R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 47

Web Deceptions: And You Think It Only Happens With Us

Web Deceptions: And You Think It Only Happens With Us

This appeared in the sex advice column of a recent issue of Men’s Fitness:

“Q: l’m tired of going on Tinder (a str8 hook-up site l guess) dates and finding out the girl’s pictures don’t live up to reality. How can l screen profile pics better? And what should l be looking for?

A: People tend to put their best foot – and face – forward when online dating… This may mean posting pictures that are very flattering but don’t necessarily reflect what someone looks like all the time or even lately… Any girl you’re meeting won’t be quite as hot as her picture – and if she is, then it’ll be a nice surprise.

But in general, if she doesn’t include full body photos or if the pics look like she really had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to find them – they’re grainy or look like she cropped herself out of a big group picture or show her, say, too young to drive – let that be a red flag.”

Sound familiar?

But there was one other piece of advice MF’s sex therapist gave to that same question:

“I hope you’re not basing your entire dating strategy on looks. (How many of us gay guys do?) Yes, you need to feel attracted, but attraction can build over time … (How many of us have the patience to let that happen?) And attraction can also fade over time if a girl’s hot but her personality sucks.”

Or the sex gets boring, huh fellas?

Amtrak Slumming and Trans Workouts

Amtrak Slumming and Trans Workouts

As l mentioned on Monday, I took Amtrak from Lauderdale to retrieve G, my other half, where the temperature is already plummeting and drive him and his hound Sammy in his Ford Escape to spend another winter at my humble abode in balmy Lauderdale.

With 26 hours on the train, I took the opportunity to catch up on my magazine reading and brought along with me some recent issues of Men’s Fitness. It’s the American male’s ode to the perfect body and a great tool to hustle the latest in supplements, fitness paraphernalia, cologne, and bulgy Tommy Hilfiger underwear to an under thirty crowd between pages of impossible workouts, trendy nutrition advice, and even columns on improving your sex life. (That l don’t need – why do you think l didn’t have a chance to read those magazines at home, huh?)

That’s why l give MF the Ballsy Award of the Year to include in its December issue a story, “The Ultimate Transformation” about a groundbreaking gym in of all places, Kansas City, Missouri, dedicated to helping transgendered men beef up. l must admit my feelings about transgenders had been mixed up to now, but reading this article has changed my views 360. (At least re. the gals to guys variety.) It highlighted the challenges these born-as-women now men face in re-sculpting their bodies to fit their new genders, and the role both boot camp style workouts and, most importantly, testosterone plays in making that possible.

As one endocrinologist quoted in the article points out, “Testosterone is the only big hormonal difference in men and women, far bigger than estrogen, and it has greater immediate influence on a man’s physical appearance than even his chromosomes.” Besides being able to lift much heavier weights than they ever could as females, a number of the trans guys featured even grew facial and body hair. They actually look hot!

Not that testosterone doesn’t come without a price. Just like us born this way, transgendered men increase their risks for heart disease, stroke, aggressive behavior, even receding hairlines. Oh yea, and as the article put it, that “overwhelming dingy locker room stench.”

That’s a negative?? Stick that sweaty armpit in my face, buddy, and let me lick it.

(Thanks to The Advocate for these pics of actual trans men.)

Security Is A Relative Thing

Security Is A Relative Thing

(I wrote this on my AT&T tablet on route to PA last Tuesday, just two weeks after the Paris tragedy and a day before the San Bernardino massacre.)

l decided to take Amtrak this time rather than fly to retrieve my other half from the wilds of a another Pennsylvania winter and drive him back in his Ford Escape with his doggie, Sammy, to sunny South Florida. Yea, it puts a cramp in my philandering lifestyle (hey guys, don’t judge me – after 44 years together what do you expect when he’s no longer interested in sex and l am), but it’s nice to wake up in the morning to have somebody to argue with besides my three dogs.

Picking up Amtrak’s Silver Meteor in Lauderdale last Monday morning, I overnighted to New York City’s Penn Station and got into NYC around 11:30 a.m. Tuesday, just a half hour behind schedule. From there I caught the Metro North in Hoboken to Port Jervis, New York, and cabbed it to our home across the state border in PA on my angel of mercy mission.

l chose the train which l’ve done a few times before after I found my last few flights, especially my last one on United, more of a cattle car experience, and splurged this time on a roomette. It was worth every penny for its privacy – and my own toilet, thank you very much.

