R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 52

Midnight At The Oasis

Midnight At The Oasis



It’s 8 o’clock on a Friday night. I just woke up from my hour long coma nap. I make myself a dark roast super butch cup of coffee and, while watching some old ‘50’s flick I taped yesterday off TCM on the 40 inch living room plasma,

I get into my intense 30 minute work-out on my Bowflex; the living room is the only place in the house that I can fit it. Even though I was to L.A. Fitness earlier that day, I want to revive that fresh-from-the-gym look for tonight. Tonight is my night to be on the prowl.

By nineish, I’m taking my shower, but just before I do, I pop my 50 mg. of Viagra so I’ll be ready to pass the crotch grope test (that’s how we say hello in Lauderdale) as soon as I arrive at Slammers, my local sex club just ten devilish minutes away from my abode. I know it sounds nuts, but there you have to be hard for the guy the moment he grabs you if you want to have a shot at making him, not the guy make you hard. Otherwise, it’s usually “no sale.”

By the time I’m done with my shower, I can feel the tingling in my cock and balls and rush to my head and I know the shit is beginning to work. It’s great if you’re not in the mood or Mother Nature isn’t cooperating or the guy’s not the man of your dreams to get your libido back with a pill.

Dried off, I slip my semi-soft dick and my balls through my metal cock ring, throw on my jeans, (no underwear – they get in the way) put on my boots and slink into an old tight T-shirt from the 80’s I still look good in. It doesn’t really matter, though, since I’ll be taking it off as soon as I walk in. Its only purpose is as a portable washrag to wipe my dick off between cow licks.

In a plastic travel bottle I pour some cola and a strong dose of vodka and ten minutes later when I arrive in the Slammers lot, which is already half full, I slug down most of it to take the edge off my caffeine high. You can’t walk in uptight, otherwise you’ll look standoffish or never make a move. No, you wanna go with the flow for whatever and whoever comes into your life for at least the next 91 uncivilized minutes.

There’s a line at the door and it’s only 10:30. I survey the prospects and my potential paramours for the night. I can tell from the number of guys filling out membership forms that the tourist season is in high gear. There are a few old fuckers, including one who questions the entrance fee since he thought once he paid for the membership which I guess he had the week before, it would entitle him to unlimited entries. What planet did he drop from, I ask myself. There’s also a couple of plain looking Latin boys probably in from Miami (so many of them come up to Lauderdale to have fun) and they smell like they bathed in the Macy’s cologne aisle. That shit makes me nauseous – it’s the last thing I want to smell on a man. I hope the line gets moving before my Viagra runs out.

There’s one guy in line, though, 5’9”, shaved head, no facial hair, forties, with a hot humpy body apparently under that green T and sexy, loose canvas pants. I don’t think he’s seen me as I wait, my twenty dollar bill, license and bright yellow 321 card in hand, for my turn at the window. 321 is the address of the place on Sunrise, its bright yellow sign like a beacon to the horny – and lonely.

Dark-haired cutie Troy is on tonight at the window and asks me the same script he asks everyone who enters, what I call the Slammers disclaimer: “Would you like to stow away your keys and wallet (a buck extra)? Do you have a cell phone? (They don’t want the boys snapping pics of hard naked cock or better, shooting them off to family and friends).

I answer no to both in an understated but loud enough guttural butch voice hopefully to impress somebody on the line behind me. My cell is tucked safely out of view in my Honda Element and I have my keys, change from my twenty, license, and membership card deeply tucked in my front jean pockets which I periodically tap throughout the night to make sure everything’s still there. Back pockets are a no-no for two reasons. Some guy may be caressing your bare ass from behind while you’re getting blown at the glory holes and, who knows, may be really trying to rip you off; and your shit might fall out when you drop your draws to get worked on or to play with your dick while you’re on your knees working on some body else’s.

Ten seconds later, like Dorothy opening the door of her Kansas house and walking into Munchkin Land by Technicolor, I enter this male amusement park, strip off my T, slip it through one of my levi belt loops, and survey the state of gay affairs at Sunrise and Andrews. The whole place is bathed in low, orange light, and sleazy music, a cross between tribal and heavy metal, is blaring in every corner, all to create the right raunchy atmosphere. My favorite lyrics come up: “Your fucking me makes me bilingual.”

Yes, I can feel it in my dick – tonight’s going to be not just a good night, but one where I may actually have a “Kodak moment” or two with a guy. For in the end, I may kid myself into thinking I’m just here to get off. But I know, deep down, I’m still looking for that affinity with another human being who happens to be the object of my desires, another man, even if it’s for only seven minutes in a darkened booth.

