R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 48

It’s Daddy Week on Str8 Gay Confessions: Daddy Talk

Daddy Talk

I came across an article in one of the gay rags recently about “ageism in the gay community” and how “the shelf life of gay men is precarious at best,” with the young despising the old and the old trying desperately to stay young. That is, if they haven’t trainwrecked themselves with booze, chain smoking, drugs, or living in a refrigerator by the time they’re forty.

Fast forward to a conversation I happened to have the other day at my doctor’s office with D., the partner of Dr. C, my testosterone wizard, who commented about how now that he’s turned the big 5-0, he’s getting hit on by younger and younger guys. Even though he prefers guys closer to his age.

“Welcome to the Daddy Club,” I said laughing. For while most men my age have the remote control for their TV in their lap, I have some guy usually old enough to be my son giving me a bj.

“Yea, one kid at Crunch (our mostly gay gym here in Lauderdale) gave me a wink and said how he was into older guys,” said D., who viewed that as a left handed complement.

Hey, the first time a guy called me “Daddy” I thought I had used the wrong shade of “Just for Men,” but, hell, my Daddy status has given me a second career as a gay man. I fucken love it!

But always playing the amateur psycho-analysist, I wondered out loud with D that maybe the reason so many younger guys are attracted to older men is because the father figure is increasingly missing in American society, either literally or figuratively (You know, the professional dad who never has time to nurture Sonny). Consequently these gay boys are turning to us not necessarily as meal tickets, but as mentors.

To which D. answered with a sarcastic tone in his voice, “Ray, you’re dissecting the fucken thing to death. It’s all about sex, baby!”

You know, he’s right.

And I’m sure as fuck happy he is.

Leather Fashion Faux Pas

Leather Fashion Faux Pas



Again, forgive me, but I’m Leather Old School.

Back in the seventies, eighties and nineties, the height of the Leather Life in cities like San Francisco, New York, Chicago and L.A., your basic attire on a Saturday night was boots, jeans, vest or harness. High couture leather boys wore chaps, with or without those nice furry butt cheeks just hanging there for fondling, and the Truly Ballsy who had bodies by Tom of Finland would prance around in a leather jock, boots, a cool cigar, and not much else.

Hell, in those dens of leather paradise like the Lure in New York’s West Village, it didn’t matter what you looked like – if you weren’t wearing boots they wouldn’t let you in. (Though if you looked like Tom Seleck in his youth, they’d trade your Nike sneakers for a pair of nicely scuffed loaner boots.)

Ah, but those days are fast fading as more and more of the original Leather generation hang up their jock straps. Sure, you’ll still see some incredibly beautiful hunks of manhood straight out of those glory days, flaunting their masculinity with the perfect leather look. But since bars are businesses, out to sell all that overpriced liquor, and the ranks of us leather guys are dwindling, rigid dress codes have gone the way of Bruce Jenner’s gym bag. The results are almost mind boggling.

Take the guys, mostly flat chested, hairless and young, who think they look hot in their latest bulldog leather harnesses, Bermuda shorts and floppies. Holy Shit! If you showed up at the door of the Lure dressed like that, they’d hogtie you and publicly castrate you right there on the sidewalk. Even wearing leather and jeans with sneakers – sneakers?! – is still a fashion faux pas for this leather veteran.

Ah, but the guys who drive me the craziest are the ones who apparently have their homes equipped with funhouse mirrors. You know the ones – young and old – who wear their harnesses as brassieres, or worse the guys with ass cheeks the size of melons prancing around like peacocks in jockstraps or those singlets with the cheek cut-outs. Shit, some of their butts are so wide you could project one of those Super Wide 3D movies on them.

You think maybe these guys were hired by the Religious Right as part of the Conservatives’ aversion therapy agenda?

Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces …

… Don’t ya love it. After making tens of millions of dollars on horny men with money, one of the owners of the now defunct and disgraced Rentboy is looking for donations to mount his legal defense against the feds.