Instead of being cramped in an airline seat where legroom is disappearing faster than landline phones, all for the sake of profit (less leg room means more seats they can jam in), l was able to spread out in my little isolation booth as I literally watched the world go by. I wonder with Amtrak’s staggering losses and youth’s obsession with speed how long this experience l had will continue.

Funny though, after Paris, especially coming into New York, I expected a hell of a lot of security checks, yet encountered none, zilch, nothin’, zero.

l had bought my Amtrak ticket online, but when the conductor scanned my tix in, he didn’t ask even for my ID. I learned later from a gal sitting with me in the dining car for lunch that ID’s were checked on a random basis. So we’re leaving it to luck a potential crazy is unearthed?

Sure, you can’t take Amtrak from the other side of the world like you can a plane but what’s stopping a terrorist, foreign or homegrown, from carrying a bomb in a duffle bag, much like the Boston Marathon dynamic duo did, to any of the major East Coast cities the train l was on serviced: D.C., Baltimore, Philly, and course, the Big Apple.

In fact, the first time l saw any security presence at all was when we arrived in Baltimore and a trio of cops with police dogs were having their morning coffee bullshitting on the station platform.

If you ask me, this is a big hole in our security system and like we often hear, we have to be right 100% of the time; they only have to be right once. I got an airport level security work over even when l recently visited the Statue of Liberty. And as l often said to my college students when l was still teaching, what’s stopping that nice mommy from having plastic explosives stuck up her ass or her baby’s?

Arriving in Manhattan l expected an armed camp but saw little evidence of that.

I trotted down the main corridor of Penn Station and all l saw were gakunga holiday wreaths hanging from the ceiling and free spirited musicians begging for dollars. Or was one of the guys l ate dinner with on the train right that our protectors were in plain clothes? While it makes you feel that we live in a police state, it’s also somewhat comforting to see cops in plain sight. Complete with their big, badass bomb sniffing canines.

To kill time till my Metro North train to Port Jervis from Hoboken left late that afternoon, and also because it was only a block away from Penn Station, l checked out Macy’s. Its flagship store with all its artsy, over-the-top Christmas decorations was as far away from its suburban outlets l usually frequented as Mars is to Pluto. Hell, customers were taking pix of their automaton owls that flew above the perfume counters. And glossy large screen advertising shouted out at you from every sales nook and cranny. It was as if Macy’s was just one big circus tent for dozens of fashion boutiques from leading clothes designers across the globe.

No surprise: just about every male sales rep in the place was tres gay, their female counterparts tall, thin and trendy, and many of their potential clients metrosexual devotes. After wandering three floors of female apparel, l stumbled on the men’s collection. Most of the clothes were winter wear, something l certainly don’t need where l live, and when l spied a $75 price tag on a polo shirt not much different than one l had recently thrown out, l figured it was time to leave this epitome of consumer overconsumption and its pretentious inhabitants.

About the only time security appeared alive and visible was at the PATH train station at 33rd Street and Sixth Avenue where l finally, after literally two days on the road – or should l say the tracks – picked up the train for Hoboken and my ride to Port Jervis. (From there l would take a cab to our home in PA). A small army of either active military or reserves, all young and humpy and dressed in tight, sexy fatigues stood guard at the turnstiles. They seemed imposing but let us through with nary a glance.

But l got a confession to make.

That’s one frisking l wouldn’t mind at all.

Now do your job, soldier, and feel me up good.

Hey, Why Have Just One Addiction When You Can Have Two? Or Three? Or More?

Hey, Why Have Just One Addiction When You Can Have Two? Or Three? Or More?

A few weeks ago, Jason, a guy I knew down here, dropped dead of a heart attack alone in his apartment, and wasn’t found by a friend till the following day when his fingers were already black.

Now Jason had led a topsy-turvy life. Once a wealthy businessman with homes, yachts, Jags and all the other accruements that go along with having money, he lost it all, so he says, to early dementia, and was living on a disability check. But as I said to my friend Frank who introduced me, I think it was alcoholism that ruined him. There are two kinds of drunks, the quiet kind and the obnoxious kind, and Jason was the latter, bating guys a foot taller than him at the Ramrod. Why he never got pushed through the wall always amazed me. Or calling me “shortie” when we stood eye to eye.

