R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 6

An Open Love Letter To My Married Man

An Open Love Letter To My Married Man

Hard to believe but after over seven decades on this earth, and almost five as a practicing gay man, I never had reciprocal love in my life from another man until now.

Not from G, my partner for most of those years – ours was a rocky partnership born out of convenience, an early infatuation that faded sooner than usual, and a mutual love for our dogs. Nor did I ever encounter it with the hundreds of men I knew or had sex with. Maybe it was my fault staying with G in a closed relationship which prevented me at least theoretically from making commitments to another, or maybe it was my drive to succeed professionally which led to a scant social life. Or maybe I just came in contact with the wrong people or was the type to attract them, guys whose true agenda, whatever their pretense, was themselves.

Period.

But what does it matter now. Almost two years ago he came into my life. Boyishly handsome, intelligent, creative, a solid jock, old enough to be my son … and married to another man. No matter what your type, he has everything going for him in the man’s department and lucky for me – and his legal spouse – he likes his men much older than himself. He married for love and while his hubby professes he still loves him, he doesn’t offer the sex or attention a handsome, no, a beautiful man like his spouse should garner. Or deserves.

Enter me.

Too many relationships, particularly gay ones, are based on “good sex,” and when that becomes ho-hum, so does the relationship which lingers on DNR or ends up like a car driving off a cliff. For my married man and me, our mutual physical attraction and total compatibility in bed is only part of our ongoing affection – I’d like to use the  love – we have for one another. Openly and aggressively affectionate from the very start, an attribute for which he has not wavered an iota – he’s the best damn kisser I have ever known – he has shared the ups and downs of his existence as I have with him, and in so doing we have discovered that in some ways we may actually be soul mates. We have the same practical views on life and materialism, and are kindred spirits when it comes to our creative endeavors, he photography and music, I my writing.

In fact, he inspired Dare, one of protagonists in my latest novel, “For The Love of Samuel,” and created a club music track using soundbites from the Audiobook version narrated by yours truly.

Yes, the one thing we all look for in a relationship and which I did and never had with G, absorbed with his couch potato interest in sports that left me a baseball widow in the summer and a football widow in the winter, I will also never have with my married man. As my female neighbor and sometime confident who dated married men warned, “They’re never around for the holidays or when you need them most. Their family always comes first.“

How I long to spend a Saturday night with my lover and my dogs, having a pizza and watching some old movie, for which I would trade the glitz of bar life in a heartbeat. But again I realize that is not to be.

For a moment there I was ready to throw the baby out with the bath water. But always being a practical person I realized that I had so much in common with my married man – my man – the most foolish thing I could ever do, not just at my age but any age, was to tell him to get lost.

As he and I often say to one another, to find someone in life so much on your wavelength is not just rare. It’s a miracle. And we all know miracles don’t come often. And if and when it should end, I can at least say to myself,  for once in my life I had the love of another man who I loved just as deeply.

And that I was one fucken lucky dude to have that.

Is Donald Trump Today’s Huey Long?

Is Donald Trump Today’s Huey Long?

This blog was originally posted in March, 2016, prior to the election, but given what’s going on in D.C. right now, I think it is even more relevant today:

Huey Long was a bombastic 1930’s politician, a braggart, a bully, an emotional blackmailer and a megalomaniac rejected by the Establishment but revered by the common folk, who, like Trump, aspired to be President. So do we have another Huey Long on our hands?

To be fair, there are plenty of differences between the two men. Long was a Southerner from Louisiana, Trump is a Yankee from New York. Long grew up penniless, Trump, though he denies it, with a silver spoon in his mouth, thanks to his real estate mogul dad, Fred. Long was a career politician, Trump a businessman at least until he announced his candidacy, though both used cutthroat techniques to get what they wanted. And Long campaigned on a Bernie Sanders style Robin Hood strategy of robbing the rich through taxation to give to the poor, something capitalistic billionaire Trump would never do. (Update: The tax legislation just passed favors corporate America not us little people.)

But, ah, all the similarities! Long was rejected by the Establishment of his day, in this case the Democratic Party, including its Great White Father Roosevelt who was President at the time. Trump was so reviled by the GOP Establishment that they actually took out ads against him. (Update: Despite the fact the Republicans are in control of Congress, at least until the mid-term elections, a small faction of Pubs who hate Sir Donald have prevented him for getting what he wants passed. And there is an army of Pubs including Speaker of House Ryan who have decided not to run.)

