R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 49

Str8 Hook-up Sites and Us

Str8 Hook-up Sites and Us



Hey, I’m a career gay man. I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ babies or hooking up with women online. But based on research from some heavy hitters like the federal Centers for Disease Control, the renown Pew Institute, and the medical journal, Archives of Sexual Behavior, cyber-hook-ups and the behavior they elicit are the same shit no matter what pew you’re in.

One out ten to as high as four out of ten sexually active adults, str8 and gay, rely on the web for casual sex, and, given my own humble observations l think the percentage may even be higher. I’ve said many times that today’s gay bars are largely social, not the cruising dens of old, and according to these studies, it ain’t much different in today’s str8 world. Hey, why go through the mating dance dropping dough on drinks or hefty cover charges for clubs when you can do it all for free in your underwent or less at home on your laptop, or increasing in the palm of your hand, and have a much better chance at scoring?

We gay guys got our Manhunt and Bear 411 and Scruff – well str8’s have their SpeedDate, Grouper and Fling. And the sites and apps go on and on, infinitum.

South Florida has the highest HIV rate among gays in the U.S.? Well, Chelsea, on the west side of Manhattan, once a gay ghetto now Yuppie City, sports the highest syphilis rate among str8s (though gays aren’t far behind), and the experts say both rates are directly attributable to – surprise, surprise – today’s free heeling internet connections where “one night stand,” anonymous, and unsafe sex is glorified. Sex negotiated in curt one line texts often lead to curt one line answers to questions like “You Clean?” (“Sure.”)

Interestingly, while girls may ask their beaus to wrap it up the first time around, second encounters are often raw. Just like with many of us gay boys, girls feel stopping to put on a rubber breaks the spontaneity. And, after all, women are more concerned about getting pregnant and they rely on the pill to do that. Or the morning after pill just in case. Guess what ladies: neither protects from STD’s.

Over-reliance on meds to fix things like syp or gon is a dumbbell mentality that has no monopoly on either sexual orientation, and overuse of antibiotics is leading to new strains of drug resistant germs. My prediction is the same may happen with the HIV drugs that have only a twenty year track record.

So guys, when you’re all alone on a Tuesday night trying to hook-up with some hottie who’s playing games, find comfort in knowing there are probably ten times more str8 fuckers pulling on their dicks going through the same shit with some bitches.

Misery loves company. But that’s why God created porn, right?

You Ready for Retirement? (I don’t mean from sex, dude.)

You Ready for Retirement? (I don’t mean from sex, dude.)

I think it’s delusional for people with kids, straight or gay, to think that their adult children will automatically, positively be there for them in their old age. (I’ve seen otherwise too many times.) But one thing for sure about us gay men. Unless you have a life partner or sugar daddy better off than you who leaves you his $$, very, very devoted friends, a super-caring sibling without his or her own family responsibilities, or millionaire parents who will leave you everything, baby, the only one who’s going to care about you if you live that long is you.

Period.

That’s why, when I hear twenty-somethings, thirty somethings or forty somethings chatter on at the gym or in a bar or on the beach or on their website profiles about the next international Fuckfest they’ve got lined up, sandwiched in between two others, I’m tempted to ask two questions: you making a six figure salary or, if not, have you thought about tomorrow?

Listen, I’ve pissed a lot of $$$ away in my day, have done my share of domestic and international traveling, and bought the clothes and tech toys, etc., etc., etc. But, you also have to prepare for a rainy day, whether that be no job or, shudder the thought, old age. I know some guys now in their sixties who tell me they’ll be getting five or six hundred dollars a month from Social Security when they retire, and they’ve got nothing put away. Huh? You can’t even live on Walmart Rob Roy dog food with that.

Granted, Social Security quarters, 401K’s, real estate, and IRA CD’s may not be the most erotic subjects on the planet but, no matter where you are job wise, Gaymart clerk or corporate lawyer, just sit on this:

Eons into the future, when you’re old and gray, will you be able to afford the cruises and dinners and 2-for-1 drink specials and that once-a-month Hotspot guy for some fun? Or some hunk of a male nurse to wipe your leaky ass when eye candy is all you can enjoy?

Or will you be selling off your Star Trek memorabilia to eat?

Gay Personas: The Extremos

Gay Personas: The Extremos

What do shrinks advise us? Everything in moderation. Well, in gay life, there’s a special breed of us who believe moderation is for Reagan Republicans and Excess is good. The guys I like to label “The Extremos.”

