R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 60

Take My Survey At The End of This Post: Rearranging The Deck Chairs

Take My Survey at the End of This Post: Rearranging The Deck Chairs

It seems the phone aps like Scruff or Growlr are overtaking the traditional hook-up sites like Manhunt and Bear411 who have tried to stay in the game with their own mobile, even GPS-driven versions. Duh me kept wondering whether all those guys in the bars or the gym on their fucken Samsungs and iphones half the time were checking the weather, when a buddy enlightened me that what a lot of them were doing was checking out the virtual version of the hottie three yards away. Do any make a pass on the phone? I guess so though I rarely bring my phone in the bar or gym to know if anybody likes me, really likes me.

Well, recently the San Francisco AIDS Foundation and the federal Centers for Disease Control decided to launch an online campaign on a few of these hook-up apps promoting HIV testing. Hey, the app gurus even donated the space (with the hundreds of thousands of dollars or more they pull in on advertising I think they can spare it), and the Big Brothers have gloated over the fact their messages were seen by over 19 million users and clicked through more than 30,000 times in a campaign that ran one month earlier this year.

Okay, sounds noble,but just because I click on a guy’s profile or he clicks on mine doesn’t mean we’re gonna do the nasty. So, do you really think gay guys, especially younger gay guys, are getting the message? With the increase in new infections among twentysomethings or younger rising double digits?

I mean, if you’re gay and you haven’t heard about AIDS (you’ve been playing too many video games, buddy) or don’t take all the talk seriously, do you really think a message on a phone app is going to change your mind? When HE’s waiting for you just two ab machines away.

Something tells me, a gay man who lives in sunny South Florida, one big party town and a hot bed for STDs where syph rates are going through the roof and HIV rates are the highest in the country, that the strategy behind these campaigns is like the crew on the Titanic rearranging the deck chairs so the passengers wouldn’t notice the ship was going down.

Wanna make a dent in the HIV rate, Big Brother? Make BB sites illegal, have apps and conventional hook-up sites not accept profiles with verbiage like “anything goes” or “mild to wild” or “safe sex: ask me.” Maybe even ban butt and hard dick shots. (I know, now I’m sounding puritanical, but, hey, if the guy is interested, that’s why God created texting and e-mails or the “send photo” feature, right?

But I wanna hear from you on this one – tell me I’m wrong, PLEASE. I’ll report on the results in a future post.

Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll



Take Our Poll

Pig Dance

Pig Dance

A few times each month, the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, holds what I like to label “festival” nights. Their aim is to lure in the crowd they used to have every weekend, but now as the leather scene is waning, find harder to generate, even with two-for-one drinks on a Friday night.

The most popular of these festival nights is Pig Dance, held the first Saturday of the month where mostly middle aged, or getting there, in-shape and out of shape leather men come to roost, together with twinks that use their harnesses as trainer bras and their youth to entice the daddies, even the ones without money, and a handful of truly beautiful men that go to make the rest of us drool.

A fellow bar fly buddy and I had agreed when we ran into one another on Friday night that we wouldn’t hit this month’s Pig Dance: it just gets too crowded. So when we saw one another from across the tiny dance floor Saturday night, we just shrugged one another’s shoulders and grinned. You can’t keep a leather man – even a fading leather man – home on a Saturday night.

Hell, it’s sacrilegious.

But, “been there, done that,” so I could have predicted what to expect without leaving the comfort of my furry dogs and stash of prerecorded TCM movies. It seemed everywhere short little me went in the bar the tallest, biggest faggot or faggots in Florida were right there, like I was some magnet attracting them. I call them my Mobile Sherwood Forest who often surround me in this closet-sized bar with its low ceilings. Worse, they’re so high up in the stratosphere they can’t hear you or are immersed in some lofty conversation with their buddy or potential fuck for the night when you politely ask them to move so you can still get some oxygen.

And as predicted, the place got increasing more packed (I had to park two blocks away when I arrived at the still tender hour of 11.) In fact, at one point I clung fast to a pole as the two lane highway traffic crushed by me, like I was on a New York City subway at rush hour. It was a perfect place, with its three almost impassable exits, to re-create the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 where 146 garment workers died, or for ISIS to stage a retribution bombing against ungodly Sodomites.

I’m over 50 so I can say it: It’s kinda sad, depressing, even repulsive to see some older guy with his tits hanging and his belly out to Alabama and his butt out to the Panhandle, shirtless or near that, shaking his booty on the dance floor like, to paraphrase Prince, it was 1999, or worse, 1979. When are we – and that includes me – when are we all gonna grow up?

I’m turned off by the endless cliques, the party talk, the frivolous conversations, the tourists who think their visiting royalty, the super butch guys with the girly voices, and, enough unjustified attitude to sink ten Titanics, no icebergs required.

So, you say, stay the fuck home, Ray. I mean, if you’re so fucken unhappy, why the fuck do you go?