Like most guys, I start by window shopping, strolling head up around the place, through the orgy room where it’s still quiet, pass the corridors of private, first come, first served booths, some of which are already latched (lucky bastards!), past some mirrored walls to give me a moment to validate my own sexiness. After all, being sexy is feeling sexy.

Finally, it’s upstairs to the Suckarium I (Slammers has two) where guys on the upper platform can stick their cocks through one of the row of glory holes for guys hidden in the shadows below behind curtains like the Wizard of Oz. There’s also the open pit where you stick your dick through the bars and watch the guy savor your cock with his mouth while you get doubly turned on watching some guy next to you or a few yards down getting blown too.

It’s funny how some guys waiting for a cock are fussy who they lick while others will grab the nearest troll as long as he sports a big hard tool. The same stupid shit goes on with the guys upstairs who peek below to see who’s waiting. Does it matter? Isn’t sex mostly fantasy anyway?

My dick is all tingly but I need a mouth to get me up and at it and, after being passed over by a few shitheads who retreat to the shadows as you loiter around their glory hole, (they figure – rightly so – they’ll get that 22 year old Brad Pitt look-alike who just wants to get blown eventually that night), a grizzly looking guy in a cap at the end of the walkway beckons me over through the glory hole. I open my fly and stick my grateful equipment through; he embraces the shaft of my dick with his hand and tugs at my balls.

Some guys are shitty cocksuckers. They’re either trying to break an Olympic record, are too slow (you’ve got to build up the momentum and rhythm, you know what I mean?), are too much with the teeth, or act like yours is the first cock they’re ever tasted and are in some cocksucking training class.

But not Cappy. He’s good, very good, too good. In fact, he’s got that whole mouth, tongue and hand motion down to a science. If I let him, I could shoot my load but it’s too early in the night to do that. I gently pull out at the right moment when his teeth aren’t in a position where he might bite off my tool by accident, thank him for his efforts and move on. After all, he’s served his purpose. Mr. Peter is rock hard and proud. I watch as a trio of guys I pass get blown with expressionless looks on their faces like they were at a urinal taking a piss. But for now there aren’t any other takers at the Suckarium for my dick and I decide to hit the orgy room, my jeans unbuttoned, zipper half up, and crotch definitely pronounced.

I wait in the shadows, Mr. Peter whipped out again and standing proud like some traffic cop pointing out directions, waiting for its next mouth. But even though the room is getting more populated, most of the attention has been drawn to the other side where some lanky, hairless leather boy donned in only a harness and boots is getting fucked doggie style. My conclusion about these places is that half the guys, whether they’re winners or losers, come to watch, not partake And the ten or so guys surrounding this live porn demo as they pull on their dicks in various stages of erection are just added evidence for my theory.

I get ballsy and stroke the crotch of the guy who I can’t even make out sitting next to me. He touches my cock but even though it doesn’t feel like he’s got much between his legs, he apparently isn’t satisfied with me and moves away.

But as I’m walking out, Peter, feeling a bit rejected back in my jeans, I see Mr. Green T shirt/canvas pants from the entrance line standing legs spread apart all butchy, looking at me. I glance back. He turns around and strolls out and right into the very first booth off the corridor. I follow him in and he latches the door behind us.

Unlike most of the booths that are in almost complete darkness, this one is decently lit. Visual sex is a big turn on for me and apparently is for him too as he admires my hairy chest and abs, his eyes following his fingers as they comb through my hair and pull on my nips. I feel under his T – he’s smooth but hard – and gesture for him to take it off to which he instantly complies, throwing it to the floor. Waiting in line, I had stripped him naked in my mind, but now I had this very beefy guy right here all to myself. Apparently, like me, his nips are hardwired to his cock too, because when we drop our jeans almost in unison, our erect dicks spring out like jacks-in the box. I grab his buttocks from behind as I slip down to suck him. He’s not as big as me, but his cock is thick and cut and engulfs my mouth. “Fucken A,” he whispers, watching me.

For the next ten minutes we take turns working one another’s cocks with our mouths and hands, until I decide to carry him to that sensual plateau all of us are here for and take his load down my throat.

“You know,” my visitor from D.C. quips as he slips his T back on and I attempt to stuff my very hard cock back in my jeans. “I could have cum just looking at you.” I smile. Whatever else happens tonight, I’ve had my Kodak moment.

Ah, but Peter, still oozing pre-cum down my leg, has a mind of his own.