And both men’s power base was not in the elite but in the common man. Long’s appeal was obvious: he was promising them a free ride on the coattails of the rich; Trump is apparently stream rolling his way to the nomination because people from all backgrounds are fed up with the do-nothing career politicians in D.C. (Instead we got a vacillating warmongering embarrassment who sets policy through Twitter.)

Wanna know more about Long? Google him, or better yet, rent the 1949 Academy Award winning flick, “All the Kings Men,” a thinly fictionalized account of Long, named Willie Stark in the film, both his rise and abrupt fall.

BTW, the only thing that was able to stop Huey was an assassin’s bullet.

Okay, I’m gonna stop right there.

The Answers to Friday’s: “Questions You’ll Never Find on the American Citizenship Exam”

The Answers to Friday’s: “Questions You’ll Never Find on the American Citizenship Exam”

“Washington slept here” is often used by towns throughout the East Coast as a tourist grabber. In which town did The Father Of Our Country have a threeway with two barmaids? Answer: Pick any town he visited. He wasn’t called The Father Of Our Country for nothing.
Which First Lady could be considered the Wash Woman of the White House? Answer: Abigail Adams, wife of John Adams, our Second President, who hung wash in the half finished Executive Mansion.
What President spent money like a drunken sailor so when he died his slaves had to be sold to pay his debts? Answer: Thomas Jefferson, who wrote the phrase, “All men are created equal.“
Who was quite possibly our shortest President (how big his dick was history doesn’t tell us)? Answer: James Madison, who was five foot four
Which President’s wife was accused of being a bigamist? Answer: The wife of Andrew Jackson who supposedly married him before the divorce with her first husband went through.
Which future President supposedly screwed around with his male roomate while studying law? Answer: Abraham Lincoln.
Who was possibly our first gay President who was a crossdresser and had his boyfriend live with him in the White House? Answer: James Buchanan.
Which President fathered a child out of wedlock (for you millenials that means without being married to the gal)? Answer: Grover Cleveland.
Which President was a dirty old man who married while in the White House when he was 49 and his bride was 21? Answer: Grover Cleveland.
Which President may have been poisoned by his wife who was fed up with him fucking around? Warren G. Harding by his wife Florence.
Which President was a man of such few words, unlike today’s politicians, that when a woman at some function said she took a bet that she could make him say more than two words his reply was “You lose.” Answer: Calvin Coolidge.
Who was our first “handicapped “ President that most people never knew was physically challenged? Answer: Franklin D. Roosevelt who had been crippled by polio and used heavy metal braces to simulate walking while assisted  by a military officer or one of his sons. There is only one known picture of FDR photographed in a wheelchair.
Who may have been our first lesbian First Lady? Answer:Eleanor Roosevelt who had a very dear mannish looking (that’s how my very politically incorrect mother would have described her) female news reporter friend Lorena Hickok with whom she traveled extensively.
Who may have been our first alcoholic First Lady? Mamie Eisenhower, wife of Dwight D. Eisenhower, who actually had Meniere’s Disease, a condition of the inner ear which affects equilibrium and made her appear drunk at some public functions. Or was that the cover story?
What President, well known as a womanizer, was quoted as saying, “Move over, this is your President” to some young thing when the both of them we’re trying to recover from their heavy drinking in one of their party host’s bedrooms? Answer: Lyndon Johnson.
How many times did John F Kennedy jerk off thinking of Marilyn Monroe on his way to his Inauguration? Answer: None, he was fucking her on the train over.

And here’s the Bonus Round: Why is the White House called the White House?

In the War of 1812, the only invasion on American soil by a foreign power outside of the British during the American Revolution and the terrorists on 9/11, the Brits set fire to the Yankee capital. The Executive Mansion was seriously damaged, and to cover the charred burn marks on its outer walls that still stood, it was painted – you got it – white.

Questions You’ll Never Find on the American Citizenship Exam

Questions You’ll Never Find on the American Citizenship Exam

A Brit friend of mine is applying for citizenship, and in addition to being able to speak English (l think that’s what he calls what he’s saying) and not being a felon (his only crime was robbing a pack of fags from a schoolmate when he was twelve), he needs to pass a ten question exam in American history and the American political system. Now Immigration makes it pretty easy by giving you 100 questions and their answers of which they will choose 10 and of which you only have to answer six right.