For the occasional ego moment like when two hairy humpy hot guys eyed me from the dance floor and one of them reached out and stroked my furry chest with a smile. When I went over to acknowledge his act of kindness, his taller clone made sure I knew he had given his paramour permission.

Or the pleasant looking but not-my-type guy who had been stalking me on the web who didn’t have to stop but did to say to me as he passed, “You’re even better looking in person.” Even coming from someone I didn’t desire, the gesture, nonetheless, was noble and something my very fragile ego devoured like a Jenny Crag failure let loose in a bakery.

Or maybe, in the end, why I go out at all any more is to still feel alive and part of the scene, and not become a total recluse. It’s certainly not to pick some guy up, not in this age of the web. Though maybe one of these nights, a guy on his phone staring at Growlr – that’s every fifth person – will actually come up to me.

So when your doggies start looking funny, even without the meth, it’s time to polish those boots, tighten that harness and get movin’ buster.

It may be only 11, but it’s later than you think.

Get Ur &&;LA DY ##hOT 2niTE With a {tOOL th at de LIVERES…

Get Ur &&;LA DY ##hOT 2niTE With a {tOOL th at de LIVERES…

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

I get at least half a dozen of these not so cryptic spam e-mails on my very str8 and regular aol account, ever since I first ordered generic Viagra on line years ago from some Canadian pharmacy. Just about all of them end up in my trash bin, which is still one pain in the ass every time I open my mail. Nor does that eliminate the 7 to 8 calls a week I get on my phone from these very same pharmacies – you know it’s them when you pick up and there’s a long delay, and suddenly an Asian voice comes on abruptly with a “Is Rra-mon dere?” Now when I need the magic blue pill for my recreational activities, I hit medexpressrx-dot-com – some of the best prices in town and reliable, in terms of getting the Real McCoy, and getting it at all.

But back to my cluttered mail box. It seems I’m not alone when it comes to being the darling of all these “Get ‘Em Up, Partner!” pill mills. According to Bloomberg Business Week, three out of four e-mail messages today are spam. Of course, a lot are scammers, promising me some obscure seven figure lottery winning though I never gamble if only I electronically send in a $500 “processing” fee; or evil thirteen year olds who want to infect my hard drive when they should be delivering papers or fucking their twelve year old girlfriend. But many of these spammers are legit businesses hustling product, like my pill mills.

And get this: more than half of all the spam purchases made in the U.S. are for – you got it – generic Viagra or Cialis or Levitra, whatever magic puts the lead back in your pencil.

In one of those highly unscientific polls conducted on a favorite daddy hook-up site of mine, which again skews towards the perfect demographic for Erectile Dysfunction sufferers, 75% of respondents had said they had used Big V or Big C or wanted to.

BTW, have you noticed how the men in those ED TV ads are getting younger and younger – either the Chinese (it used to be the Russians) are putting something in our water, or before you know it Pfizer will be marketing its stuff to prepubescents.

Now, my Erection Merchants don’t know I’m a gay boy, but since stats prove gay men on average have a hell of a lot more sex than the hetereo male, imagine if they knew I liked dick.

Shit – I’d be getting ten times more spam!

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part V, Ball Torture

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part V, Ball Torture

This last look at my kinky, darker side comes from my latest book, “The Czar of Wilton Drive.”

It’s the story of Jonathan Antonucci, a 21 year old, barely-out-the-closet gay man from suburban New York who overnight finds himself a multi-millionaire, thanks to a bequest by his late gay great uncle. Uncle Charlie has unexpectedly died of a heart attack, leaving him the sole owner of several of the most successful bars in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s gay ghetto. Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates, and is immediately submerged in Lauderdale’s scene of unbridled sex and heavy drugs. He also falls under the spell of humpy Gil, a total meth head, and manager of one of his bars, until he realizes that Gil knows more about his uncle’s untimely death then he’s let on. Jon is determied to learn the truth and lures Gil into his trap my promising another night of hot, heavy sex …

Gil had already mainlined by the time Jon walked in just after 8. He could tell by the sweat dripping down his chest.

“So choose your poison,” said Gil glibly, holding a needle up in one hand and the pipe in the other. Both of his hands were shaking.

“Smokin’s fine,” replied Jon, “but I wanna hold off a bit. You want this cock of mine nice and stiff, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” smiled Gil as he held the globe of the pipe over his lighter. “By the way, I’m sorry about the disappearing act last night. Some private business came up …”

“So are we gonna chat or are we gonna fuck?” said Jon, stripping down to nothing, his cock bouncing against his abs as his jeans came off.

“Boy, are you in a horny mood,” said Gil, surprised at Jon’s directness. “OK, so what kinda kink do you wanna get into? ” and he peeled off his black Andrew Christian underwear, the only thing he had on.

Jon moved up to within inches of Gil’s mouth.

“I wanna tie you up, then tie our balls up real tight and play tug of war before I fuck you.”

Gil quickly whipped out the cord and scissors obligingly.