The feds closed Rentboy down because they considered it – OMG! – a prostitution ring. So what kind of legal defense could you mount? What were these mostly smooth Latin hunks with donkey dongs charging guys three hundred dollars an hour and up for? Trade holiday recipes?

… Studies have now confirmed that “Gaydar” really does exist not only in gay men and women, but even in some str8’s. Most of it is an acquired talent based on perceptions of a person’s personality, mannerisms and voice.

But after spending almost a week in the metrosexual capital of the world, New York City, I find it’s getting increasingly harder to tell the difference between str8 boys who sound and act gay, and gay guys who sound and act “str8 acting,” whatever the hell that is anymore.

I remember my gay guy neighbors telling me about a birthday party they went to of str8’s and how they sounded and acted like the only str8’s in the place!

… Hey, I told you Ben Carson was dangerous. Now he’s even beating Trump in some polls. But why??

Listen, I worked with doctors for over thirty years. Besides having egos of children, many of them know nothing of the real world the rest of us live in. They’re just high priced body mechanics.

But beyond being something of an airhead living in 1950’s Ozzie and Harriet America, Carson is a homophobic with a capital H and is totally backward when it comes to social progress and equality. Oh, but he comes across as such a nice, quiet guy. Those are the ones you gotta watch out for.

Now the people responding to these polls are supposed to be would be Republican primary voters. Do they view Carson as the party’s Black Messiah who will win the minority votes the party lost to Obama? Do they honestly think the average African American can relate to a One Percenter?

… One of the oldest male hook-up sites that led the way for everyone else recently changed its Message format to mimic smartphone texting as a way, I guess of attracting the young guys who they are losing to the phone apps like Scruff and Growl’r. Big mistake. Their established customer base – me included – hate the new fucken format and worse, you can’t even delete the “Texts” once their posted.

Looking at my five “Conversations” from guys I have absolutely no interest in and who apparently did not read my profile, I’m asking myself, why should I continue as a paying member? Well, I’m not.

Listen, I use any of the sites I’m on for one purpose: identify guys potentially interested in me or me in them. Once that’s established, I have the guy text me so I don’t have to remain on the site, and we take it from there. Any guy resistant to give me his number I don’t bother with.

Hey, I’m just a pragmatic faggot.

I filed my protest with their support staff and got a neat cheery little canned response thanking me for my feedback but not addressing any of the glitches in the new format. Maybe they think they’re too big to give a damn. Well, Wal-Mart thought that way too till it started seeing its profits siphoned away by the dollar stores.

Yea, you can be too big to fail.

Five Days in New York: The Men and NYC’s Sanitized Gay Scene

Five Days in New York: The Men and NYC’s Sanitized Gay Scene

No doubt about it. The more I travel, the more I realize that the internet that has spawned all those hook-up sites and phone apps and 24/7 opportunities to meet a guy has actually fucked things up royally everywhere, including what was once the gay capital of America, New York City.

That’s not to say I was box office poison the time I was there. Hell, I got over a hundred hits on the almost dozen sites I’m on – I guess I benefited from the “New Meat” phenomenon – but most were guys who apparently did not read my profile. “I’m so into hairy guys,“ oozed one surfer boy. My reply: “But did you ask me what I want?” Then there were the usual gameplayers, like the dozen or so cute or hot guys who hit me up and who I wanted but just before closing the deal, disappeared into the safety of anonymous cyberspace, or worst, played mindfucker. “Done walking Fido. I’ll be grabbing a cab for your hotel In five minutes,” and never materialized. A few, after all the bullshit, actually blocked me so there would be no way for me to tell them to fuck off. But why bother. Guys who pull this like playing power games, are fucked up, on drugs or like all of us, playing three or four or more guys at the same time, hoping to get Number 14 but not dropping Number 8 just in case.

In the end, I focused on the doables and had sex every day I was there.

Friday night, when nothing was happening for me on the web, I strolled over to my old haunt, the West Side Club bath house, where a cutie from Austin spent forty five minutes in my lap, and where twenty minutes later, a humpy hairy New Yorker finished me off.