But here are some questions you’ll never find on any citizenship exam:

“Washington slept here” is often used by towns throughout the East Coast as a tourist grabber. In which town did The Father Of Our Country have a threeway with two barmaids?
Which First Lady could be considered the Wash Woman of the White House?
What President spent money like a drunken sailor so when he died his slaves had to be sold to pay his debts?
Who was quite possibly our shortest President (how big his dick was history doesn’t tell us)?
Which President’s wife was accused of being a bigamist?
Which future President supposedly screwed around with his male room mate while studying law?
Who was possibly our first gay President who was a crossdresser and had his boyfriend live with him in the White House?
Which President fathered a child out of wedlock (for you millenials that means without being married to the gal)?
Which President was a dirty old man who married while in the White House when he was in his fifties and his bride was 23?
Which President may have been poisoned by his wife who was fed up with him fucking around?
Which President was a man of such few words, unlike today’s politicians, that when a woman at some function said she took a bet that she could make him say more than two words his reply was “You lose.”
Who was our first “handicapped” President that most people never knew was physically challenged?
Who may have been our first lesbian First Lady?
Who may have been our first alcoholic First Lady?
What President, well known as a womanizer, was quoted as saying, “Move over, this is your President” to some young thing when the both of them we’re trying to recover from their heavy drinking in one of their party host’s bedrooms?
How many times did John F Kennedy jerk off thinking of Marilyn Monroe on his way to his Inauguration?

And you thought Clinton who lied about getting his dick sucked or Trump and Ms Big Boobs were our only Presidential indiscretions.

Answers Monday.

 

 

Today’s Timely Question…

Fast paced .. hot sex .. wonderful prose…” says Amos Lassen Reviews About My Latest Erotic Novel, “For The Love of Samuel”

Fast paced .. hot sex .. wonderful prose…” says Amos Lassen Reviews About My Latest Erotic Novel, “For The Love of Samuel”

[Edit]

Rarely does an author get a flawless review but that’s what yours truly got from Amos Lassen, one of the leading national critics of gay erotic fiction, about “For The Love of Samuel”, my latest erotic gay romance of love lost and love found, set in contemporary New York City and Fort Lauderdale.  “Samuel” focuses on an aging Manhattan gay man who has a chance to relive his youth, thanks to the prowess of the magical dog tag of Samuel Evans of the title, a long dead Civil War soldier.

Here is Mr. Lassen’s review:

“There have been countless stories about the quest for youth and everlasting life making it difficult to find a new way to approach it and write about it. Here is where Andrew succeeds. He takes the facts that he has learned and converts them into fantasy and he gives us a very sexy story. It seems that there were certain dog tags that contained the life force of their long dead owners and when the tags were transferred to a new owner, the person returned to the age Samuel was when he lost his life.

We meet some very hot men who have some very hot sex but the reader must be ready to read fast because the novel is fast paced. I actually heard, and thoroughly enjoyed the audio version that made it all seem very real (and very sexy). However, it is not only the sex that keeps the story moving. Writer Andrews tells a good story in wonderful prose…

There are a lot of characters and the story changes directions a few times keeping us alert. This is one of those books that will stay with me for quite a while.”

New Yorker and aging gay man Billy Veleber who abhors growing old has lost Mitch, his former meth head lover, to his habit, and Gus, the older man in his life and mentor, to despair, when he is confronted with the chance to become 21 all over again, through the magical prowess of the dog tag of a long dead Civil War soldier, Samuel Evans. Young again, Billy abandons Manhattan for Fort Lauderdale where he meets Dare, the love of his life, whose clever quick rich venture first bonds them, then threatens to end their idyllic lives together forever. Billy also faces the reality of having to tell Dare the truth about himself.

Audiobook  version available on Amazon soon. Here’s a sample. Billy, the aging 51 old gay man, puts on the magic dog tag of the long dead Civil War soldier, Samuel Evans and over one weekend begins his transformation. Already feeling his libido renewed, Billy visits Manhattan’s last remaining leather hole, The New Eagle… the narrator is me …

https://str8gayconfessions.files.wordpress.com/2018/03/rp-andrews-for-the-love-of-samuel-ch-11.mp3

For excerpts, more audiobook samples and a club music track inspired by the book, check out: hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com

Have you visited my author website hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com lately?

That’s hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com

 

 

 

 

And me and buddies will have a booth at the Stonewall Festival in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale on June 14 if you wanna come by and say hello…

Wonder Why l Haven’t Posted on Facebook The Last Month?