We were baking ourselves once on Sebastian Beach, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, when Jason revealed, quite casually, that he had done heroin while in college. This intelligent, astute, white, upper middle class Jewish boy from the Jersey burbs had trolled the streets of Newark for smack, and met his wife-to-be shooting up in a drug den in Lauderdale that decades later became the site of Fun Town’s most iconic bar, The Alibi.

But as many counselors say, some addicts replace one addiction for another. Hard drugs for alcohol? Maybe.

Or take Kevin, one of my psychotic tricks who I dropped when he started acting eerily like Anthony Perkins in “Psycho,” who instead of making something of his life having survived stage 4 cancer at 19, instead became a poly-addict: chain smoker, heavy drinker, cocaine snorter, and meth slammer.

Hell, why have only one addiction when you can have four?

In fact, I’ve noticed many of my meth head lovers smoke like coal stacks; one even boasted he had done heroin too.

Talk about being alien to my former str8laced, three piece suit existence? I’d find a Martian right now more normal.

Me? As one astute Ray observer said, I’ m an attention whore. Guess my fucked-up introverted adolescence made me one, forever craving acceptance which is why the sex to me is secondary to the conquest. (“He likes me, he really likes me.”)

The last time I did coke was when I was in New York in early November.

The last time I did meth was two weeks ago with a hot hairy Cuban from Miami.

The last time I got drunk was last night at Alibi’s Iced Tea Night.

Does that make me a poly-addict too?

Calling The Kettle Black

Calling The Kettle Black

Kyle thinks l’m too negative, too cynical. I view things differently and consider myself a realist, a pragmatist. But then again maybe he’s right. Maybe because l’m older than him and have had more life experiences that have made me the so-called cynic he sees.

On the other hand, I’ve had two successful professional careers, am financially comfortable, physically fit and still attract guys old enough to be my son. And l’m generally content with my life despite all the bullshit I see around me.

Kyle is a high school drop-out, pushing forty, who filed personal bankruptcy a few years ago for a lousy ten grand, and currently works a minimum pay job when he isn’t a borderline alcoholic, chain smoker and full blown druggie. Coke, grass, meth, take your pick.

But, according to him, l’m the one who’s fucked up.

Jerry on Bear411 sends me a message questioning whether the hard cock pics posted on my profile are really mine. “They are,” l respond honestly and simply, determined not to get into a pissing contest with Jerry who’s 5′ 10″ and three hundred forty six pounds, a walking cardiac time bomb, and has only one pic up on his profile, fully clothed in a moo-moo shirt.

But okay…

As we get into our virtual conversation on Manhunt, Dennis, on learning of my philandering, berates me for fucking around on the side in a relationship that has spanned over four decades with a guy no longer interested in sex but still jealous about my wanderings which sometimes crimps my style. But given the fact we’ve buried nine family members and ten dogs, had a few economic ups and downs and our share of health crises, we somehow still muddle through life together.

Dennis, the purist conservative and relationship expert who only believes in total monogamy, has had three “LTR’s” in his life, none lasting more than a year. And P.S., at 57 sleeps on his brother’s couch and can’t pay his cell phone bill. (I know, money ain’t everything, but try living without it.) But preach on, Dennis, preach on.

Isn’t it funny the biggest critics of others are people who ignore their own shortcomings? Is it that by deflecting their faults by pointing fingers at others they can avoid focusing on their own?

That is if they even think they have any.

Charlie Sheen and Jerkism

Charlie Sheen and Jerkism

This letter to the editor ran the other day in Fort Lauderdale’s mainstream daily, the Sun Sentinel:

“In response to the woman who wrote on November 20, “Shouldn’t we concentrate on peace on earth instead of every news and radio channel reporting on Charlie Sheen having HIV? Who cares?”

I do.

Reporting on an aspect of a very important health epidemic is not mutually exclusive from reporting on terrorism around the world. … The number of new HIV cases is on the rise… In addition, South Florida is one of the leading geographic areas for new HIV cases. (P.S: because of stupid, careless, irresponsible gayboys.)

Any time the opportunity to keep the dialogue going about HIV prevention and education, safe sex, medical treatments and debunking myths about HIV is a great one …”

My response to his response to her letter?

Charlie Sheen is a jerk.

Whether he got it from a prostitute (stupid), intravenous drug use (even my meth head buddies know to use clean needles when they slam), or just maybe another guy (the men who most boast about their female conquests are often doing it on the down low), he’s a jerk.

