coterie of gay guys I came to know there, though none of us officially came out to one another. After all, it was the mid-sixties and things hadn’t exploded yet. I did admit my secret desires to one of them, Robb, who I had a crush on and who, while accepting of my admission, denied he was gay; two months later he moved in with the class queen.

Anyway, it was John, a minimalist when it came to stuff, who said to me once, “We don’t own our possessions, they own us,” a realization that comes to me every time I take my trusted car into the shop or my smartphone acts up. But the bigger reality is most of us don’t own our possessions at all; the banks do. And think about your home our condo – we don’t own them even once the mortgage is paid. They’re on temporary loan to us. After we leave, or die, someone else takes them over, and after them, someone else, and someone else, and someone else …. Hell, when you count all the mortgages on a typical house over one lifetime, a place valued at a couple of hundred thousand dollars actually generated millions. For the banks.

The final truism hitting me painfully of late was uttered to me by one of my hospital colleagues a few weeks before he was fired, the victim of a hostile takeover. A year later, a survivor of the same corporate bloodbath, I decided to resign and move to Fort Lauderdale, insistent about going out on a high note, not pushed out when I was deemed no longer valuable.

Kevin’s words as we contemplated our prospective retirements: “It’s not how many years we have left, it’s how many good years.”

For an aging fuck, I’m as heathy as a horse – no hypertension, cholesterol issues, diabetes HIV-negative – but I’ve become increasingly plagued by osteo-arthritis for which modern medicine offers little.

Thinking back on Kevin’s pronouncement, I wonder if my “good years” are reaching their expiration date.

What Ya think Of This For a Threesome?

What Ya think Of This For a Threesome?

The night went like silk. Timmy, this hairy 5’7” guy with an average body and pleasant enough looks hits me up on Scruff last Sunday and that evening, after making it clear he’s looking for bottom action, we connect.

We begin with our hard-wired nips, mine to my cock, his to his furry manhole, and I soon discover it’s a butt that doesn’t quit. I go from tongue fucking his hole to fucking it, to fisting him up to my wrist, to docking our twin brother cocks, each movement cascading into the next like waves on the beach, punctuated each time by kisses.

So I got to thinking after I got home that night. What about a threesome with Donny, my Latin stallion bondage buddy that I profiled a few weeks ago?

As one of my readers put it: “Most incredible blog ever! Thanks. . . it has me dripping!”

Here it is again for those of you who missed it. Then tell me what you think about my bright idea of a Donny, Timmy and Ray bedroom trio:

This past weekend a couple of the bars down here in Lauderdale catering to the butch gay man like the Ramrod staged kink/fetish/dungeon demos. But who needed them? I had my own sweaty, up front and personal session with my very, very hot bondage buddy, Danny, my 5’7” furry (though not as furry as me) Latin stallion who at 41 is old enough to be my son, so when he calls me Daddy he means it.

When I get to his place around 10 Saturday night, he’s got all his leather wares and bondage accessories sprawled over his bedroom floor like toys under a Christmas tree.

We’ve played before, usually in leather, so this time we decide to switch to singlets. After all, we both have wrestler’s bodies, me the stocky type, Danny lean and mean, so why not get off on the look, huh? It feels so good to rub our rising spandex covered crotches and grab one another’s nips, his hardwired to his hairy butt, mine to my daddy dick, in between rubbing our beards against one another, something only two men can do.

Almost on cue, Danny pulls down the straps on my singlet and binds my hands behind me with some sticky red tape he got off the Fort Troff site that clings to itself without feeling uncomfortable. Now he has me where he wants me and pushes me onto the bed, pulls the rest of my singlet to the floor and puts his mouth on my dribbling cock. Nice. He licks the precum from the tip of my dick then comes over and sticks his tongue with my DNA on it into my awaiting mouth. I’m wearing a ball stretcher but Danny grabs some more of that sticky tape and wraps it tightly around my balls so suddenly I’ve got low hangers. He pulls me to the edge of the bed, so my furry butt is squarely in his face and smothers himself in my hole.

Then after bateing me a few more minutes, he pulls off his singlet, stands up on the bed so I can admire that beautiful fucken chiseled body of his, then slowly lowers his lightly furry butt on my face. I’m in homo heaven as I tongue fuck his hairy hole, something I know he likes judging from his moans.

I slide over to the bed board as he moves over in sync and stands above me against the wall. Then I get up and aim my mouth for his manhood. He’s a mouthful eve for this blowjob pro. He quickly releases my hands so I can reach up and tweak his nips and pet the fur on his chest and six pack abs. It’s all good.