For the next twenty minutes or so, I wander about, stumbling on would-be paramours but no cigar. One skivvy guy in from New York wants to eat my ass but is disappointed when I tell him I’m clean. Another smooth little Latin with the body of a boy and probably old enough to be my younger son, coaxes me into one of the booths, blows me with intensity for all of a minute, and satisfied I’m hard enough to fuck him, turns around and spreads his cheeks to reveal his prelubed hole. I politely decline and leave. Now, on the other hand, if he were over 40 with a muscular, hairy body and a furry butt, my dick would have been up there in a New York minute.

I take a brisk walk down the main corridor and chuckle as I watch some guy who obviously has just had a mouthful vigorously gargling the mouthwash they offer in a dispenser in the corner as if that would safeguard him from some dread disease. Fat chance, Harry.

Now at Suckarium II in the back of the club, I barely manage to make it up the stairs. There are so many guys, a good number of them tall hotties, jostling for position or already on their knees right there that the place resembles a New York City subway platform at rush hour. I see a few regulars like me who some nights give a quick “hey bro,” but most times we’re one another’s competition. I whip my dick out, stroking to get it back up and wondering if I should pop some more Viagra (I always carry half a tab for emergencies). A few guys grab it as I make my way through the throng searching for a customer-less glory hole and an old reliable mouth from past nights to blow me. But all the spots are taken.

Just then, I feel a tug on my jeans from behind me. I turn and standing in the pit are two bearded, hairy chested musclebears, one gray and balding, the other younger with thick black wavy hair. Obviously a pair, both stare at me like radar. As I inch up to the bars, the gray haired one grabs my cock and begins sucking it ever so slowly, while his partner watches, pulling on his own tool. I drop my jeans and can feel some guy from behind licking my butt, another pulling on my nips, while my muscle guys take turns sucking me. Finally, the Gay God smiles down on me and I release a heavy load down the young one’s throat. He continues sucking me until he’s gotten every last drop of juice, then taps my abs, and smiles as his partner nods. They both move to the other side and proceed to attack another poor defenseless man’s dick.

It’s just after midnight. In the space of ninety–two minutes, I’ve had encounters with half a dozen guys, scored two Kodak moments, and have had a satisfying climax. Ten minutes later I’m at the Ramrod, our local leather bar, serenely having my night cap Bud Lite, already having had my fun for the night most of the guys there are still waiting for.

But while I might feel content and even a bit smug for the moment, I also realize that when I walk into Slammers next time, I will be starting at Line One.

All over again.

Looking for Mr. Right Now

Looking for Mr. Right Now

Why are so many of us so promiscuous, think we are, or like to be? Why can’t we just be happy with that one guy?

After all, no one, not even our egotistical selves, is perfect. But I guess that’s the problem. We think that that next guy (read dick) in the bar, on line, at the sex club or bath house, or off the plane, or at that next Bearfest in Seattle or Leatherfest in Berlin, or RSVP cruise to Greece will be the dick of our wet dreams. Always on the hunt, we are never really satisfied, and so our insatiable search goes on infinitum. Like Bette Davis once quipped in one of her early films, “I’d let you kiss me, but I just washed my hair.”

What the fuck was she waiting for?

Why are we so obsessed about dick? Maybe it’s because men and their cocks come in so many shapes and sizes (small, big, thin, thick, cut, uncut), that the possible Las Vegas slot machine combinations between the type of guy we’re hardwired for and his dick are endless. So we remain constantly curious to see what IT’s like and what IT will do for us. And that often means going beyond our usual circles of bars or local hang outs and out into the world like some sexual explorer, dropping all that money that could be going into a CD or retirement account on trips, botox, liposuction, or Lumineers, or killing ourselves at the gym, all just to look good, when that ultimate dick might be right next door if we opened our eyes.

Some people disagree with me and say it’s just a guy thing – you know, it’s all about the sex – but I think deep down inside it isn’t about cock at all. Because saying it’s just cock eliminates pondering about or dealing with that other c word: commitment. We think we’re not ready to commit ourselves to another human being just quite yet; we meet the guy with the perfect cock and the perfect body and the perfect everything, but there’s just something about his big toe that isn’t quite right; or we want to play run-around Sams forever. After all, old age or worse, loss of libido, happens to other people, right?

And so the search goes on. And on. And on. The 10’s are looking for 13’s, the 4’s will only settle for 10’s, and the 7’s are ready to go straight.

 

Looking for Mr. Good Dick

Looking for Mr. Good Dick

For info on my gay erotic fiction, visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or gay-erotic-fiction.com for a mobile-friendly format.

Why are so many of us so promiscuous, think we are, or like to be? Why can’t we just be happy with that one guy?