And so are all the other guys who by now should know better. If you haven’t heard how HIV is transmitted in the last thirty years, then you just arrived from Mars.

Education? All the education in the world won’t do shit if you’re preaching to guys with no brain cells or who are ruled by their dicks.

My Worse Thanksgiving EVER

My Worse Thanksgiving EVER

Next week, I’ll be traveling up to Pennsylvania to retrieve my other half and bring him down in his car to spend the winter at MY house in Lauderdale. He’s a nick picking SOB, but our history goes way back, and morally I can’t leave my seventy eight year old boi up there to deal with a brutal winter when he faces a potentially fatal cardiac condition.

See, I do have a heart.

Meanwhile, last night I dropped my buddy Frank off at Fort Lauderdale airport for a flight to New York to visit his three-hundred-thousand-dollars-a-year Wall Street trader son for the holiday.

Bottom line, I expected to be alone for Thanksgiving, content with the prospect of sharing my Marie Callender Thanksgiving microwave dinner with my three doggies when my neighbor invited me to join her and her mother for a holiday feast at one of Lauderdale’s upscale restaurants.

“I gotta warn you,” cautioned Hope, who’s still a sexy chick at an age when most women are content to fantasize about their gay hairdressers. “She’s a bitch.”

To which I replied, “We’ll compare notes, then. You don’t know a bitch unless you met my mother.”

Want proof? How about the very worse Thanksgiving in my fucked up life?

When my parents were still alive, Thanksgiving was at least a tolerable holiday. In the days of my youth, we would host the big holiday feast for the rest of our family of freeloaders, but once my folks moved to a retirement community in Toms River, New Jersey, and my sister and brother-in-law moved to Long Island, it was just Dad, Mom and me, either at their place or a restaurant where I’d treat them as the good son.

Now, my father was a quiet, unassuming kinda guy, my mother a psychotic bitch, and when he dropped dead just shy of his seventy-fifth birthday, I was bequeathed the distinct honor of dealing with Mommie Dearest undiluted.

One Thanksgiving, in my feeble attempt to keep the family together, I drove all the way to extreme northwest New Jersey where 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 where I both lived and worked. In holiday traffic, NJ and SI might as well have been the North Pole and South Pole. The plan was for us to drive over the following morning – Thanksgiving Day – to my sister’s on Long Island, another marathon on the Long Island Expressway.

Yea, I know, I’m a masochist, and not just with sex.

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 then seventy something woman to the floor.

She pretended in typical “I’m gonna make you feel real guilty, boy” Mom 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.

This year, I have more to look forward to than just stuffing myself with needless calories. My new fuck buddy, a hot hairy Latin from Miami is coming up Thanksgiving night to spend some time, and on Friday we plan to hit the leather shops in Wilton Manors where he hopes to buy a leather jockstrap, you know the kind, with your junk hanging out a hole in the front. And, to sweeten the deal, one of the shops is running a Black Friday sale – twenty five percent off.

Ain’t capitalism wonderful?

Have a good one, guys. Talk to you Monday.

Is the F Word = To the N Word?

Is the F Word = To the N Word?

Hey, we call one another “fag” or “faggot” all the time and think nothing of it. And when I’m the token white at my black barber, the N word is bantered around without a second thought, as in, “Hey, ni**er, how’s your bitch doin’?” But dare the little white boy say it ….

As I’ve said here many a time, after eating shit for thirty years in public relations, I’m at a stage in my life where I don’t take shit, and if somebody bugs me, I speak my mind. If they wanna tell me to go fuck myself, fine, but I’m not holding it in anymore. Someday that philosophy may land me in the hospital, but, I can always shout out at that point, “Go ‘head, hit me, and you’ll be up on elder abuse charges!”

I say all this to set the stage for an incident that happened last week. I was at the mini-mall where Crunch, my gym, which has become mostly gay and is beginning to hurt its str8 business, is located along with, among other things, a Sav-A-Lot supermarket where I buy odds and ends when visiting Crunch.

It so happens I was about to enter Sav-A-Lot when a kinda white Chevy worth about seven dollars and ten cents in the Blue Book went barrel-assing pass me on the main road of the mall which should have speed bumps but doesn’t, and screeched to a halt in front of the nail salon. Now besides the gym and supermarket and nail salon, there’s a soccer gym for kids and a laundromat. Translation: lots of pokey pedestrian traffic.