You know who I’m talking about:

the boys who have nothing intelligent to say if it doesn’t have something to do with the gay scene or tricking or isn’t loaded with double entendres;

the super gym bunnies who juice up with their morning coffee but feel they are never big enough even as they flex on the beach for attention (and get it);

leather men who won’t go grocery shopping without their chaps on or don’t know when they’ve gotten too old or too fat to look anything but ridiculous;

the twinks who talk non-stop pop culture and blow their dough on frivolities;

piercing addicts with enough metal on them to be their own aisle at Home Depot;

the chain smokers and chain drinkers who make the bars and 7-11 rich;

web and phone app addicts chatting and camming and jerking away even in the office, hiding their dicks behind some file folders just in case the boss pops in;

guys whose only purpose in life is to fuck, get high and fuck, fuck and get high, and lead the frocking gay life of cruises, campgrounds, clubs and white parties long after the botox doesn’t work anymore.

Career? Family? Responsibility?

You talkin’ to me?

Like the guy I saw meandering Sebastian Beach, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, the other day. Not a bad looker, he strutted onto the beach in eighty five degree weather in high laced leather boots and faded fatigue shorts with the stereotypical chain running from his belt into his right pocket (Bottom?). And he had intentionally torn the back of his shorts so his black bikinied butt was in full view even before he disrobed. (Bottom? You betcha.)

So why do we do it? To get attention? Somehow try to stand above all the background noise? And in the process only become another clone? O.K., O.K., live and let live, however people want to dress or act is their fucken business, not mine. I know, I know. And I’ll be the first to say being gay is in our DNA.

But does that mean “gay” must dominate our entire persona?

The Sounds of Sex: III – Cumming

The Sounds of Sex: III – Cumming

Funny how no two guys cum quite the same way. I don’t mean the mechanics. No, what I’m talking about here are the special effects.

First, you’ve got the silent cummers. Those who grew up in strict Catholic households and disciplined themselves to shoot in silence. By the time you realize he’s sprung his load, he’s got his shoes on.

Then there’s the dirty talkers, straight from a student script of the USC Film School’s Porn Screen Writing 101. “Fuck yea – yea, man, here it comes, man, ready for it fucker?– Huh, buddy, huh? HUH?” And he keeps that truck stop buddy motif going right to the last drop.

Then you’ve got the St. Vitas’ Dance Boys. You think the guy may be having a stroke. His body is quivering, his eyes are rolling into the back of his head, and he’s barely breathing. And all you’re wondering is how you’re going to explain it to the paramedics, or worse, your partner who just returned from Walmart and thought you were cleaning the oven while he was gone.

Finally, you’ve got the screamers. No matter how butch they’ve been up to now, and I don’t care if they’ve fucked the shit out of you for the last 45 minutes, when it’s their moment for that DeMille close-up, they’re screeching at the top of their lungs like some silly adolescent girl happily losing her virginity. You either hope your very straight Bible Belt neighbors aren’t home, or thank God you live in a gay ghetto.

But somehow, no matter how we cum, just about every one of us will give out a giggle of relief after it’s all done.

Is the sexual climax God’s ultimate joke on us?

The Sounds of Sex: II – “Fuck Yea!”

The Sounds of Sex: II – “Fuck Yea!”

I was at Slammers recently, our local sex club, getting my fifth uncompleted blow job of the night at one of its glory holes (my moment of triumph would cum a half hour later), when a guy, apparently hitting the jackpot on the other end, yelled out, “fuck yea!”

It struck me that this is probably the most frequently used phrase us gay boys utter in our tainted, jaded vocabulary. Now the origins of the word, fuck, are kinda murky. Some scholars trace it to Latin, others say it’s Germanic, and that “fuck” initially meant “to strike,” then later “to penetrate.” There’s even one silly hypothesis that claims it dates back to when sex was illegal unless it was permitted by the king, so people who were legally having intercourse were doing Fornication Under Consent of the King or F.U.C.K.

But, who the fuck cares how it came to be, right? We all love the guttural sound of the phrase and its lustful, super-butch impact when you say it, making you feel (if you aren’t already) like some hot, big, brick shithouse of a guy, bearded and hairy and hung ….