Saturday night, before hitting the Eagle, I walked over a few blocks from my hotel for a Bear Night advertised on Growlr, and had one older guy in uniform work me over on some Salvation Army sofa, only to be pushed aside by a hairy humpy man in town from D.C. Relax, guys, there’s enough to go around.

Sunday, I was invited to a threesome by some guy on Daddyhunt, again walking distance from my hotel, that was wild for the first-forty five minutes till a twink – apparently it was his apartment – barged in and told us to wrap it up. We grabbed a cab and continued in my hotel room, and later I got lucky on Scruff and did a little coke with a bearded buddy who told me coke is a lot cheaper than meth in New York and a hell of lot easier to get.

Monday, I fucked a musician who worked at Lincoln Center ( he had just purchased a million dollar one bedroom on the Upper West Side – God bless America and the free enterprise system), and that evening I had a threesome when two guys, one from Growlr, the other from Nastykinkpigs, both wanted me at the same time. (Nastykinkpigs was between jobs and paying $3800 in rent for a one bedroom in midtown.)

That same day, one guy had pleaded with me to visit him in Soho, another on the Upper West Side. But why bother? I had had fun without ever leaving West 38th Street.

Monday, my last day in the City, which would probably be the last day I would spend in New York in my life, I took the subway down to Sheridan Square and the West Village, my old stomping rounds as a leather man of the eighties and nineties. Christopher Street, our catwalk, was now more trendy than sexy, and where my seedy hangouts, the original Eagle, the Spike and the Lure, once catered to the whims of the leather/levi crowd, high rise condos sliced into the sky. The crumpling West Street piers, the site of decadent night time liaisons, were now a sleek urban park, complete with a jogging trail and tourist ferries. Ah, if only the sidewalks could talk.

As for St. Vincent’s Hospital, once a City landmark on 12th Street which ran the health care system I worked for till I left for Florida in 2002 (the system went bankrupt a few years later), it was being converted into luxury apartments.

The philosopher was right.

You can’t go home again.

Five Days in New York: Part 2 – Playing Tourist

Five Days in New York: Part 2 – Playing Tourist

They say most New Yorkers have never gone to the Statue of Liberty, and as somebody who lived on Staten Island, a borough of the City, for over thirty years, I was one of them, at least since Lady Liberty had her multimillion dollar eighties facelift. So Friday morning with on-line tix in hand for my combo tour of the Statue and Ellis Island, the entry point for tens of millions of immigrants from the 1880’s through the 1920’s including my own grandparents, I took the Number One subway down to Battery Park.

What awaited me was a Disney World line of fellow tourists who before you ever got on the boats to take you into New York Harbor had to file through a non-descript steel house to undergo a security check on par with any airport, minus taking off your shoes. Sign of our times.

It was a beautiful, cloud -free fall day and the ride over to Liberty Island gave you a spectacular view of the iconic New York skyline including the new Freedom Tower. And certainly the many foreign tourists who surrounded me on the boat and who I would rub elbows with throughout my five day stay only cemented in my mind NYC’s place as the tourist capital of the world. And given the wealth of Scandinavian I heard spoken, I guess those folks on the top of the world are doing real well.

I was proud of myself, as an aging cynic, climbing the over two hundred steps to the top of Lady Liberty’s pedestal, but it was Ellis Island, still under renovation when I left New York in 2002, that held the most fascination for me. After all, this is where it all started for my grandparents who came over “on the boat” from Slovakia and Russia around 1907. I still have my father’s father’s trunk that held all his worldly possessions in my living room to remind me of my humble beginnings.

For all the horror stories of families being broken up once they arrived in the Great Hall – if a child or spouse was found physically or mentally unfit, they were sent back – most were treated like royalty on this side of the Atlantic compared to their weeks long voyage as steerage passengers where accommodations were not much better than those faced by concentration camp victims decades later. (Actually handling immigrants proved to be a profitable business line for the steamship companies.) How any of them were able to afford it is even more amazing. The ship ticket cost twenty five dollars – a month’s wages back in the old country – and once here, a train ticket could run even higher. Family folklore says that my paternal grandfather who understandably knew no English had a sign around his neck which read “Ship Me To Montana,” where his older brother who was sponsoring him worked in the coal mines of San Coulee. My father, aunt and uncle would later be born there. And decades later, when I visited the little town, I was surprised to find a Slovak community still in place.