With Gil half sitting on his air mattress, Jon started by tying Gil’s hands behind his back, then looped the cord around Gil’s big, droopy dick, and finally tight around his ball sac. But instead of tying the other end around his own balls, Jon wined the cord off the roll til he got to Jon’s closed bathroom door and tied the end securely to the doorknob. Gil was forced to raise his butt slightly off the mattress so his furry butthole was in plain view.

“What’s up?” said Gil, looking perplexed.

“Nothing,” said Jon, as he swung Gil’s balls, hanging high between his legs, back and forth a few times before he reached for the pipe and lighter.

“You know, why don’t we both take a hit? I don’t think just one will kill this, do ya?” said Jon staring down at his twitching cock, then back at Gil.

“Nay, Boss, it’ll only make you wanna stick it in me deeper …”

“You got that right,” said Jon as he held the pipe to Gil’s lips and let him take a few heavy drags, holding the lighter beneath the globe as he shifted it back and forth.

“Now kiss me like a man,” said Jon. He pressed his lips against Gil’s, but when Gil tried to exhale the smoke into Jon’s mouth, Jon pulled away and moved down so he was sitting between Gil’s furry outstretched legs and held the pipe just inches above Gil’s hanging ball sac that had turned deep purple.

“Ever have an accident with one of these?”

“What – what are you talking about?” said Gil nervously, his hands, still tied behind his back, beginning to go numb.

“Bet melted junk can leave you with a real nasty burn if you aren’t careful, huh?” said Jon quietly, contemplating his would-be target with a faint smirk.

“Hey Jon, don’t joke around …”

“Hell, Gil, who says I’m joking? You were with my uncle when he OD’ed, weren’t you? In fact, you were the one who shot him up, right?”

“What are you talking about?” said Gil defiantly.

“OD’ing on junk is what caused Uncle Charlie’s heart attack.”

“Where – where did you get that bullshit from?”

“My uncle’s death certificate,” replied Jon petting Gil’s hang-’em-high sac. “He didn’t like needles. And he wouldn’t gotten high in the first place unless he had a sexy stud like you with him.”

“How did – how did you know?”

Uncle Charlie left a lot on his PC for me to read, like all the shit you and he got into.”

Suddenly, Gil fest up.

“He – he had been usin’ ever since he got back from PA after Labor Day,” he stammered. “I figured he was getting immune to the shit like me. So when he asked for an extra heavy dose this time – I just gave it to him. How the fuck did I know …”

“But it wasn’t just the two of you wanting to get high when you fucked, was it? Somebody put you up to it – somebody wanted Uncle Charlie hooked like you, didn’t they?”

Maybe Jon was right or maybe he was totally out in left field, but he figured there was only one way to find out.

“What the fuck …?” said Gil, trying to squirm free.

Jon flicked on the lighter til the pipe globe that he held a few inches from Gil’s balls glowed.

“It’s a shame – I really did enjoy playing with those big suckers,” said Jon in almost a whisper as he squeezed Gil’s sac with his fingers.

For more about “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” and my other books, check out my author website, rpandrewsgayfiction.com.

The Oscars

This year’s Oscar telecast drew the smallest viewership in six years. I watched it more out of old habits since about the only movie nominated that I saw was “Gone Girl.” Could it be that the blockbusters most people- particularly younger people that advertisers lust for – aren’t worthy of an Oscar nod, and us old geezers just don’t go to see them either? Is there a disconnect between the Academy and its audiences? I think so.

Patrick Neal Harris made a very telling remark when he pointed out that the best picture nominees grossed a total of $600 million, not much when you consider “Titanic” twenty years ago netted one billion on its own, and that half of that $600 million was attributable to one movie, “American Sniper.” So the artistically well done pics apparently aren’t pulling ‘em in.

It could be that the low viewership of the show could also be due to a weariness of the “I love you – you love me” mentality of Hollywood. I don’t know about you but I’m gettin’ real tired of all this celebrity worship in our society. Who gives a fuck what some actress is wearing, huh, except the designer who’s looking for publicity?

Remember, even George Clooney has to visit that small room in the morning.

For me, the highpoint of the show was Lady Gaga who has a beautiful voice not dependent on the amplifications of rock music technology. As for the most bizarre moment, it was hands down Neil Patrick Harris running around in his briefs. Yea, he’s got a great bod (and basket) for a forty something year old man, but what exactly was that all about? Frankly he looked like a jerk.

BTW, for you trivia nuts like me, rumor has it the Academy Awards statue got its name “Oscar” supposedly from Bette Davis who, when she won her first, exclaimed, “He looks just like my Uncle Oscar!”

Off to the Keys this week – chat later.

More Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part IV, Breath Control

More Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part IV, Breath Control

Ever wear one of those Israeli gas masks you can pick up cheap for twenty bucks on one of those online sex shops? The feel of confinement is over the top. A meth head buddy introduced me to his while he gave me a bj and I watched through the mask goggles. (Remember, now he was high-high and kept calling my dick his God.) Later a geek FB and I had loads of sensual sex with mine as he blew some poppers up the hose while he ever so slowly stroked my tool. He told me later his best hard-on was watching me go into some kind of trance. But, shit, this was child’s play compared to what that guy years ago in Columbus, Ohio, asked me to do to him …

I was on a drive vacation to Chicago and decided I’d stop along the way at lesser cities I’d never been. Columbus, Ohio, was among them. It was a late Friday afternoon and after checking into a sleazy hotel downtown and grabbing a Subway, I showered, then ventured out, my Damron gay guide in hand, dressed in a leather vest, red T, jeans and boots.

I’ve forgotten the name of the place but one glance said bear/leather/levi bar. It was August, hot and sticky (the bar had only ceiling fans) and when I saw a few other guys shirtless, I slipped off my T and my leather vest and strung both through my belt loops.

“So you gonna enter the contest?” asked the burly, bearded bartender as he handed me my Bud Lite.

“Contest?” I asked.

“The best hairy chest contest. We do it every Friday night. Winner gets fifty bucks.” Then he reached over the bar to stroke my chest. “Yep, you sure do qualify, mister, yum yum.”

Not exactly being shy, I signed up with the MC but knew that bars held these things to milk the crowd for more drinks, so that “Contest at Midnight” actually didn’t happen until closer to one.

I was on my second Bud when Gary strolled in. Tall, lanky and hippish with long flowing black hair and a long scruffy beard, he wore big horn rimmed glasses, a baggy, button down shirt that he had open to his navel to show off some lightly fuzzy flesh, and baggy black jeans. I was used to mentally stripping the superfluous off a guy, though, and could tell underneath his disguise that he had the bod and the looks. I was holding up the wall by the bar as he came over to stand directly across from me.

“Ten more minutes til we crown this week’s hairest chest!” announced the mc along with a drink special. Gary used the cue to open up.

“So I hope you entered buddy. I’m sure you’ll be the hands-down winner.”

“You never know,” I replied, moving over to him. “There’s always somebody better.”

“Hey man, I live here and I can tell you nobody I know has got you beat. Not by a long shot.”

I laughed. He groped. I told him about my trip. He told me about his life as a sometime employed graphic artist.

“Listen,” he went on more in a whisper,” If you win, will you come home with me? I live only a few blocks from here.”

“And if I lose?” I asked.

“Then I’ll come home with you.”

“Hotel, you mean.”

“Hotel, motel, convent – shit. As long as it’s got a bed.”

There were only three other guys up there competing with me and frankly, it was a slam dunk. Hell, I had more hair on my left shoulder than one of them had on his whole body.

I collected my money and fifteen minutes later we were in Gary’s cramped cluttered apartment, naked on his waterbed, foreplaying away.

That’s when he sprang it on me.

“You into breath control?”

I tried to look and sound ecumenical.

“Never tried it but if you like me to do it to you …”

With that, Gary stood up, reached for his jeans he had flung on a chair and slipped off his wide leather belt. Then he lay back on the bed, tucked a pillow beneath his head, and handed me the belt as I sat down on his belly, straddling him.

“I want you to put it around my neck and pull it tight.”

As I did what he told me to do, I could see his chest first become more agitated, then his breath more labored. I stopped.

“No, no,” he said softly, grabbing my hand. “Keep going. Don’t worry, I’m O.K.”

I hesitated a second, then continued my tug on the belt until his face turned blue and he appeared to fall into unconsciousness.

That’s when I panicked, slapped his face a few times, and getting no response, sprung up, grabbed my T and headed for the door.

“Where you’re gonna?” he shouted in a gruffed tone. “I’m not done yet.”

“I am,” I shouted back, slamming the door behind me.

It wasn’t until after I got back to my hotel room that I realized that, in my haste to escape, I had forgotten my $125 leather vest.

So, next to checking out a sex club or bath house, my little dabbling in asphyxiation sex was the most expensive sexual encounter I think I’ll ever have til I’m 75 (or a lot sooner the way the web is drying up) and use Click-A-Trick.

Wednesday, a final look at “Fifty Shades of Ray” with a nasty excerpt from my latest book, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” and some over-the-top ball torture.

More Fifty Shades of Ray… And Counting: Part III, FF

More Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part III, FF

Here’s another excerpt from my memoirs, ”Furry Man’s Journal: Remembering Some of The Furry Men I’ve Known, Loved, and Even Slept With….” About a particularly kinky kind of m2m sex, fist fucking and the two lovers who were responsible for getting a cast of my hand in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame. I used them as inspiration for two of the secondary characters in my new novella to be published later this year, “Buy Guys,” about two Jersey drifters who go down to Lauderdale to make their living as male escorts but find their little plan explode in their faces.

The first time I fisted a guy was in the Clubhouse II baths in Lauderdale on one of my snowbird visits in the ‘90’s. The guy, a lean and mean, lightly furry, handsome fucker, all of 30, was obviously strung out on something when he gave me the eye as I passed his open room door. Even if I wasn’t quite as versed in the ins and outs of gay sex as I am today, I knew the can of Crisco on his bed stand wasn’t there for frying chicken.