And we gay guys use it for every occasion:

When somebody’s going down on you and doing a great job, it’s “fuck yea, buddy, fuck yea!” alternated with “fucken A, fucken A!”

Or when you’re plowing a guy, his hairy muscled legs up on your shoulders, and he’s laying there, starry- eyed or his hairy fucken butt’s in your face, or you’re the one getting plowed, every thrust generates another “Fuck yea man, fuck yea!”

Or when you see some hottie across the way at a bar or a bath house and you whisper to your buddy or, suitably plastered, just go up to the guy and spurt it out, “Fuck yea, man. You are fucken hot! So when are we gonna fuck?”

Or as we’re shootin’ our load, whatever position we’re in, don’t we all yelp, “fuck yea!”

Sure we do.

Fuck yea!

Next: The Sounds of Sex: III – “Cumming”

The Sounds of Sex: I – “Talking Dirty”

The Sounds of Sex: I – “Talking Dirty”



Hey, I’m a visual guy when it comes to sex. A guy wanting the lights down low can actually be a deal breaker for me. But there’s another sense that is as equal a turn-on:”being verbal.” And in the mating dance of sex, that usually starts off with talking dirty.

Whether it’s on the web edging up some hottie half a country or half a world away, or in the flesh, up front and personal, dirty talk certainly adds some spice to an activity that might otherwise be relegated to video tape replay territory. After all, after you’ve played the scene awhile, dicks and asses, bods and even faces all begin to look kinda familiar like you’ve had him before. Even when you haven’t.

And being a writer who taught writing, and a graduate of the University of Southern California’s School of Theatre when I was young and naive enough to think I might become the second Dustin Hoffman, I have a couple of different 101 Porn Writing Class scripts I use depending on the type of guy I’m, shall we say, entertaining. I’m usually the one to initiate the edgy, filthy chatter, though sometimes I get a guy who’s not just pretty but bright enough to know how to play along and really get into it.

There’s the generic, one size fits all script: “so man, like that (big) (stiff) (big knobbed) (big cut) (big uncut) cock … (to which he usually nods and grunts affirmative since he’s got or should have your dick down his throat by now and can’t talk) …show me how much you like it, buddy … that’s it, man, you know how to keep that (big) (stiff) (big knobbed) (big cut) (big uncut) cock happy … yea, work it, man, work it with your tongue, get it nice and wet … yea, man, get those nuts in your mouth, swallow ‘em, that’s right, man, now you got it… ” And when you think that he’s ripe for some back door action, “So you want that dick, huh, man, ready for that (big) (stiff) (big knobbed) (big cut) (big uncut) dick nice and deep in that (sweet) (tight) (hairy) (handsome) (manly) butt hole of yours?”

Then there’s the truck stop buddy fantasy script, complete, if your sex partner is as imaginative as you, with both of you in baseball caps, jockstraps and scruffed up work boots: “Hey, buddy, long day huh? Need somebody to take care of that boner for you … just two truck stop buddies taking care of one another, right buddy? … need to take a piss first? Sure, buddy, I want that hot piss of yours all over me…” (stage direction: men move to bathroom tub – let’s hope. Hot piss on my chest is dandy, cold piss on my mattress ain’t). Yep, the word “buddy” or “bud” must be used at least ten times in 30 seconds to make the talk cock-sure effective.

A variation on the truck stop buddy script is when I’ve got a guy from Texas or Georgia or Carolina or even northern Florida whose drawl is enough to keep my dick stiffer than 100 mg. of Big V. That’s when he becomes my “Southern rebel boy.”

And when the guy’s younger or smoother than you or just in the mood to play your sub-son, there’s the Daddy-Boy script. Like when the guy is bobbing his dick in front of your face, “Dad’s proud of his boy’s (big) (stiff) (big knobbed) (big cut) (big uncut) dick …” Or when you’re ready to fuck him, “Ready for your training session, huh, boy? Dad’s gonna make you a man, boy, ready for that Daddy Dick up your ass?” Or “sorry boy, Dad’s gotta punish his boy’s (sweet) (tight) (hairy) (handsome) boy butt hole for being bad, just gonna have to keep fuckin’ it, boy, sorry boy, but…”

An enhancement of this theme is my “Civil War” angle.

“Well, rebel boy, you lost the war, so this Yankee here is gonna teach you a lesson for being on the wrong side…”

Now, when reading your script from your imaginary teleprompter, you also need to remember how you read it – in low, almost inaudible guttural tones – is as important to setting the mood and keeping those dicks nice and stiff as what you say.