After all, no one, not even our egotistical selves, is perfect. But I guess that’s the problem. We think that that next guy (read dick) in the bar, on line, at the sex club or bath house, or off the plane, or at that next Bearfest in Seattle or Leatherfest in Berlin, or RSVP cruise to Greece will be the dick of our wet dreams. Always on the hunt, we are never really satisfied, and so our insatiable search goes on infinitum. Like Bette Davis once quipped in one of her early films, “I’d let you kiss me, but I just washed my hair.”

What the fuck was she waiting for?

Why are we so obsessed about dick? Maybe it’s because men and their cocks come in so many shapes and sizes (small, big, thin, thick, cut, uncut), that the possible Las Vegas slot machine combinations between the type of guy we’re hardwired for and his dick are endless. So we remain constantly curious to see what IT’s like and what IT will do for us. And that often means going beyond our usual circles of bars or local hang outs and out into the world like some sexual explorer, dropping all that money that could be going into a CD or retirement account on trips, botox, liposuction, or Lumineers, or killing ourselves at the gym, all just to look good, when that ultimate dick might be right next door if we opened our eyes.

Some people disagree with me and say it’s just a guy thing – you know, it’s all about the sex – but I think deep down inside it isn’t about cock at all. Because saying it’s just cock eliminates pondering about or dealing with that other c word: commitment. We think we’re not ready to commit ourselves to another human being just quite yet; we meet the guy with the perfect cock and the perfect body and the perfect everything, but there’s just something about his big toe that isn’t quite right; or we want to play run-around Sams forever. After all, old age or worse, loss of libido, happens to other people, right?

And so the search goes on. And on. And on. The 10’s are looking for 13’s, the 4’s will only settle for 10’s, and the 7’s are ready to go straight.

For info on my gay erotic fiction, visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or gay-erotic-fiction.com for a mobile-friendly format.

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

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

Buddy: Daddy, I’ve lived in Boston all of my life and I’ve had it with the snow, ice and cold. I’m determined to get the fuck out of here before next winter and move to Fort Lauderdale. Anything I should know?



Daddy: Yea, first off, some cold hard facts about hot, sexy Lauderdale: unless you’re retiring with your 401K’s, have a job lined up, doing a company transfer, or have a sugar daddy, you better have some bucks to coast for a while – at least five grand – because jobs are hard to come by. Remember, unlike other metro area economies that are more diverse, South Florida is driven by the hospitality industry which is notorious for posting the lowest salaries. And even when you’ve got the credentials (which excludes personal trainers, escorts, nutritionists, bartenders, and waiters), employers frown upon out-of-staters who they think, understandably so, are about as grounded as a gay boy on two week meth binge. So be prepared. Even if you collect disability because you’re poz or in a wheelchair, don’t think that and all the other assistance afforded you will be enough – it usually ain’t. The cost of living here may be a lot less than, say, a Chicago or New York, but it’s rising too.

So don’t go for that three bedroom/two bath condo on the beach just yet. Instead put your shit in storage and rent a one bedroom or even a studio to keep your costs to a minimum until you find work. Yea, you can always get a roommate – more likely three -but sometimes they’re more problematic (read deadbeats) than paying the rent on a walk-in closet yourself.

And please, God, tell me you’ve got a car you didn’t buy when Bush Sr. was President and isn’t ready for the auto graveyard. Living – and finding work – in South Florida without a car is like trying to fuck without a dick. Mass transit sucks – this ain’t a Boston, New York or Chicago or even an L.A. – and frankly the only people who take mass-tranz are commuters who use Tri Rail between cities, or losers who share the bus stops with the homeless.

And if you’re young and pretty or not so young but seasoned at the escort game and expect to find an old guy with an investment portfolio the size of the Yellow Pages, grab your deli stub and wait in line. There may be a lot of rich, retired daddies here but there are a hellava lot more broke gay, and desperate str8 boys, so unless you’re an expert at dealing with the Denture Crème Generation, get ready to hustle burgers on the graveyard shift at Checkers. At least for a while.

I knew two guys with almost nothing who thought they could make a go of it here. One went back to West Virginia after finding selling real estate was super competitive and he was thrown out of his pad he owed three months’ rent on; the other, a former meth dealer in D.C. who figured it would be easy to break into the business here is now having his room and board paid for by the Florida taxpayers courtesy of the Broward County Correctional Facility.

Also don’t think since so many gay men have flocked here because of our free and breezy lifestyle and the fact Lauderdale and Miami are huge gay vacation meccas that sex comes easy. Our gay men are just as fucked up and fickled as any other town’s.