That night I also learned I was a born fister. I had the strong but tightly built hand of a musician and, in fact, had been a concert pianist by the age of 8 but gave it all up when my piano teacher moved to another town.

I guess that’s why my new buddy smiled when he looked at my hand. It took very little effort for me to slide first two fingers, then three, then my tapered fist, and finally my whole hand half way to my elbow up his stretched hole. He was a clean machine – you know what I’m saying – and all I felt was wet, warm tissue enveloping my arm. Frankly,

I wasn’t sexually turned on by the experience, but neither was I turned off – just curious. My buddy, on the other hand, was in Fistee Heaven. I’m sure whatever he was on certainly helped the cause.

I thought guys who loved getting fisted may have gotten bored with conventional dick fucking or even super-sized dildos. I also knew from that first night that it had to be far more than massaging the guy’s prostate since the prostate is only a few inches up the rectum while your hand feels like you could grab the guy by the throat from inside. But as a seasoned fister buddy explained to me, the anal sphincter is another erogenous zone which becomes so sensitive after a fisting experience, just touching it continues to drive the guy wild and even more hungry for a hard cock to enter next.

OK, I’ll buy that, but I still think there’s also something of a mind game going on here, the fact the guys knows that once you’ve got half your arm up his butt, you have complete dominion over his life.

And his soul.

While I’m not a member of any fisting club, over the years I’ve had my fair share of asses, even a new neighbor’s a few blocks away once, discounting the old proverb you shouldn’t shit where you sleep. But increasingly I found the experience, well, a little boring. While I knew that the guy I was doing it to was obviously enjoying it – I could tell by the level of his grunts – my mind would often wander to my weekly food shopping list.

That is, until I met my fisting brothers from LA, Tim and Tom.

We connected on Manhunt; they were on vacation here in Lauderdale, staying at one of the overpriced guest houses by the beach, but they were willing to make it easy for me by coming to my place. Hairy, masculine, gym-built fuckers with thick uncut cocks, they looked like the types who would want to tie me up to a post and take turns fucking the shit out of my tight virgin butt. Tim, 44 had a shaved head, his younger brother, Tom, 40, sported a buzz. But no, instead it was I who took turns fisting them, or I should say their glorious furry butts, Tim’s first while Tom went down on my dick, then vs. versa, as they say. Reciprocation made all the difference for me, something that could only happen in a threesome arrangement. We took it slow but the more arm I gave them the more each of them wanted til I felt I could rip their hearts out if I willed it.

They were also neat freaks, the neatest FF pair I have ever met. You can understand how lube during fisting can get a little messy, but Tim and Tom approached their ff session with surgical precision. Tom placed the disposable mattress covers they use in nursing homes over my bed comforter, while Tim fitted me with the latex gloves (I’m a righty) and made sure their special brew of lube would stay put.

And when they had both gotten off, flaccid dicks spurting away, Tom twisted my nips while Tim went down on me and took my load like a pro. Then they packed up their stuff, in as organized a fashion as they had unpacked, slipped back into their jogging shorts and tight tanks, and thanked me for a good time. For once had by all.

A month or so later, a fuck buddy of mine and I were at Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, lying out there au naturale, when I spotted Tim and Tom, also sans their swim suits, their big dicks swaying in the breeze, walking towards our beach chairs. I got up and gestured to my bud to do the same and when I introduced my friend to the guys, Tom grabbed his hand, examined it intently, and gave me a quick smirk.

“You’ll do,” I quipped to my friend after they had strolled on, but my poor buddy, who began munching on his tuna fish sandwich, had no fucken idea what I was talking about, and he being a conventional fucker who didn’t even like his balls pulled on, I figured I’d leave sleeping dogs lie.

After all, why spoil his lunch?

Monday, Breath Control.

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part II, E-Stim

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting: Part II, My Introduction to E-stimulation or E-stim for short

From my memoirs, ”Furry Man’s Journal: Remembering Some of The Furry Men I’ve Known, Loved, and Even Slept With….”

(rpandrewsgayfiction.com)

The closest I came to being adopted by the Mafia, besides living and working on Staten Island, a borough of the Big Apple, and the most Italian American county in the U.S., was Peter, a short (like me), stocky, swarthy, hairy, Italian gorilla with a shaved head and thick black beard and a build that Tom of Finland would have used as a model.

Plus, looking back, he made me an offer I shouldn’t have refused.

It was 1985. George, my other half, was still on Wall Street, doing well as a back office processor for a trading house called Rothschild; I was doing even better at St. Vincent’s Hospital on Staten Island where I had climbed the corporate ladder from an assistant to the director of community relations to vice president of public relations and marketing when my hospital took over another and several nursing homes and expanded into a system, giving my old boss a place to move up to as a senior vice president of operations..