Wonder Why l Haven’t Posted  on Facebook The Last Month?

Here are five possible reasons:

Possible Reason #1: The Mafia guy who wanted me to leave George and support me back in the eighties came back into my life when he heard G and l had split. To make up for lost time, though by now he needed a walker to get around, he took me on a first class tour of Europe, then abandoned me in Romania to get back at me for not leaving George thirty years before. Go figure. Lucky l had my Capital One Visa card on me to get home.

Possible Reason #2: The husband of the sister of the hubby of my young lover got sick and my lover’s hubby flew to Denver to help sis which allowed my lover and l to screw like bunnies all month until l had to (tenderly) kick him out for running up my food bill. You can’t take love to the supermarket.

Possible Reason #3: I spent the last month narrating the Audiobook Edition of my latest work of hard core gay erotica,  “For The Love of Samuel” published on Amazon under my pen name, RP Andrews.(My author website is hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com). I used the home sound studio of a buddy’s wife who is a musician and singer who does her own recordings to do it cheaply, and she was amazed all the new things she could try on her hubby in the bedroom after listening to my very explicit man-to man sex scenes. Proof that my Audiobook Edition would do the trick was when a twenty seven old fuck buddy started masturbating over one of the chapters l played for him after we had done the nasty. How life affirming.

Possible Reason #4: I dropped the tablet l do all my writing on since my bum shoulders made using a laptop painful when my three darling doggies jumped on me for half of a bologna sandwich l had for lunch. I guess the expensive Rachel Ray dog food wasn’t good enough for them. It took a month to get the tablet repaired.

Or the Actual Reason: Facebook put me in Facebook jail for thirty days for a very artsy picture from over a year ago of me nearly naked cuddling up with one of my dogs FOR WHICH I HAD ALREADY DONE TIME. At least the Supreme Court gives you a chance to defend yourself. When you deal with FB all you’re complaining to is a computer. Good luck, fucker.

So while Zuckerberg and company took advertising and sold info on us so the Russians could skew our election, all his people and programs are worried about are guys like me showing their dick. Take my word for it: l got a nice dick.

So have fun Mark when they haul your ass before Congress. Ask me if l give a fuck. Go ‘head and ask me.

Ciao, Baby

I will be taking an extended hiatus from my blogging since l am scheduled shortly to undergo major shoulder surgery and l’m not sure when l will be able to continue my sermonettes.

There was no “ah hah” moment when it came to the rotator cuffs in both my shoulders going bye-bye. My doctors and l agree they were probably old injuries that got progressively worse over the decades.  Now with my ability to reach severely diminished, especially with my left shoulder (l can’t reach the console light in my car), and surgical outcomes for reattaching rotator cuffs poor in older people like me, l have no choice but to undergo Bionic Man reverse shoulder replacement major surgery. (The rotator cuffs are like elastic bands and if an injury is too old, the tissue has atrophied and it is difficult to reattach. Take a bag of rubber bands, throw them in a drawer for five years, pull them out, and all you got is dust.)

For someone who was never seriously sick or injured all his life and who at seventy has none of the conditions typical of old age, no cholesterol, no diabetes, no high blood pressure or heart disease – hell, for all my sleeping around in NYC at the height of the AIDS crisis, l’m HIV negative  –  coming down with knee issues and back issues and now shoulder issues hit me like a tsunami.

I had scoliosis as a teenager, and in those days the treatment was sleeping on a board. My posture all my life was never the greatest and l believe what l’m suffering from today may be rooted in these past problems, and perhaps may even be hereditary since l remember my mother complaining about arthritis-like pain when she was only in her forties.

To my credit, l was neither some super jock or weightlifter, nor a couch potato, and began deliberate moderate exercise in my thirties when l saw the donuts at the office coffee machine were ending up around my waist.  Once l retired to Florida, that regimen got execrated to gym proportions. I didn’t smoke or take drugs or drink except for a few rum and cokes on the weekend, though l sometimes wonder now with all the shit that began hitting me in my late sixties whether l should have partied like it was 1999.