But in the end, whatever you say, and then includes reciting a nursery rhyme if the guy’s pretending he’s 12 and you’re defiling his virgin ass (sure) for the first time, what’s key is that The Script gets the two of you to that ultimate Kodak moment.

I think you know what I’m talkin’ about, right, buddy, huh, buddy, huh?

Next: the Sounds of Sex II: “Fuck Yea!”

Video Road Journal: Day 2 – Almost Home!

Check out my Facebook page at facebook/rayandrews

“Details” Magazine and The Rest of Us

“Details” Magazine and The Rest of Us

I guess l signed up for my subscription to Details magazine when they were running some promo like twelve bucks a year and a free sports watch. Details is supposed to be the young man’s version of GQ, but both are just high couture men’s fashion mags loaded with ads to make all those Chi-Chi designers feel smug.

But who buys this stuff? Like an eight thousand dollar coat or six hundred fifty dollar sweater or five hundred twenty five dollar sneakers? Huh? Those meth dealers making ten grand a week hustling their shit? Homely billionaire entrepreneurs who think they look cool in Hugo Boss?

To each his own, but a lot of the guys modeling these golden threads are boney, clean shaven, and border on the androgynous. Secondly, maybe clothes do make the man, at least some men, but it all ends up on the bedroom floor in the end. That is unless you can only keep your hard-on if the guy is wearing a five thousand dollar Boglioli suit while you fuck him. Just watch those grease stains, hey buddy?

Me? Most of my clothes are older than some of the guys l make, department store jeans that now that l’ve actually managed to go below my normal weight are nice and loose, just loose enough to show the hint of an ass crack in the bar. l never wear underwear except when l’m going to the doctor. And most of my T’s are Kmart vintage. When l’m wearing them at all.

And what about the guy l’m looking for? Bearded, in decent shape and proud to show it in a nice pair of jeans and a pullover that hangs just so around his waist. Or no shirt at all. Or better yet just a pair of Target’s shorts.

Hey, what can l tell ya? I’m a leg man

So l’m through with Details once this subscription is done. Just give me the Sunday Targets circular and I’m one happy guy.

Video Road Journal: Day One

Greetings from Abingdon, VA –

On The Road Thursday, Finally! (I think.)

The Next Wave of Security Questions

Okay, you wanna take a look at your dwindling checking account or pay the bare minimum on one of your credit cards, but you just bought a new laptop (funny how l get maybe three years out of ’em versus my desktop that lasted almost twenty) or you’d like to use your handy tablet instead, when suddenly that message of dread appears on the screen:

“Sorry, we don’t recognize this device. So to protect your privacy and make sure you are you, please answer the following security questions.”

Oh, no. Questions whose answers you gave when Bush Jr. was President and your bf, two bf’s ago, and you were still fucking. And with the way security is being stepped up by the money boys that after all own you and the rest of America, they won’t be the tired old ones like mother’s maiden name or the name of your first dog. No, for these you better have a “in case I get Alzheimer’s ” file hidden away, or you’ll never get in (like that tight butt after you’ve had a few).

So what’s ahead?

“Your mother’s bra size when she was 22.”

“How many times your father and mother fucked the night you were conceived and which one took.”

“The name of your younger brother’s goldfish that you flushed down the toilet when you were six and he was four – not the one you flushed down the toilet a year later.”

“The name of the trick you told you were clean when he wanted to stick his tongue up your butt – only you weren’t.”

“The year you lost your virginity to (a gal) (a guy) (your dog Poopy).

“The name of the swimmer who appeared on the cover of the first Sports Illustrated magazine you jerked off over.”

“The age your father beat the shit out of you when he caught you masturbating.”

“The name of the first jock you fantasized over in the high school locker room.”

“The name of the girl you took to your first high school social figuring she was a closet lesbian, only she wasn’t.”

“The size you thought your dad’s dick was flaccid the first time you spied him coming out of the shower when you were thirteen.”

But you know damn well when the inopportune time comes when you need to answer these security questions, you’ll forget which USB drive you stowed them away on, or worse, realize you left them on the hard drive of the laptop that just died.

Which will lead to a forty seven minute wait on the bank’s customer service line to get it all straightened out, and the loss of that trick who was coming over for a fifteen minute quickie.

Too bad.