But my six figure salary also meant heavy taxes (feds, NYC, NYS), and looking for tax write-offs, I figured buying a house – with George – in what was then the hinterlands of Staten Island’s West Shore just made good financial sense.

Financial sense, yes, but everything else about prolonging our twosome was crazy.

We fought like cats and dogs about the silliest shit, not, like most str8 and gay couples, about money and, sure as hell, not infidelity. I really think he had no one he was fucking around with on the side, and many times I wish he had. He also rarely wanted to go out to the Village or out at all – I was a Mets widower in the summer and a Jets widower in the fall. But I knew George too well, super conservative George who frowned upon almost every aspect of gay culture except for sex with men, and even mentioning a possible “open relationship” would have led to fire and brimstone. Maybe I should have, that would have been the end of things and both of us would have moved on. But I didn’t and neither did he. And Saturday nights on my own, plus his occasional Saturday days in the office, and my weekday evening “community meetings” as a PR guy gave me plenty of opportunities for discrete play.

So I played. Not just for the sexual pleasure but for the attention and adoration, something I didn’t get at home. With George, I could have my cake – dick – and eat it too – someone to share the bills and household chores with, and even an occasional argument. It beat talking to myself.

Maybe.

In the summer of 1989, we decided to rent a small house in rural Pennsylvania just across the border from Jersey and New York in a no-nothing town called Dingmans Ferry. This way, we could take the dogs – we were on our second generation: Charlie, George’s beagle, an apartment dog all his life whom George had promised a big backyard in the country, passed away at 16 just before we moved to the house, like Moses never entering the Promised Land. Now we had Mollie, a beagle terrier mix, who we got at a local no-kill shelter, and Annie, a stray terrier who just showed up at our door one day in a storm, wet as a mop.

One rainy day while there that week in PA we went to a local retail estate agent purely out of curiosity and ended up buying a little bungalow of a house on three quarters of an acre, away from it all, all for fifteen thousand dollars. Now we would have a getaway place to take the dogs and maybe have a life together.

Instead, I can blame Dingmans Ferry for my first real “extra-marital” affair.

Peter.

About 45 minutes away from our new place in PA was, of all things, a gay resort, called Rainbow Mountain, run by an older lesbian couple. It attracted a NYC and Philly crowd, but its pool and dance bar were also a mecca for local gays, men and women, on the weekends. Despite the ride on a winding country road that at night was frequented by deer, I think the stupidest animals God created, I managed to pry George off the couch and out to the pool on a summer afternoon or to the bar on a Saturday night. We even began meeting other couples and singles and were cultivating a social life we lacked back in New York.

Now one of the first guys we met, actually who came up to us, was thirty-something John, a NYC police detective, a broad, burly blonde and very personable guy who lived a closeted existence in the Bronx with his folks but led his secret life up here at a place a few towns over with his much younger Puerto Rican lover. It was John, who in turn, soon after introduced George and me to Peter, that swarthy Italian piece of beef who had just lost his long-time partner to cancer, then often used as a code word for AIDS in those early days of the genocide when guys were still too ashamed or afraid to talk about it.

His eyes opened wide as he shook my hand and I was seasoned enough by then to realize that there was more going on at that moment than simply meeting new friends.

A few weeks later, Peter invited us to a pool party at his summer home in Bartonsville, about 30 miles from us, a house, or I should say a mansion he built himself. You see, Peter had worked in construction, had even run his own company, and at 49, had recently retired, living off his rental properties, Treasury note coupons and tax exempted munis. But with all the gumba boys at his party, str8 and gay, I had my suspicions his money wasn’t all clean. But, hey, I lived and worked on Staten Island, where it seemed everyone was Italian and somebody’s cousin, and I learned not to ask questions.

Maybe it was my paranoia, but he seemed to be watching me all afternoon with that same wide stare and silly grin I remember the first moment we met at the bar. Only this time, we were able to feast on one another’s near naked bodies – after all this was a pool party. And his was a five course meal for this fur hungry boy. Massive shoulders, bull arms, barrel chest, only a bit of a belly, and thick thighs, all covered in dense black hair. There was some gray on his chest but even if his beard looked dyed black, he was all man, and after a few drinks he asked if I could help him in the kitchen with the appetizers. George was engrossed in some jock talk with John the cop and a couple of Peter’s buddies so in I went.

It took Peter all of three minutes to ambush me from behind, enveloping me in a bear hug.

“So you fucken hairy sexy fucker, does George ever let you off the leash?”’

George was maybe five yards away but I knew I wanted Peter too and I followed him to the den where he closed the door, peeled off his speedos, shoved me to my knees and stuck his huge, stiff, thick cut cock in my mouth. It didn’t take much for him to cum down my throat, but not a totally selfish guy, he pushed me down on the neighboring sofa, threw my legs up, rimmed my hairy hole, then blew me like a pro.

Not another word spoken, we were back outside with the pigs in a blanket and chicken fritters 15 minutes after I had left G, who was still bullshitting with his new jock buds.