Remember, like everything else in life, it all comes down to money. That is, having it.

So think twice about leaving that winter jacket behind. Those thrift shops on Wilton Drive are always willing to give you a couple of bucks for it which may come in handy while you’re between ten-bucks-an-hour jobs. After all, we wouldn’t want our winter vacationers paying two hundred bucks a night in a hotel off the beach from freezing their pale white butts off when we get a rare cold spell and go down to – God forbid – fifty degrees at night.

Disillusioned yet, huh, buddy?

But if you got a job lined up, are retired with $$ or have a reliable daddy, go have fun!

Sex in the Boonies

Sex in the Boonies



Well, l’m up here in Lord’s Valley, PA, thirty miles from Scranton in the northeastern corner of this big state, and, no surprises, hooking up is a challenge. I can empathize with guys in the sticks where bars don’t exist and a potential hook-up is forty seven miles away. Virtual sex and virtual buddies are a necessity which is why l get annoyed with Lauderdale guys who prefer cybersex over the real thing when there are ten guys on every block. (Yea, I know about Hillside Campgrounds in my neck of the woods. A lot of guys have asked me to meet them there. But it’s still a two hour ride from me for an if.)

And because our numbers up here are lean, invariable the same ten guys, nine of which aren’t for me or are half a state away, keep hitting me up summer after summer.

Some other honest observations:

Guys don’t like to show their bodies or even their faces on their profiles, but, Jesus, they should at least be available in their private pics. I mean we’re not getting together to play bingo. Maybe the no-faces l can understand. This is redneck rural America, not an anything goes Gay Ghetto, but when guys don’t even have a shirtless shot, my first response is they’re hiding something.

Not that it’s necessarily unique to the sticks, but too many guys are just plain, well, fat. Maybe because what else is there to do but eat when you’re staring at four feet of snow out your window, that is, if you can see out at all. But some guys are bears ’cause they look like they’ve hibernated all winter – in a refrigerator.

Listen, l know l live in “Endless Summer” Lauderdale where short shorts are your usual mode of dress and looking good for the beach is a given, but if a stocky, rapidly aging guy can keep himself in shape, why can’t guys old enough to be my son? I realize the motivation may just not be there if the chances of connecting for real are as slim as Donald Trump becoming President. (Scratch that.)

Sure, there are hotties who are chubby chasers, but l ain’t one of them. I mean what’s supposed to arouse me? If you don’t care about your appearance – and your health – why should l care about you?

The other thing is distance. I realize in chatting with guys, the GPS systems on some of these sites are all fucked up. Scranton, in the northeast part of PA, which l often have to use as a locale since the site gives me no options, (l’m actually thirty miles away), shows up as being six miles from Philly which is actually more than one hundred miles away.

Yet I also get the feeling some guys either failed eighth grade Geography or are willing to drive hundreds of miles for dick.

But hell, with so many of the out-of-shape str8 guys up here married to manish women, I’m beginning to wonder if latent homosexuality in the boonies is rampant.

God bless America.

One Fucked Up Day

One Fucked Up Day

What I’m about to tell you is all true. Just don’t judge me.

I’ve already judged myself.

It’s six a.m. on Thursday and I’ve just had an all-nighter that was supposed to last two hours with the new Latin meth head/fuck buddy of mine. (See, when you’re retired you can play all night and not give it a second thought.) Handsome with wavy black hair and a bushy beard like one of Cortez’ conquistadors and a hairy, beefy body to match, Hernandez’s just moved a few weeks ago from D.C. and is still looking for a job. Any job. I mention in between us playing that I taught college writing and could redo his resume for him if he’d like. He mentions he has one problem, though, a six year gap. No problem, says I, as long as you come up with a legitimate sounding reason like taking care of a sick parent, or retooling.

Out of curiosity I ask what he was doing those six years for money, and the man of few words replies: “Drug dealing.”

Oh.

He told me later he was making three to five thousand dollars A WEEK. I didn’t ask why he suddenly departed D.C. Was he wanted by the law? Was some competing dealer out to get him? All l I know Big Money Handsome was now living in some flophouse surrounded by low lifes, with no car. No car in South Florida is like trying to fuck with no dick.

The previous night – Wednesday – as we were warming up, I mention I’d like to score a buy to have some shit on hand in case I get a hit from some PNP hottie who wants me to fuck him all night and looks to me supplying his drugs as the deal closer. Hernandez says he has a contact just twenty minutes away, a middleman, not like he was in D.C. (“I don’t want anybody fucking me up.”), and sets the buy for Thursday morning at 11. For his troubles, l offer Hernandez fifty bucks of the shit I’m buying for two fifty. (Nice guy, ain’t I?) Given the way he uses, that should last him about four hours.