As the tall black woman with the skinny jeans and orange hair bolted out of the car, I yelled over, “You’re going too fast!”

To which she yelled back with a grimace, “Who the fuck are you to talk to me?”

To which I repeated, “You’re gonna too fucken fast!”

Ignoring me at this point, she ran into the nail salon for whatever (maybe she was checking to see if her man or her bitch was there getting a pedicure with his or her new girlfriend), as I entered Sav-A-Lot for my skim milk and tomatoes.

A minute later, while I was at the front of the store by the produce, she stopped her car at the sliding door entrance and shouted, “Fuck you, faggot!”

Do you think my short gym shorts and low cut tank top had anything to do with it?

As I said, if somebody wants to tell me to go fuck myself after I’ve told them what I think … yea, but calling me the “F” word stung for about a minute. Shit, she sped way so fast, I didn’t have a chance to yell back, “Yea, but I still get more sex than you do!” or “So it’s okay for me to call you a ni**er now?”

And that’s when it hit me. Today, in our overly politically correct world, where they wanna rewrite “Huckleberry Finn,” people get fired, or their careers ruined, if they use the N word in public (even Obama got scolded), “faggot,” well, using it doesn’t quite have the same dire consequences, at least not yet.

So I ask you. Don’t you think using the F word is just as hurtful and insulting to us as using the N word is to African Americans, or do people rationalize it all by pointing out race is something you can’t change but behavior is?

What do you think?

I Hope I’m Wrong …

I Hope I’m Wrong …

 

What happened in Paris should surprise none of us. The powers-to-be sat on their asses when there was an opportunity to squash ISIS like cockroaches with Raid, and now it may be too late. It reminds me of the world’s apathy in the thirties when, against the Versailles Treaty that ended WWI, Hitler gradually built up Germany’s military and armament, and by the time everyone woke up, he was taking over their countries.

Worse we’re fighting a guerrilla warfare now, and remember we lost it in Vietnam and the Russians lost it in Afghanistan.

But what may be most scary about the current state of affairs is ISIS’ new strategy to go after “soft targets,” not airports or military installations or even iconic landmarks, but ordinary places where ordinary people meet. A soccer stadium. A restaurant. A rock concert.

And while the gay population may be a piss in the ocean compared to mainstream str8 society, make no mistake there’s more than one homophobic jihadist or brain dead kid with nothing to lose being brainwashed on some encrypted Islam website as we speak to get – US.

Hey, what’s stopping them, for the good of Allah, from having an undercover suicide bomber (you got to admit a lot of these guys are hotties) from doing a number in some gay venue like a leather fest or gay cruise?

Like I said, I hope I’m wrong.

… “I’m on PrEP” is a phrase being used in more and more hook-up profiles. But can you believe him, when guys in the clinical studies were non-compliant? Just as can you believe a guy when he tells you he’s negative, or that his viral load is indistinguishable which, according to research, means it is totally impossible for him to transmit anything to you?

In the end, whether you choose to do it covered or raw comes down to your decision about taking the risks.

Not his.

…A recent British study revealed that the vast majority of women may actually be bisexual, based on measuring responses such as pupil dilation when they watched str8 and gay porn. This in spite of the majority of women insisting they were heterosexual.

Could the same case be made of str8 men?

The researchers claim lesbians shared much stronger reactions to women (let’s hope so) and men, whether str8 or gay, showed a striking preference to their sex of choice.

But are we totally sure about that?

Hmm…

Sexuality is rarely black and white but often comes in shades of gray.

It’s Daddy Week on Str8 Gay Confessions: My Boys

My Boys

I never planned to be a Daddy. I was always the cute short guy. Hell, even my very, very straight, dyed-in-the-wool Italian Catholic CEO called me cute.

Now, twenty years later, when some guy purrs “Daddy,” it’s like music to my ears. Running their fingers through my chest hairs doesn’t hurt either. Here in the autumn of my life – my gay life – I’m sought after by guys who are old enough to be my biological sons. Should I complain?

After all, I’m near perfect Daddy material if I say so myself. No, I’m not big or tall, but I got a nice muscular body, am pretty damn hairy, masculine, intelligent, assertive, confident, financially comfortable. And I know how to keep my men happy in bed. Plus I love role playing and fantasizing – with a man next to me, not a pc screen.