At first I thought it was all a one-time thing though I masturbated in the silence of my bedroom at night imagining Peter’s hairy dick in my face. So when he called me at work – he obviously had made it a point to dig me up – and asked if I wanted to get together again, well …

The next time, we rendezvoused at his home – another estate – a bit closer to the City in Caldwell, Jersey. I took the afternoon off from work to play, and this is where Peter introduced me to a new kink, electro-stimulation, e-stim for short. With us squatting on the bed, face to face, he placed a long metal rod beneath our ball sacs wired to a large lantern battery and another wire around the base of each of our hard cocks, then flipped some switch and began slowly racketing up the voltage with a dial. It was the first time I shot without touching myself, and the sight of globs of cum spurting from our twitching cocks up onto our furry bellies and chests almost in unison would have been a ratings winner on xtube.com if it had existed then. To this day, I attribute my big balls to Peter’s little experiments.

But it wasn’t all sex. Peter liked to kiss, in fact, was a great kisser and knew again how to turn this hairy guy on with just a few soft strokes against my chest. As for me, my tongue and his burly furry body became fast friends.

Funny, I thought with the tool between his legs Peter would sooner or later ask to fuck me. But he never did. Was it because he was positive, though he didn’t look it? After all, I still thought his partner of ten years, Carl, had been a victim of the gay genocide. Who knows? All I do know is that each time we got together, I felt more relaxed – and more fulfilled as a gay man.

Plus George thought he was a nice guy.

Then one day, as we were playing up in PA on a weekend George was stuck in the office with end-of-month options, Peter popped the question I never expected.

“So when are you gonna leave George and come live with me fucker? You know I’ll take care of you, Christ, I got enough so you’d never have to work another day in your life.”

I had just turned 42, was already a VP and had my own wad of dough put away, maybe not Peter’s millions, but I didn’t need Peter or anyone to support me. Yet as much as George and Peter were alike in demeanor – masculine, manly, furry and cock-sure of themselves – I knew which one would keep my cock hard.

But I was headstrong about my career and I cherished my independence. And I was a self-reliant bastard, and never wanted to depend or count on anyone, not George, not my parents, no one, unless I had absolutely no choice.

But instead of being upfront with Peter, I back-pedaled a few more weeks, then just stopped answering his phone calls.

It was a beautiful June evening when I got home from work that Friday to find George sitting on the deck of our above ground pool.

“Why aren’t you in the water? “ I asked him. “I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”

“Peter called,” said George in an uncharacteristically low, calm voice.

I put my attaché case down, and sat down in the other lawn chair

The gig was up.

“You had to fuck around with somebody we knew?” he continued, again, very quietly, very un-George.

There was no rationalizing out of this one. Peter had told him everything.

Everything.

“So you want to break up?” I asked, matter-of-factly.

“What do YOU want?”

“Right now, I want to get my clothes off and get a stiff drink.”

I never did give him a straight answer but we barely said a word to each other for almost a week.

Maybe I should have used the opportunity to call it quits.

But I didn’t.

We didn’t.

Neither of us went up to Rainbow Mountain for the rest of that summer. And I didn’t bother calling Peter to yell. What the fuck was the point? The damage was done. Besides, in a strangely twisted way, I think he had done this, lashing out at me through George, because he had loved me.

Really loved me.

More than I loved him.

Two years later, we ran into Peter at the bar. He was with a taller, haggard looking guy who looked like his new paramour. Funny, even when he had the balls to come up to us to introduce Harry, neither he nor George acted as if anything had happened. And I just continued playing Mr. PR.

Looking back, I think I was a silly boy for not leaving George for this rich slab of man. Peter might be dead by now, and I would have been set for the rest of my life like some jerk I met on the beach years later in Fort Lauderdale who after taking care of his “partner,” 30 years his senior, for 15 years, and not working a day all those years, is now living off a trust fund.

But hell, at least Peter didn’t hire a hit man when I deserted him. And years later, when I named my new shelter dog, a chihuahua terrier mix, “Pete”, George, never one to forget, was convinced I had named him for the guy I let get away. (I didn’t.)

P.S.: Years later, John the Cop retired with his fat pension and his slim lover to Miami where he bought a home on the water. He was an avid bike man and nothing made him happier than being with his motorcycle bros, str8 and gay, traveling the highways and byways of Florida. A non-believer in wearing a helmet in a state that didn’t demand it, he was thrown off his bike one breezy afternoon by an truck making an illegal U-turn and found the thousand pounds of machinery he loved come crashing down on him.

He was 49, and the handsome, burly blonde with the million dollar personality had a closed coffin at his wake.

More Fifty Shades of Ray… And Counting Friday with a look at my career as a fist fucker.

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part I

Fifty Shades of Ray … And Counting, Part I

Okay, enough of me politicizing, pontificating and philosophizing . It’s time for some true confessions. It’s time to talk sex. S-E-X.

Not just any kind of sex.

No, I mean kinky sex.