For the past three or four years I’ve been getting Ortho Visc shots in my knees, a lubricating anti inflammatory to hold back bone erosion, though last fall x-rays showed the med was not working as effectively as it had in the past

Senoisis of the spine hit me two years ago, where pressure is put on the spinal cord, creating painful Charlie horse like symptoms in both legs. The surgery was happily uneventful mainly because l shopped around for a back surgeon who would perform less invasive surgery. I had to do my own research to discover conventional back surgery where they replace connective tissue with an erector set can lead to incontinence and impotence. Happily Mr. Peter is still with me and l don’t need Depends yet, but with the back surgery all l had to deal with was an incision healing. It’s hardly that simple with the more painful shoulder surgery where l will be in a brace and sleeping in a recliner for six weeks.

Coupled with all this is the fact l am shrinking just like “The Incredible Shrinking Man” sci-fi classic of the fifties. Bad enough l was 5’6” all my life, but in just the last two years l have lost five inches in height. X-rays by a spine specialist showed my vertebrae and discs are collapsing and the cause l realize now of my chronic morning neck and back pain.

For even after my shoulder surgery was scheduled, to be performed by one of the guys who developed the procedure so you can’t get much better than that,  l questioned whether it is all worth it. If l will still be facing the neck and back pain everyday for the rest of my life, what’s the point? Yes, l thought of suicide, not tomorrow or next week or next month but sometime in the indeterminate future when it all becomes too much. I even have a plan: park my car in my carport, run a hose from the exhaust pipe of my Honda Element into the house and it will be arrivederci for me and my three aging doggies.

But l also love to fuck with doctors, body mechanics with egos of children or sometimes God, who l dealt with everyday in my thirty some years as a hospital marketing exec.  When l told my primary care doc about my suicidal thoughts, he quickly got a psychiatrist to see me in his office.  He was afraid l’d do myself in before the surgery and screw the system of all those tens of thousands of dollars of insurance money. So the shrink gives me a script for some pills which l’m testing right now.  Having been mild bipolar most of my life, l have always subscribed to the hard core philosophy that you have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, kick yourself in the ass, smell the coffee and realize no one gives a shit about you but you.  And move on.

Which l did.

I jokingly say what l need is a total skeletal transplant. I’d cut a deal with a homeless guy at one of the bus shelters, and in exchange for his skeleton, l’d name the bus shelter he and his cronies congregate each morning in his memory and buy them coffee every morning for as long as l lived.

And if he were six feet, four, I’d throw in donuts.

After boasting about his surgical skills, I was ready to tell my boyishly handsome surgeon who resembles Houdini, the legendary magician, the only way l’d know for sure the operation is a success is if l can reach up and twist my boyfriend’s nips while l suck his cock.

Otherwise l’ll sue him for malpractice.

Now one would think my ex who lives in PA would be down to help me out, but pushing eighty with his own sort of health issues though he’s still pretty mobile, G plead the Fifth.

Thankfully l have a few good friends, my neighbor Hope the first girlfriend in my forty-nine year career as a professional faggot; my forty something boyfriend/ lover who is married to another older man younger than me and who twenty years his senior ironically is no longer interested in him sexually – go figure –  and a nurse buddy who l tricked with a few times and who has generously offered to be with me for the first few days following my surgery, though l’m wondering whether he’s planning to re-enact that s and m flick, Misery, with all the enemas, Foley catheters, and other assorted medical procedures he’s promising.

Oh, there were others but as the date of my surgery loomed closer, their enthusiasm about taking care of me waned and our so-called friendships evaporated faster than a spilt bottle of poppers.

If l can, l will try to keep you posted on my recovery.  Wish me luck.

A Few Good Friends

A Few Good Friends

I will be taking an extended hiatus from my blogging since l am scheduled shortly to undergo major shoulder surgery and l’m not sure when l will be able to continue my sermonettes.

There was no “ah hah” moment when it came to the rotator cuffs in both my shoulders going bye-bye. My doctors and l agree they were probably old injuries that got progressively worse over the decades.  Now with my ability to reach severely diminished, especially with my left shoulder (l can’t reach the console light in my car), and surgical outcomes for reattaching rotator cuffs poor in older people like me, l have no choice but to undergo Bionic Man reverse shoulder replacement major surgery. (The rotator cuffs are like elastic bands and if an injury is too old, the tissue has atrophied and it is difficult to reattach. Take a bag of rubber bands, throw them in a drawer for five years, pull them out, and all you got is dust.)

For someone who was never seriously sick or injured all his life and who at seventy has none of the conditions typical of old age, no cholesterol, no diabetes, no high blood pressure or heart disease – hell, for all my sleeping around in NYC at the height of the AIDS crisis, l’m HIV negative  –  coming down with knee issues and back issues and now shoulder issues hit me like a tsunami.