So, Thursday, a.m., I drive him back to his boarding house across the tracks, and tell him to text me when his contact is ready. Meth Middlemen operate on their own time zones and 11 could very well turn into 5:30.

In the meantime, I need to get some sleep but end up vacuuming the house. The eternal Type A, I figure if I’m up I might as well get something accomplished.

Quarter of 11 I get the text from Hernandez: “He’s ready now.” So I grab some shorts and a tank and head over back to Hernandez’s shithole. But just as I’m about to leave, a group of four Bible totting Jehovah Witnesses are approaching my door. The women, all older and buxom, are well dressed in their Sunday best and are holding their black umbrellas up to shield themselves from the brutal sun. (Did anyone ever tell them black absorbs heat?) Leading the flock is a tall, skinny man with a faint white beard and straw hat who makes the approach.

I try to be nice.

“Sorry, but I have a doctor’s appointment and I’m already late.”

The man smiles benignly. “Well, can I leave this with you?”

“Sure,” as I place his flyer next to the cans of dog food on one of the shelves in my carport.

“It’s all right there in God’s Word,” he adds. He doesn’t know that I have three bibles gathering dust in my bedroom, relics from my days as a Lutheran Sunday school teacher.

“You know, after sixty, everything starts falling apart at the same time,” I quip as I open my car door.

They laugh and meander to the next house. Blissfully naïve in their own little world, I envy them. If they knew where I was really headed, they’d hold a prayer vigil right there in my driveway.

As I approach Hernandez’s block, a beehive of flashing cop cars engulf the street. Of course, my first reaction is: was there a bust? Was Hernandez part of it all? I pull over into a nearby church lot and call him to tell him I can’t get through and he instructs me where to pick him up two blocks down. I’ve got an envelope with two hundred fifty bucks in cash I just got from the ATM sitting on my passenger seat when an older black guy dressed in a running suit with bulging eyes taps on my window. I try to look cool.

“So what’s happening?” I ask.

“Something at the school,” he says.

“One of the church schools?”

“No, that one’s run by the county.”

I expect him to hit me up for money at this point but he just gives me a “have a nice day,” and walks on.

“Of all fucken times to see cops,” I say to Hernandez as we drive to 2031 NE 14th Avenue, less than ten minutes away.

“Take your share out of it while you’re there,” I instruct him and I sit in my car as Hernandez walks into the non-descript duplex. If you’re gonna do a buy, you need a guy like Hernandez who’s street smart. He always checks the shit before he hands over the money. “Good stuff,” he responds and we make one more stop at the Metro PCS store in the nearby Target’s shopping mall, so he can pay his overdue eighty dollar bill and get all the data back on his phone that they apparently held hostage

All I keep thinking is how alien all of this and broke white boys like Hernandez are to the middle class professional life I once knew back in New York.

I drop him off at his place, then go back to finish my housework when I see there’s a message on my landline phone, reminding me of my appointment at two that afternoon at Dr. B’s for the insertion in my butt of my biannual testosterone pellets. Just then, I pull the stash from my pocket – about the size of a packet of Equal – and hide it in one of the drawers of my sainted grandmother’s ninety six year old Singer sewing machine that sits in my living room as an end table.

Wouldn’t she be pleased how enterprising her grandson had become.

Dr. B, who’s also going to give my face an Artefil touch-up today, is a fifty something Cuban who has the looks and body of a 25 year old, and I chide him when I arrive for my double whammy dose of the fountain of youth for taking all his own potions. He introduces me to his new medical technician, Frank, a short, very Italian looking guy in his forties, who as soon as he opens his mouth has Bay Ridge, Brooklyn spilling out. He’s surprised and says I’m only the second person to ID him like that since he came down to Florida a year and a half ago. But it doesn’t take much for me; G, my partner is a fellow Bay Ridge boy, and Frank also lived for a time on Staten Island where G and I had our home, so we have much to talk about as he takes the “before” pics of my sorry face. A electrician back in New York, Frank is married married – to a woman – with three kids, and came down, like the rest of us, for the good life, but found work hard to get and ended up retooling.

After all of Dr. B’s poking and prodding, I turn to Frank with a smirk, “So how does it feel working with all these homos?” Two thirds of Dr. B’s clients are gay as is he.

“Hey, no problem,” he replies with a characteristic New York shrug.

“I know on homophobic Staten Island, they’d be stringing us up.”