Funny thing, and Danny and I have discussed it before, while we’re not fucking partners in the literal sense (“everything safe,” says he), we’re very passionate and sensual in worshipping one another’s manhood and deep kissing as only two men totally into one another can. I gaze at this perfect specimen of male beauty and smile when Danny tells me I’m the hottie.

“The best daddy I ever had,” he whispers as lays on top of me and we rub our furry chests together. “And you’re my favorite boy,” I reply. Some guys need meth or grass or coke to feel this way. We need only one another. Both Danny and I don’t mistake our lust for love, but what’s so wrong with lust?

We take a break for a Gatorade, then a Michelob Ultra, and when I come out of the john after taking a piss, there’s Danny in his bulldog harness and a leather jockstrap with his junk hanging out. I go over and as he slips a matching harness on me, l grab his bound up nuts and twist them. He doesn’t flinch and as we stare one another down, he reaches down and squeezes my balls real hard.

We walk over and get onto the bed, our hands still on our sacs, and facing one another on our knees, our dicks stiff daggers, Danny grabs some more of that glorious tape and binds our dicks together, shaft to shaft, cockhead to cockhead. Reaching over for the Elbow Grease, I lube them up and begin to slowly stroke our brother cocks as Danny sticks some tit clamps on my nips and, with my free hand, I work his. We go to that to finger fucking one another’s furry holes, and sensing Danny is getting close, I strip away the tape, lay him on the bed and begin sucking his cock as I continue to massage his prostate with my index finger. He arches up, pulling on the chain of my tit clamps, then spurts his sweet penis juice down my throat.

Now it’s my turn to lay there, jerking my dick, as sits on me, his dripping cock teasing the crack of my ass, and twists my nips into oblivion.

We lay there, sweaty and silent, me cradling him on my chest, my arm over his shoulder, his nose in my armpit.

We haven’t even touched the sounds or the gas mask or the cock pump, all still lying in wait on the floor. But who cares. There’s always next time, right?

So will that next time be with Timmy?

Hook-up Site Types To Avoid

Hook-up Site Types You Should Avoid

The Hopeless Romantic

This is the guy who insists in his profile he’s only out to find his soulmate, not Mr. Right Now. Now you find him hot, or he may hit you up but even if you are in the market for an LTR, his unrealistic expectations from the starting gate are a turn-off. Hey, all LTR’s have to begin with enjoyable sex first or it ain’t gonna happen. So, as much as he says he wants to meet, his probing into your personal life and in what you look for in a guy, or worse, what he’s looking for in his soulmate, well, soon become boring and any lust goes out the window.

The Goofy Out-of-Towner

He’s in from Des Moines and thinks you’re superhot and wants to carry your seed up his butt back home as a souvenir but when you try to set up a playtime, he says he’ll be tied up with his buddies shopping, beaching, bowling – who knows … Hey buddy, you wanna fuck or don’t you?

The Super Horny Out-of-Towner

He’s in from Des Moines and thinks you’re superhot and wants to carry your seed up his butt back home as a souvenir but when you try to set up a playtime he’s suddenly asking if you got any top buddies to join in the gangbang. What am I, your fucken pimp?

The “Lay Me” Layovers

Flight attendants looking to jam in as many men as they can. See above.

The Endless Questioner

You know by the eighth message on how far you’re gonna stick your dick but his tight butt that he has no attentions of hooking up but instead is probably sitting on his favorite dildo, getting off. Cut him off by the third “and then what are you gonna do to me?” by moving on.

The Hetero Curious

He’s fucken hot in his profile and up front and personal but he’ still wrestling with whether he likes boys or girls – he often was married or has a longtime girlfriend – and when the two of you connect the man-to-man sex goes nowhere or he lays there like a mannequin waiting for your mouth on his cock.

The Workday Slacker

You’re home, off from work or just not working, and this dude hits you up on Scruff and gets you all hot and bothered with pics and messages, but when you spring the question, ”wanna come over?’ he tells you he’s at work. Huh? Besides getting caught goofing off, when the fuck have you got time to flirt on an app at work? When I was working, I had to schedule my own piss breaks!

What’s the morale of my story?

Whoever said it’s easier to get sex now with us boys having the web owns stock in Manhunt.