But what motivated all these millions to leave what they knew for a big unknown? Economic hardship, political and religious persecution were certainly factors. At the turn of the last century, Slovakia was under the rule of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire which was forcing native peoples to abandon their culture and even their language. I also learned walking through the living exhibits at Ells Island that many of these countries were run like police states.

On Friday, being an old film buff, I took the Turner Classic Movies bus tour of sites throughout Manhattan where scenes for some famous films had been shot, like the Upper West Side brownstone Audrey Hepburn “lived in” in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” which recently sold for ten million dollars; or the little park by the 59th Street Bridge in Sutton Place, considered the most expensive neighborhood in the City and where Woody Allen shot a scene for his film, “Manhattan.” In the end, the tour was not just a smorgasbord of movie history; it exemplified the deep contrasts in New York between the ultra wealthy and the down and out. The following morning I grabbed an Egg McMuffin breakfast at a McDonald’s near my hotel where an obviously inebriated panhandler inside was hustling customers for loose change. A number of beggars stationed in their little spots on the sidewalk looked disturbingly young.

But the tourist site that got to me the most was the 9/11 Memorial Museum at Ground Zero. As I’ve mentioned before, I worked for the Staten Island Division of St. Vincent’s Hospital, and was in lower Manhattan at the “Motherhouse” (St. V’s was operated by the

Sisters of Charity of New York) where I not only witnessed that tragic day first hand, but was drafted to deal with the media circus that followed at St. Vincent’s, the closest hospital to the World Trade Center. (For my complete account of that day, visit my blog, str8gayconfessions.com, and check out the archives for September 11, 2015.)

While the reflection pools created at the original footprints of the two towers and where the names of victims are inscribed appears serene on TV, there is actually a beehive of construction going on around the museum and the new Freedom Tower, another example of the vitality of an ever changing city.

Again, 9/11 had a personal connection for me, and in the museum I saw the twisted fire truck which had been buried under the rumble of the collapsed towers that the secretary of our hospital’s CEO saw on TV that morning and instantly knew her firefighter husband was dead. Perhaps the most chilling exhibit was a series of voicemail messages that a financier in one of the towers following the first plane left on his home phone for his wife, oblivious to the reality that his life would end minutes later.

This is the only museum I have ever been in that maintains Kleenex dispensers throughout its exhibits.

Monday: NYC’s Men and Its Sanitized Gay Scene.

(Pix: the Manhattan skyline from Liberty Island; a late afternoon view of New York Harbor from Liberty Island; the Statue; Ellis Island; the Great Hall where immigrants were collected before processing; the 59th Street Bridge park used in “Woody Allen’s “Manhattan”; the remains of one of the Tower’s foundation walls as viewed in the 9/11 Museum; the reflection pool; the new Freedom Tower; the American flag that was retrieved from the rumble on 9/11.)

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

My Five Days in New York, Part 2: Playing Tourist, will appear on Friday.

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

Buddy: l’ve had a roommate since July when l leased a new car and money got a little tight. We’re both gay and get along fairly well but over the course of the last month or so l see he was beginning to show signs that he was interested in me sexually and emotionally. Again, he’s a nice guy, we even go out socially together, but I’m definitely not interested in him that way and politely and diplomatically told him that.

Well, last week things really got out of hand when in the middle of the night he crawled into my bed and tried to blow me. I sleep in the raw. I pushed him off, and yelled for the fiftieth time l wasn’t interested in him in that way. He left and went back to his bedroom and neither of us said anything about the incident the following morning. But now I feel self-conscious and have resorted to wearing underwear in bed. Yet I still feel the vibes from him. Should l just kick him out? Fortunately the lease for the apartment is in my name.