“You got that right,” he laughs.

It’s almost 4. I devour the left over cold cuts Subway sandwich I bought yesterday, and crash.

It’s after 8 when I open my eyes to the world again. I know I should just turn over and not disturb my dogs in bed with me, but hell, it’s Thursday night in Fort Lauderdale which means Leather Night at our local sex club, Slammers. I’m wooed into action like the Sirens wooed Ulysses.

For a change, the parking lot is two thirds full when I arrive and within twenty minutes – something of a record – I’m blown and out of there. So I meander to the Albi where it’s Iced Tea Night and you can get plastered for three bucks. The place is brimming with young twinks old enough to my grandsons. I feel ancient but really don’t give a fuck. “Hey Hot Daddy,” quips a young couple as I zigzag through the crowd.

At just before 11:30, I make my final stop at the Ramrod for a night cap. Compared to the festive Alibi, the place is practically empty, but as I’m turning to leave, I feel a swift kick in my butt. It’s Danny, the tall skinny hairy kid with the Amish beard I tricked with over a year ago and who I used as the basis for the lead character in my novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive.”

“So what did you think?” I ask. I had sent him a Microsoft copy of the book a few weeks before.

“It’s bad,” he laughs, “in a good way.”

My inclination as I walk back into my house is to check the hook-up sites one more time. But shit, I’m running on empty and even an asshole thrill seeker like me has his limits.

Besides, that’s why God created tomorrow, and as good old “Gone With The Wind’s” Scarlet philosophized:

“Tomorrow is another day.”

P.S.: Two weeks after all this happened, Hernandez texts me to tell me they were cutting him in on the action and that he will soon be a supplier. I warn him to watch his back, that he doesn’t know the territory yet like he knew D.C. and who to trust,  but he’s too high on dope and the prospect to listen. Three days later I get a message on my phone from the Broward County Correctional Facility, asking if I can confirm the address of a said Hernandez Santiago, now in custody. Technically I can’t and I don’t. Obviously he was set up.

You can’t say I didn’t warn him.

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

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

Buddy: Daddy, there is this guy who kept hitting me up on the hook-up sites for over a year but I ignored him, not because he’s not good looking, but just not my type. Finally I agreed to meet, and surprise, surprise, the sex and camaraderie that first time was over the top. But as we connected again and again, I began to notice cracks in his veneer. By our fourth hook-up, we had a major blow-out about some shit and he left my apartment in a huff. I thought that was the end of things, bur an hour later he texted me and apologized for being an asshole and asked for my forgiveness. Because everything else seemed so good in our budding relationship, I agreed to see him again, and after another session of mind blowing, lustful sex, he confessed that he had been in love with me from afar for a long time.

But Daddy, I’m just not an LTR kind of guy right now in my life, and while I thanked him for his expression of affection, I told him not right now. Again, he pouted like a kid, said nothing, put on his clothes, and left. I decided this time to let sleeping dogs lie.

Ah, but he kept texting me, calling me, leaving notes with the security guy at my apartment house. (Interesting – he never told me where lived.) His messages went from how much he loved me to what a heartless queer I was. At first I kept telling him that I liked him very much too, but no romance right now, but by my tenth message I had had it and told him to fuck off. I realize now, Daddy, that he’s an immature psycho, besides being a certified cokehead and methhead. I blocked him on the websites but he’s got my smartphone number. So many family and friends have that number that I really don’t want to have to change it because of this nut job.

So what the fuck can I do now? Call the cops? What have I got to convince them that this is more than just a lovers quarrel between two gay boys?

Daddy: You ignored him for a year before you fell for the bait. Trust your instincts next time. Hey, Daddy here is far from perfect and every time I’ve ignored my gut, I’ve regretted it.

But congrats are still in order on a couple of fronts

Stalking is the highest form of flattery and you got one super-duper stalker here, buddy. Thank the Gay God you got security in your building or you’d really be in deep shit.

And congrats you learned about his addictions before things went any further. If you wanna piss off a buddy of mine, ask him about the guy who he didn’t realize was a functioning alcohol who had Poland Springs vodka, not water, for breakfast until after they had signed the lease.

My advice is simple: DO NOT RESPOND TO ANY FURTHERT TEXTS OR VOICE MAILS. Guys who get hot under the collar with an ex-trick or partner make the mistake of getting into some virtual shouting match. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There’s a fine line between love and hate; by responding, you’re showing the guy that in his twisted mind you still (insert sobs) care. Even blocking him on the sites revealed that he got under your skin. If you don’t give a shit about him, show it by doing nothing. Very soon, he will probably give up on you and move to his next victim.