Back In the Big Apple

Back in the Big Apple

Well l spent the better part of last week driving George, my other half, from my home in Lauderdale where he drove me nuts all winter, back to our home in PA. Yesterday morning he dropped me off just across the river in Port Jervis, New York, where l took the Metro North to Manhattan and spent the afternoon in the Big City before grabbing the bus to Newark Airport and eventually my plane back home.

That’s all to explain why l ended up in the Big Apple the second time since November. It was a beautiful warmish summery day and l wore a tank top that got me some attention as l had lunch at an outdoor sidewalk cafe in the Village and later meandered my way on foot uptown to the Port Authority Bus Terminal and my trip to Newark. Metrosexuality apparently is still alive and well in the Big City; it was hard to tell the str8 guys from the gay ones even when they were holding hands or making out with a member of the opposite sex. A sign of our liberated times l guess, or maybe a failure of the butch father figure in America. Who knows.

And despite being one of the most costly cities in the world to live in, l was pleasantly  surprised by the youthful exuberance all around me, and the anything goes look. Some of the fashion twinks were living examples of how  to ask for a beating in a dark alley with a tire iron anywhere else but here.

But what wowed me most as it had during my November visit was the frightening fact that one out of every two people were on their phones!  Chitchatting, cutting deals or maybe making love, all while trotting down West 34th Street, seemingly oblivious to the six square feet of  world around them. New York City has gotta be the smartphone addict capital of the U.S.

Hell, with the way technology is going, you’ll soon be able to have sex through your earplugs. Only you won’t know it!

Talk about safe sex.

 

 

Why?

Why?

It’s a fact: according to SAGE, the Services and Advocacy for GLBT Elders, 50% of single gays say they will have to work well beyond the normal retirement age of 65 as compared to just 27% of single str8s.

As someone who semi-retired to Florida at 55, l have to ask the question.

Why?

Are more gays discriminated against in the workplace because of their sexual orientation? Or like some str8’s, had a string of bad luck, like medical problems that drained them dry, or working for companies that went bankrupt, or getting laid off in their fifties with comparable job opportunities almost non-existent, forcing them to go  through their retirement savings?

Sure, these reasons could account for some of this disparity. But not a 2 to 1 ratio.

Having been a professional gay man since l was 21 and a long-time observer of the scene, l think the reasons are two-fold:

Some gays with good paying jobs piss their good fortune away on tech toys. travel and good times  (which could include alcohol and drugs) and/or

Some gays, even if they possess the smarts, lack the ambition or drive to deal with the business world and instead mire in schlock jobs (schlock is New Yorkesee for shit) like retail, bartending, waiting tables or playing masseurs or personal trainers, anything that doesn’t require much brain power, as long as they have enough $$ to pArty, play and pay the rent on an apartment they share with three other roommates. These are often the arrogant guys with big egos and big ideas who talk on a grand scale about the business they’re going to start or career they’re going to launch but, in the end, never walk the talk. Because if you’ve worked in the business or professional world, you know that no matter who you are, including the CEO  – you have to take and eat a lot of shit (even Jesus had to take shit from his Big Daddy God), something these guys, I guess coddled by their mommies when they’re were tykes, refuse to do.

(Sure there are str’8’s that fit these same descriptions but apparently not in the numbers that gays do.)

Take Justin, a friend of mine married – to a woman – but fucking around with men all his life who had a string of successful businesses but blew his wealth on Jags, trips to Japan, homes in high rent districts or hot vacation spots, and fancy dinner parties with two hundred dollar bottles of wine for his fair weather friends until his love for booze put him under. By 65 he was broke, living in a studio apartment here in Lauderdale, facing early dementia and life in a Medicaid nursing home till a fatal heart attack offered him an easy way out.

Or Pete who bragged to me he was one of the actors screwing around in the trucks off West Street in NYC’s Village in a scene from “The Detective,” Frank Sinatra’s 1968 movie about homophobia. His show biz career went nowhere, and while possessing a genius IQ of 140 and committing himself to gay activism, Pete never worked at more than minimum wage jobs mostly in New York. He was shocked at 62 to find that he would only receive six hundred bucks a month from Social Security.

Or Phil who had a top draw job in Madison Avenue advertising but traveled his money away and who, now at 75, is bagging at Whole Foods to pay his rent.

So when l hear these millennium boys in the gym or the bars drool on about their next Bearfest in Montreal or RSVP cruise to Tahiti, guys who serve my veal parmigiana dinner at Olive Garden and will not benefit from a pension or healthy Social Security check like l do, l don’t have to ask why.