Daddy: Kick him out? Technically, even if you’re both gay, you can have him arrested for attempted sexual assault. Tell him that in no uncertain terms and that he’s got one week to pack up and get out – that’s why God created Craig’s list – and immediately change the locks so only you have the key to get in. If he refuses, slip a couple of bar bouncers a few twenties to politely escort him out. And don’t start feeling sorry for him or fall for any bullshit that he’ll change. You know and l know he won’t. Your other option is to give in and give him the worse sex in his life. Don’t fret. He’ll be gone in a flash.

Ultimate moral of the story: stay within your means so you don’t need a roommate. Or make damn well sure that you’re not your next roommate’s type. And he’s not yours. He’s a blond surfer boy and you like ‘em furry and beefy and his thing are uncut Eskimos.

My Five Days in New York (On a Budget!)

My Five Days in New York (On a Budget!)

It was to be a nostalgic journey back to a city I had known and played in as a gay man for most of my adult life but had not visited since I left it thirteen years ago for Fort Lauderdale. It was all I expected, both the good and the bad, but reconnecting wasn’t always easy.

Two grand which is what I spent for a five day junket in Manhattan is about as cheap as you can get. The cattle car flight on United with its seats made for munchkins was only two hundred bucks round trip from Lauderdale, but finding a hotel with a private bath (sorry, I’m too old to share a bath with a whole floor and schedule my shits) for under two hundred a night was almost as hard, as I found out later, as pinning down a guy for sex.

I initially checked Travelocity but was stunned by the sticker shock of four hundred and more a night including the “gay” hotels. But Trivago came to the rescue, and for two bills, I landed a room on West 38th Street and Eighth in the heart of the Garment District. Curb appeal the Manhattan Broadway Hotel lacked, and I think a prisoner in Leavenworth has more square footage, but it was clean and functional, the hotel staff down in its tiny lobby the size of my dining room at home were helpful, and best of all, it was just a few blocks from Times Square and virtually every subway line you’d wanna use. Plus, always the practical faggot, I was able to walk down to the Eagle, about the only bar in town that still catered to guys like me, down on 28th and Tenth, for Code Night – leather only. And the West Side Club, the bath house I hung out in during my glory days, was on 20th and Fifth in case I was box office poison on the web. Remember, when I left in NYC in 2002, the web was still in diapers. If you didn’t pick up a guy in a bar or have sex in a bath house, you only had your hand to keep you company.

But sex was not my primary objective on this junket, not for two grand, buddy. No, I was also going to play tourist and had prepaid my tix on online for the Statue of Liberty, and Ellis Island that was still under renovation when I left NYC, and where my grandparents from Slovakia and Russia had gotten off the boat over a century ago; the Turner Classic Movies bus tour of sites in Manhattan where famous films had been shot; and finally the newly opened 9/11 Museum, which having been at the now defunct St. Vincent’s Hospital in the Village for a corporate meeting that fateful Tuesday morning, held a very personal meaning for me.

The biggest culture shock, besides everything being even more fucken expensive than I remember, (nine dollar drinks at the Eagle, four thousand dollars a month rent for a one bedroom) were all those people. People everywhere. Hey I now lived in Endless Summer suburban sprawl. The sidewalks were conveyor belts of people and you had to wait for your open slot to get on or risk colliding with somebody. And everybody, I mean everybody was on their phone, some chatting away frivolity, others earplugged and cutting deals as they strutted down the street. The vitality of it all soon morphed into a kind of non-stop stress for me. And, hell, I was retired and on vacation. After all, Manhattan was not just the place to make money, it was money, the quintessence of consumerism gone mad. Some of the glossiest, most creative advertising ever hustled you from every direction: on the cabs and the trucks and the buses, in the storefronts, on the buildings, and, of course, up on those constantly changing super-duper jumbo screens that surrounded you on Times Square.

I was also pleasantly surprised at the number of Millennials I saw in such an expensive town to live, (they couldn’t all be in from the burbs or making six figures) decked out in the latest apparel (skinny jeans are back) and I wondered how they managed when a trick a few days later told me it was mommy and daddy’s money that made their hip Manhattan lifestyle possible.