But enough about me. What do I look for in a Boy? More than most Daddies I think who are content with just the guy’s youth. The best way to explain it is to tell you about a few of the “sons” that came into my life quite by happenstance. I get hits almost every day from guys in their thirties, twenties, even late teens (sorry, no jailbait please) looking for a quick daddy dump. But I’ve also had a few “sons” along the way who were no ten minute wonders, but guys I could fall for – and who apparently fell for me.

First let me tell you about Tim, 42, who I encountered on Bear411 one summer while I was at my vacation home in Pennsylvania. He lives in Jacksonville and our first game plan was to find a middle of the road point on Florida’s East Coast and rendezvous sometime in the fall. But since I passed through Jax on my way home from PA to my home in Lauderdale, I asked if it might be possible to see him then. He agreed with open arms, offering to put me up for the night.

It was instant chemistry. My height, lightly furry, Italian, bearded, nice compact body, with boyish looks that belied his age, a stable, steady-as-you-go demeanor and a quiet, understated masculinity. Before we could finish our conversation about the golden oak furniture we both collected, we were in his secluded backyard hot tub and the rest as they say is for the history books or my next gay novel. His PA was a particularly nice surprise. But his fuzzy manly back and butt were to die for for this Dad and we got into the Father/Son act even before we hit the bedroom.

A few weeks later he came down and spent a weekend at my place, and while he was the curious tourist and loved hitting our gay beaches and the bars (apparently Jax has almost no scene), we went at it for six hours straight on his first day and got into a few more “training sessions” where “Papa,” as he called me, promised to make him a man before the weekend was done. A generation my junior, he applauded me for my stamina.

We even played Truck Stop Buddies where he was my rebel boy, both of us in baseball caps and workboots and nothing else, him spread eagle on the bed, that manly furry butt all mine.

Then there’s Jack, 36, half a country away who, like Tim, I met on Bear411, this time when I was planning a long weekend in Chicago. While he was very receptive when we chatted on line, he sounded somewhat hesitant when I called him on my arrival to see if our meeting would become real, and even when we met at the coffee shop across the street from my guesthouse on Halsted, (he lived 40 minutes away in the rural burbs). As we strolled over to a Middle Eastern café a few blocks away and had a quick dinner, I still wasn’t sure if our conversation about politics and The Life was just a form of delay tactics before he told me nicely that it wasn’t going to work out.

Back in my guesthouse room, however, everything changed as he teasingly pawed all over me telling me that I was the fantasy Dad of his coming out days. At 5-9, he actually got turned on by mature guys shorter than him and had had a bodybuilder dad for thirteen years before the guy died of liver failure in his thirties, tragically the result of years of juicing up.

Jack owed his husky build and luxurious black body hair to his dynamic combo of ancestry – Italian, Greek and Egyptian – and he sported elaborate tats on his chest, back and legs that only added to his boyish mystique. We spent that Friday night together and that Sunday afternoon, the day before I was return to Lauderdale, Jack eager to hear what the leather scene had been back in the eighties and nineties, a time I sensed he wished he had been a part of now, in these waning days of the leather scene in America. We parted with his invite for me to be his Dad at next year’s IML event held in Chicago each Memorial Day. While that didn’t materialize, he still has an open offer to visit me in the Land of Endless Summer.

The latest to join Daddy Ray’s “family” and one of the youngest guys I’ve ever bedded down with is David, who just turned 27 when I met him vacationing here in Lauderdale this past spring. He’s a chemist for one of the mega pharmaceutical companies back in Boston. A smooth red-haired boyish “ginger” jock who came from a family of jocks, David won a hockey scholarship to one of the East’s major universities and still plays in his spare time. That is when his furry butt, about the only hair on his swimmers build bod, isn’t getting fucked by his dads.

But you know what excited me most about my boys? Surprisingly, their maturity. After encountering so much shit back in Lauderdale where I run into fifty year old party boys with absolutely nothing, Tim, Jack and Dave were breaths of fresh air. Tim had a solid job at a top communications firm, owned his own home and had just purchased a four unit apartment house in downtown Jax which he was renovating almost totally on his own for use as an income property. Jack had built his log cabin in the sticks on which he had almost paid off the mortgage, had no credit card debt, and was moving up to a new, better paying job in bank finance. And Dave plans to start buying up cheap real estate here in South Florida as an investment so that someday he can retire early like his favorite Florida dad, Furry Daddy Ray.

Hell, adopt them? I want them to adopt me!