I had scoliosis as a teenager, and in those days the treatment was sleeping on a board. My posture all my life was never the greatest and l believe what l’m suffering from today may be rooted in these past problems, and perhaps may even be hereditary since l remember my mother complaining about arthritis-like pain when she was only in her forties.

To my credit, l was neither some super jock or weightlifter, nor a couch potato, and began deliberate moderate exercise in my thirties when l saw the donuts at the office coffee machine were ending up around my waist.  Once l retired to Florida, that regimen got execrated to gym proportions. I didn’t smoke or take drugs or drink except for a few rum and cokes on the weekend, though l sometimes wonder now with all the shit that began hitting me in my late sixties whether l should have partied like it was 1999.

For the past three or four years I’ve been getting Ortho Visc shots in my knees, a lubricating anti inflammatory to hold back bone erosion, though last fall x-rays showed the med was not working as effectively as it had in the past

Senoisis of the spine hit me two years ago, where pressure is put on the spinal cord, creating painful Charlie horse like symptoms in both legs. The surgery was happily uneventful mainly because l shopped around for a back surgeon who would perform less invasive surgery. I had to do my own research to discover conventional back surgery where they replace connective tissue with an erector set can lead to incontinence and impotence. Happily Mr. Peter is still with me and l don’t need Depends yet, but with the back surgery all l had to deal with was an incision healing. It’s hardly that simple with the more painful shoulder surgery where l will be in a brace and sleeping in a recliner for six weeks.

Coupled with all this is the fact l am shrinking just like “The Incredible Shrinking Man” sci-fi classic of the fifties. Bad enough l was 5’6” all my life, but in just the last two years l have lost five inches in height. X-rays by a spine specialist showed my vertebrae and discs are collapsing and the cause l realize now of my chronic morning neck and back pain.

For even after my shoulder surgery was scheduled, to be performed by one of the guys who developed the procedure so you can’t get much better than that,  l questioned whether it is all worth it. If l will still be facing the neck and back pain everyday for the rest of my life, what’s the point? Yes, l thought of suicide, not tomorrow or next week or next month but sometime in the indeterminate future when it all becomes too much. I even have a plan: park my car in my carport, run a hose from the exhaust pipe of my Honda Element into the house and it will be arrivederci for me and my three aging doggies.

But l also love to fuck with doctors, body mechanics with egos of children or sometimes God, who l dealt with everyday in my thirty some years as a hospital marketing exec.  When l told my primary care doc about my suicidal thoughts, he quickly got a psychiatrist to see me in his office.  He was afraid l’d do myself in before the surgery and screw the system of all those tens of thousands of dollars of insurance money. So the shrink gives me a script for some pills which l’m testing right now.  Having been mild bipolar most of my life, l have always subscribed to the hard core philosophy that you have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, kick yourself in the ass, smell the coffee and realize no one gives a shit about you but you.  And move on.

Which l did.

I jokingly say what l need is a total skeletal transplant. I’d cut a deal with a homeless guy at one of the bus shelters, and in exchange for his skeleton, l’d name the bus shelter he and his cronies congregate each morning in his memory and buy them coffee every morning for as long as l lived.

And if he were six feet, four, I’d throw in donuts.

After boasting about his surgical skills, I was ready to tell my boyishly handsome surgeon who resembles Houdini, the legendary magician, the only way l’d know for sure the operation is a success is if l can reach up and twist my boyfriend’s nips while l suck his cock.

Otherwise l’ll sue him for malpractice.

Now one would think my ex who lives in PA would be down to help me out, but pushing eighty with his own sort of health issues though he’s still pretty mobile, G plead the Fifth.

Thankfully l have a few good friends, my neighbor Hope the first girlfriend in my forty-nine year career as a professional faggot; my forty something boyfriend/ lover who is married to another older man younger than me and who twenty years his senior ironically is no longer interested in him sexually – go figure –  and a nurse buddy who l tricked with a few times and who has generously offered to be with me for the first few days following my surgery, though l’m wondering whether he’s planning to re-enact that s and m flick, Misery, with all the enemas, Foley catheters, and other assorted medical procedures he’s promising.

Oh, there were others but as the date of my surgery loomed closer, their enthusiasm about taking care of me waned and our so-called friendships evaporated faster than a spilt bottle of poppers.

If l can, l will try to keep you posted on my recovery.  Wish me luck.