Walking down to the Eagle for Code after a quick bite at a Metro restaurant and a power nap, I found even crossing the streets a mini-adventure. Not only did you have to watch you didn’t collide into someone distracted on their phones, there were taxis to dodge and bikes and scooters and even skateboards to maneuver around. It was one fucken moving carnival.

Now while I would be lucky enough to get well over hundred hits on the various hook-up sites and phone apps from potential paramours during my five day stay, I was determined to visit the Eagle Thursday night for Code and had hauled my harness and boots up just for the occasion. What greeted me, though, was underwhelming. Sure there were the hotties, but many guys were just out-of-shape and tired in their leather, and despite the so-called dress code enforcement, you had guys in sneakers and even a few of the alien race – women! And everywhere the usual cliques.

It was still pleasant enough to go up to the third level roof top patio which I understand the dwellers of the high rise condos across the street were none too happy about, but by midnight most guys had congregated onto the second level where supposedly the nasty shit went on. I didn’t see how when a humpy bouncer with a flashlight played penis police.

About the only attention I got was from a fat, gray-haired pot belled guy probably younger than me who grabbed my tit as he passed by. So after checking my phone to see if anybody loved me (no one did), I finished my nine dollar rum and coke and hiked back to my hotel.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Wednesday: Playing Tourist

You Know He’s Using You …

You Know He’s Using You…

Jay is a 6’2″ slab of humpy, hairy masculinity, a kinda Tom Selleck lookalike when Selleck was hot, who l met last summer up at my country home in the Poconos. and who loved the way l took care of his manly, furry butt. In fact he keeps telling me l’m the best fuck he’s ever had and according to him he hasn’t had many. Sure. He’s a country guy obviously unaware of his physical beauty, or is playing me to keep my cock hard. But who cares?

I invited him to visit me in Lauderdale, but he’s in construction and has no money, so he claims, for a ticket. Or maybe he’s married – to a woman – with three kids somewhere up  in the hinterlands.

All l know is that last summer and again this one, every time we discuss making it again, he begins drifting into his private fantasy of all the devilish things l’m going to do to him. Getting together is always put on hold, languishing in some sexual purgatory. Ah, but soon…

So how do you know a guy you think wants to make it in the flesh is really using you for some virtual sex and has no real intentions of sealing the deal? You’ve compared stats, age, height, weight, dick size, sexual fetishes and who’s on top, and you’re down to when and where when he woos you into some kind of mating dance:

How do you like to fuck? You gonna fuck me deep and slow? I like it deep and slow. (Sure, I ain’t no jackhammer.)

You got one big dick there, sir. (How observant.)

You’re so hairy. (You can thank my mother.)

I love your mother. (Glad somebody did.)

You like my hairy ass? (It’ll do.)

I got a tight hole for ya. You like a tight hole? (As long as l don’t need a stick of dynamite to get in there.)

You precum a lot? (Yep, enough to reverse California’s drought.)

You’re gonna breed me, right? (As long as you sign the disclaimer absolving me of all child care payments or costs for an abortion.)

That’s before you piss in my hole. It’s better than lube.

Okay…

By now, unless you’ve been neutered, you realize he doesn’t want to connect. No, he’s using you. He just wants to drop a load. You can almost hear him pulling on his dick or jostling his dildo up and down in his hole like a car jack.

By the third, “you’re gonna do what to me next,” so not to distract myself from other suitors who may be attempting to reach me, l politely but abruptly type “Gotta go. Let me know when,” and immediately log out.

That is, unless l’m so heated up by all his provocative yearnings l want to shoot too and reply:

“Yea, buddy, after l tongue that furry manhole of yours, I’m gonna fingerfuck you for a while and then…”

Ain’t love grand?

Alice in Wonderland …

Alice in Wonderland …



…where things that were up are down and vice versa. Well, I find that strange set of affairs increasingly the “norm” on the web. Are most of the guys on the web just plain simple-minded, emotionally immature jerks?