If things go beyond the wireless world, I mean you run into him at a bar or the supermarket, ignore him. If he pulls any shit on you, call Security and tell him you’re calling the cops. If he’s as much a cokehead and methhead as you say he is, they’re the last guys he’d want to see at his door.

And don’t worry about not having his address – they’ll sniff him out.

The Next Frontier: Yes, Penis Transplants!

The Next Frontier: Yes, Penis Transplants!

Yes, now with the miracle of microsurgery, penis transplants are very much in the realm of possibility. In the beginning, they may be reserved for boys who’ve lost their tools to botched circumcisions, or guys who have lost theirs to disease (like cancer) or accident (like sadly some of our servicemen whose family jewels were in the wrong place at the wrong time when their Humvee hit a landmine in Iraq). But who knows, in the not too distant future, penis transplants may be available to everyone, with money, of course –men less endowed may even get their insurance to pick up the tab – and hospitals currently conducting transgender surgery may end up with a whole new product line.

I mean, I haven’t followed whether Catlin did “The Final Solution” but if she had, what happened to Bruce’s tool? Did it end up on the cutting room floor?

Will donor cards now have a new check-off: “penis donations permitted?” I mean, say you had a beautiful, big dong that you were proud to show off in the locker room or shove up some twink’s boy butt (“Daddy, take it slow, it’s so thick …”), and regardless of your age (I mean, funny isn’t it, our dicks never seem to look old like the rest of our bodies – give ’em a Viagra and they’re as good as new), you’re suddenly hit by a Mack truck on the way to a trick’s house, and bingo, it’s over. Wouldn’t you want to know your man meat would have a second life between somebody else’s legs and become the new, coveted property of a hot Marine or some millionaire hunk. (Know how many humpy big guys I’ve fucked with dicks the size of my thumb?)

And, who knows, quicker than you can yell, “I’m c-o-m-i-n-g!. Want my load?” you’ll be able to window shop on the internet – thedongstore.com – and filter for size, girth, color, cut or uncut … you get the idea.

But hold it – what if your dick doesn’t go to a buddy but one of those female-to-male transgenders. Would you wanna know your baby ended up where a vagina once sat?

Hope that Mack truck hits me quick!

A “Real” Top

A “Real” Top

A guy, not bad looking in his late forties, recently hit me up on Daddyhunt and asked if we could meet. I looked at his profile, then responded: “We’re both tops. What’s the interest?”

His reply: “I want to meet a real top.”

My reply: “So what are you? A ‘pretend’ top?”

I mean, categories in this lifestyle of ours have gotten dissected to absurdity. In the day, a bear meant one thing: a humpy, beefy, usually hairy, masculine guy. Today, we’ve got bears (the Jennie Craig failures who Chubby Chasers get hard-ons for), muscle bears (usually steroid junkies) cubs, otters, and who knows what else.

In the day, you had butches and fems, then the terms were softened to sound less judgmental and became tops or doms and bottoms or subs. Now you’ve got total tops (basically guys that like to fuck and only fuck, no sucking your cock, sometimes not even touching you); total bottoms (who lay there and want you to fuck them, again with no foreplay to get you aroused); versatile tops who are closet bottoms; and versatile bottoms who will fuck you if your dick is not up to their standards or is not performing.

I’m amazed, though, how many bottoms I’ve had with dongs to the floor, usually rendered useless from Tina, or tops with not much between their legs and not all that thrilling to look at either.

Jesus! No more labels, huh? Let’s just play Russian Roulette. Whip ‘em out and see who and what takes over.

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

Another Installment of My Gay Advice Column: “Go Tell Daddy”

Buddy: Daddy, my bf and I have been together almost a year but are having increasing problems in the bedroom. Bottom line: he’s a bottom but finds my undersized cock which shoots sooner than he likes less and less satisfying. I want this to work. What can I – or we do?

Daddy: There’s something you’re not telling me. Usually incapability in bed is a deal breaker for long term relationships from the first time two guys fuck. Is he hanging around because you’re supporting or assisting him in some way? Just asking.

Whether that’s the case or not, next to some dick surgery, about the best thing you guys can do is consider opening your relationship up to a third party. NSA sex off the web or a regular fuck buddy you both like and enjoy – ideally versatile – but who doesn’t get in the way of your twosome. If you or he are not open to that, face the facts – sooner or later things are just going to fall apart. Or give him some freedom to go off on his own and find the perfect cock for his hole. But, of course you run the risk of losing him, or if you are playing “daddy” feeling like a fool.

It’s your call.