I know why.

 

 

The Conclusion of Back To Back Sex

The Conclusion of Back to Back Sex

Now Donny is something of a floater. After working in real estate in St. Augustine, Florida, he left his job, sold his condo and came down to South Florida for the good life and instead got hooked on meth. He lost his new job the very first day when he walked in flying in the stratosphere after a night of slamming. Soon after he was evicted from his nine hundred dollar a month apartment, and ended up renting a room in some old spinster’s house which is where we first played.

I park behind his new landlord’s Volkswagen as he tells me in his last text and is waiting by the gate of what appears to a row of efficiency apartments. Barely furnished like some prison cell in Leavenworth, his new abode at least affords us privacy, plus he’s got his own kitchenette and bathroom. I promise to take him shopping for a new mattress to replace the air mattress we’re confined to play on and to bring over some dishes and pillows I inherited from my late mother’s place in neighboring Hollywood after she died.

The business side of our conversation is over in five minutes, and we immediately get down to why the two of us are here together in the first place. We strip to nothing, stroke one another’s stocky, furry bodies and get our rising cocks reacquainted. He drops to his knees and begins to blow me, but I can already see the damage those two rum and cokes have done to my hard-on, Viagra or no Viagra. I also sense Donny doesn’t have his heart in it, having not only been on his feet most of the day and evening at his new job as a security guard (which is why he’s laid off the meth) but also having moved his stuff earlier that morning from his old place to this new one.

In the end, we lay on his tiny air mattress and almost pass out before I announce what’s obvious to both of us and leave.  That rim chair of mine never comes out.

To placate George who’s up again watching TV, I stop at Checkers on the way home and pick him up a double bacon cheeseburger and shake. But all he does is complain he wanted chocolate not vanilla.

Too tired to get into some protracted discussion about the state of shakes in America, I close my bedroom door and bring up xtube on my laptop hoping I can blow my load before I go to bed. But both me and Mr. Peter are pooped.

So much for my night of wild, decadent back to back sex.

Back to Back Sex: II

Back to Back Sex: II

“Hey,” says Miguel as he opens the door to his place, decked out in his big brimmed punk cap, black T and baggy black shorts.

Not much is said as we strip down, he to his underwear me to nothing. I follow him to the bathroom where he sits down on the toilet and lights up his pipe, sitting on the sink. Some bi guys need alcohol to loosen up before they play with forbidden fruit. With Miguel, it’s meth, but I decline a puff. I wanna to keep my over-Viagraed penis from wimping out with a case of Tina dick. Plus there’s Donny in an hour or so. Putting his pipe back on the sink, he exhales onto my dick, which is fully aroused by that rugged face, beard and furry chest and abs, then begins to ever so slowly stroke it, kissing the head a few times as he grabs his covered crotch. I lift off his cap and throw it to the floor, running my fingers through his healthy mop of black hair as he gets up, just a few inches taller than me, and gestures back to the bedroom slipping off his underwear.

For a while we lay there on the bed, our crotches in our faces, he still stroking my dick, only occasionally sticking it in his mouth, while I swallow his whole. Now Miguel’s got a fascinating tool. Droopy, uncut and actually tiny soft, it comes alive like a blow up doll as I peel back the foreskin and work his head that explodes in my mouth. Within just a minute or so, his nothing dick becomes a thick mushroomed monster.

His str8 side showing, he asks me again if I ever bottom. I nod my head negative. “Maybe next time, I’ll have you fuck me Daddy,” he says without emotion, as he continues to edge my cock. My gut tells me that there won’t be a next time. But here we are in the now, naked and horny.

Last time we connected neither of us got off. I’m determined to make this time different.

When we first met off adam4adam one afternoon a week or so ago, Miguel had flashed a six month old shirtless pic of himself on his Iphone, all chiseled and cut, but I told him then and still think it now as I comb my palm over his furry chest and abs, that his beefy, more natural look is a bigger turn-on for me. Getting up off the bed, I have him lay on his back, his feet on the floor, and throwing a pillow beside the bed, I kneel down and work his crotch with my mouth, gently petting his tight, super-sensitive, very furry sac. Then I slowly lift his legs slightly and dive my tongue into his furry manhole.