Just the other day, a guy with no picture berated me on adam4adam for having posted nude pics. As I told him, this is a hook-up site, not some dating service or virtual buddies site. According to my definition, hook-up means sex and I’m gonna sell everything I got, as admittedly demeaning as it may be. But who is he to lecture me? Frankly these sites should require some kind of self-photo even if it’s of your belly button, otherwise no post. Why should these guys have the right to drool over other guys’ pics and opt out from showing something?

And if you wanna chat or find friends, real or imaginary, go to FB or some gay dating site which still places the emphasis on sex first, then we’ll see … Too many guys are morphing the hook-up sites, originally designed for sex, into “let’s trade holiday recipes.”

And if you want to develop a virtual buddy 1200 miles away (and I emphatically don’t), at least be interesting. Typical online conversation: “Hi sexy, how ya doin’?” says he. “OK, what’s up?” says I.

“Not much,” says he.

Not much!?! What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

Two messages later, when I don’t respond, he’s playing the same broken record, “Wish I was sucking your cock right now,” or “Wish you were fucking me right now,” Blah, blah, blah. Another fantasy boy.

Meanwhile on FB I post some thoughtful blog and get guys hitting me up to see my dick and get abusive when I don’t. You know damn well you can’t post nude pics on your home page; otherwise the FB nuns will close you down. Is that all you want out of me? See paragraph above.

When I was up in the north east corner of PA over the summer, I’d get hits from guys in NYC (almost none of whom have cars), or Pittsburg or Philly. Would you drive hours and hundreds of miles for a trick you haven’t met? I wouldn’t, yet I get the impression these guys would. Or that they failed eighth grade geography. And when I’m down in Lauderdale, they’re in Tampa four hours away, or Jacksonville, even farther.

I love these guys in Australia and Germany and Colorado describing in great detail all the nasty things they’d like me to do to them because (a) they know damn well it will never happen, and (b) they’re jacking off. Meanwhile shout-outs to local guys whether in the boonies where’s there one gay man in a five miles radius or Ft Lauderdale where we practically own the town and where I live go absolutely nowhere.

Has the web and the easy accessibility to porn and pics and dirty talk turned most gay men into virtual voyeurs, totally drenched in fantasy like some silly, romance novel addicted girl, but unwilling to get down and dirty with a guy for real?

Or does everybody have some lofty expectation of what they deserve? I’m reading a profile on bear four one one. (If you read my blogs, you know where I stand on today’s definition of “bear.”) The guy’s 5’9”, 240 pounds, and has a pic up to prove he’s no body builder (which at 5’9” would make the steroid junkie look like some Notre Dame gargoyle). Yet in his descript he says he’s “athletic” Huh???

Or these jerks who run a lead photo of when they were 35, admit to 55, and have a pic buried away in their profile where they look 75. If you’re going to pull a charade, at least be consistent. How silly can an adult man be to post a pic from twenty or even thirty years ago on a sex site?

Or calling yourself a “boi” like one guy who hit me up on Daddyhunt did and you’re 57 and pot-bellied?

The worst part about all this bullshit – ‘cause that’s exactly what it is – is that guys like me who prefer in- the-flesh encounters are settling for the same virtual crap the rest of these jerks are.

By default.

“It Finally Hit Me …”

“It Finally Hit Me …”

I texted this message to a buddy of mine the other day. If any of it offends some of you, those of you who follow my blog already know what my response would be.

“You know something, Frank, it finally hit me tonight after dealing with the shitheads online like the muscleman with the nine inch beer can dick who wanted me to drive at night to his place in Miami, thirty miles away, to fist fuck him in his sling up to his biceps as he put it, or the steroid muscled poz boys at the gym who give you a snooty look if you wave a casual “hi” with nowhere jobs at 45 and bellies out to Alabama.

Yea, it finally hit me that even though we’re not the prettiest, tallest or youngest guys in the crowd, we’re better than 98% of the guys we encounter.

Why?

Cause we’re smart, still sexually attractive, in-shape, HIV neg, don’t have to work anymore, are financial comfortable, and have more sex than the average 35 year str8 guy.

Plus we’re tops in a bottom town.

So to the web assholes or smug gym bunnies, all I can say is:

“Sit on it!”