This bi-guy who’s fucked women fucken loves it and as his breathing becomes more labored and intense, I continue this loveship with his hole, my own cock aching, for not more than another five minutes when he quietly spurts his load over his stomach. There’s no coming for Ray – I know that – as he gets up and without even a smile, goes to the bathroom and jumps into the shower. By the time he’s back out, towel strategically around his waist, I’m dressed and ready to leave, a rent-free rentboy. Like most gay guys, I’ve always fantasized what it would be like making it with a str8 – well, sort of str8 – guy.

Now I know.

“Hey, thanks, stay in touch,” he says quietly as we approach the door and he hands me a bottled water. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and move on.

It’s only 10:40. I have at least half an hour to kill so I swing by Hunters, our dance bar that on Friday nights captures the bear crowd. I prance around shirtless, get a few wayward glances, and enjoy the rap music and jockstrapped young guys shaking their booties on the two cubicles on opposite ends of the dance floor. I chuckle to myself. While most of the guys in the place – the average age looks about 45 – are salivating over this young flesh, I’ve already had it. And Act II is soon coming up.

I realize having two rum and cokes is a mistake, but by that time Donny has summoned me with his come hither text.

“Home.”

Friday: “Back-to-Back Sex” The Conclusion.

Back To Back Sex

Back To Back Sex

This, guys, is exactly as it happened. No bullshit.

Okay, it’s a Friday evening around seven a few weeks ago. My other half is already settled in for the night, watching marathon reruns of the forty year old black series, “Good Times” even though he’s a racist, “because they make me laugh.” He chides me about going out but offers no viable alternatives. And when you’re doing the town solo, you ain’t gonna do a movie or play or concert or museum exhibition (depressing), not if you’re gay and live in a metro mecca like Lauderdale. Hell, you go to a gay bar, even if it’s to hold up the wall.

I’ve been box office poison the last couple of days on the hook-up sites, so for the hell of it I reach out to one of my on-again, off-again fuck buddies, Donny, my 52 year old hairy beefy regular blond Irish guy who has shit to show for his life but has a dick just like mine. Hell, working his cock over is like sucking myself. After being unemployed for months, he’s now working crazy hours as a security guard at some factory complex just outside downtown Lauderdale but from past encounters I know he could be available 11ish.

Twenty minutes later, while I’m watching the CBS evening news with Scott Pelley I taped earlier, and not hearing anything from Donny, I reach out to my fuck buddy-in-training (hopefully), my 32 year old (shit!) half-Italian, half- Brazilian dark furry humpy, bi-man Miguel who’s also at work at the airport as a baggage handler. He texts me a few minutes later, says he might be up for it around 10 but “I got called in early tomorrow so we can’t play long.” Hell, ten minutes with this guy who was married, just broke up with his girlfriend and wants to explore the wild side with me is worth two hours with anybody else.

“Okay,” I text back, “give me a shout out by 9:30 if you’re up for it.”

I’m doing my usual 30 minute pre-bar buff-up on my Bowflex that sits in the living room ‘cause there’s no place else I can put it, figuring I’ll hit our sex club, Slammers first and at least get a blow job, then go on to the Ramrod, our leather bar, when, lo and behold, Donny hits me up. “Sure, let’s play. But I gotta give you my new address. Just moved this morning.” I mapquest it, and see he’s actually nearer to me than before. Now, since he won’t be free till after 11, and I gotta leave the house by 10 or otherwise George, between commercials, is complaining why I’m leaving so late (yea!), I figure I’ll kill some time at Hunter’s, our dance bar, (Ramrod is dead till 11:30) before moseying over to Donny’s once he gives me the high sign he’s home.

It’s 9:30, nothing from Miguel, but hey I got Donny, so who gives a fuck. I hit the shower, making sure my hairy manhole is nice and clean – Donny loves to stick his tongue up there with me sitting on my rim chair I left at his place – and just as I’m about to put on my cock ring and ball stretcher who hits me up – you guessed it – Bi-Man.

“Home. How soon can you get here?”

“Give me 15,” I reply. What the fuck, he said he didn’t wanna play all night anyway, so why not fuck around with Miguel till about 11, lie and tell him I’m meeting some buddies at the Ramrod, our leather bar, and then head over to Donny’s.

From zilch to a double feature. Go figure. All the typical cliques flood my mind as I try to rationalize my piggish expectations. Life is short. Play hard. Go with the flow. Or the best one, the title of that Joan Didion novel about the fucked up sixties.

Play it as it lays.

I don’t even bother shouting over to George that I’m leaving. He’s already asleep. I pop the other half of my Viagra and walk out the door.

It’s show time.

Part II, Wednesday.