I don’t apologize for what you’re about to read. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of what I’ve done in the name of pleasure; I am what I am and, well, it is what it is.

The long anticipated BDSM erotic romance, “Fifty Shades of Grey” opened this past weekend in theaters. While it was largely panned by the critics as “insipid,” it will probably make a fortune off wives who drag their husbands to it in hopes its dirty tale inspires them. I didn’t read the book nor plan to see the movie. But from what I gleamed from the internet, my response is one big yawn.

I mean what’s the big fucken deal?

I can’t speak for str8’s, but unless you’re totally vanilla without sprinkles in the bedroom, most of us gay guys have “been there, done that” somewhere along our checkered careers. I know I certainly have as a seasoned leather man: I’ve been cuffed. had my balls tied up and weighed down with fish hooks, had hot wax dripped on my cock and balls, have e-stimmed, have deep fisted and punched fisted at least a dozen men, tightened a belt around the neck of a guy who craved breath control till he passed out, wore a gas mask while a guy shot poppers up the hose and a third blew me, and get a hard-on in Home Depot and Office Depot when it comes to looking for new toys for my tits. (How do you think I got ‘em that big?) That’s just for starters, and most of the time I wasn’t even high.

Not bad for a former Sunday school teacher, huh? (No, you’re right, pretty awful.)

There was the time P. invited me over one Friday night to his Miami luxury condo. One studly bearded furry handsome Cuban, P wanted one thing and one thing only: for me to pound his bull balls with a mallet or, when he was really warmed up, a baseball bat, while he lay there, those thick muscular, hairy legs spread. No touching, no kissing, just three hours of solid whacking while we smoked meth.

Or how about the time I was in a bath house in Montreal and a big brute of guy, J, asked me to punch fist him and was disappointed when no blood showed on my hand.

Get now why I can’t understand all the hoopla about “Fifty Shades?”

I’ve included my experiences (enhanced a bit, of course, hey I’m a writer not a priest) in my short story collection, “Basic Butch;” in my memoirs, “Hairy Man’s Journal,” and in my latest novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive.” And all this week I plan to give you a taste of my darker side just to show you what real kinky m2m sex is all about.

Let me start with an excerpt from my short story, “Guilt Gift.” West Village leather boys David and A.B were fuck buddies who enjoyed a lifestyle that revolved around the next leather event. They thought a mysterious invite to a very private party in San Francisco from a couple they had fucked with at the last Mister International Leather Contests in Chicago would be just another opportunity to play rough. In the end, they got far more than they ever bargained for…

Most nights Dave took the subway home from Macy’s and his job as manager of Menswear, but occasionally, when his silly ass clerks didn’t hold things up by fucking up the register tapes at closing, he would hoof it. This warm, dry August evening was certainly one of those nights. As he approached their three story walk-up on Christopher Street, he noticed A.B.’s black Schwinn Flyer chained to the “No Parking Tues and Thurs 7 am to 3 pm” sign pole just outside the front door. He trotted through the tiny first floor foyer, glanced quickly above the buzzer at the bulletin board, full of ads and notices, to see if there was anything worth considering, then spiked up the 27 worn, splintered wood steps to their third floor flat. He could smell burnt tomato sauce in the hallway.

“You did get the mail, didn’t you?” said Dave as he opened the door. A.B. was hovering over the tiny oven, obviously trying to hide his culinary faux pas.

“I’m – I’m sorry, I forgot, I was so hungry, I wanted to make the spaghetti before you got home –“

“And instead you burnt the sauce?”

“Yea- yea –”

“And left your bike on the street, when you already lost two that way.”

“But they told me that bike chain was in- invincible –“

“Abel, I wonder how you survive as a Wall Street messenger boy – excuse me, courier,” said Dave. “You’d probably leave two million dollars worth of bonds sitting on the table at Subway,” and he turned around and trotted back down the stairs.

Stuck in between another endless promo for Verizon DSL and his credit card bill from Citibank was an oversize ivory envelope addressed to the two of them. It was just like the invitation, a bit smaller, that he had gotten last spring to his brother’s wedding in Las Vegas – Jesse’s second – the one he passed on since it fell on the same weekend as the annual Houston Leatherfest. On the flap was scribbled, “817 Harrison Street, San Francisco.”

Though curious, he waited until he got back up to the apartment to open it. He left A.B. to salvage the spaghetti dinner in the kitchenette.

“You are very cordially invited to a very private leather party at 817 Harrison Street (third floor), San Francisco, beginning at 12 midnight Saturday of Labor Day Weekend hosted by your playboys Eden and Elee.

You will find your fully paid airline and hotel reservations at travelocity.com, passcode YZS4433452.

Don’t need to bring toys – we’ll be fully stocked.

EE”

“Who’s EE?” asked Dave from the sofa.

“Oh, they’re those twin brothers, cue balls, you remember, smooth-as-silk bods, we met them Memorial Day at MIL. Why, I think I even have a picture of them.”

A.B. swung open the closet door. He had this photo fetish of taking pics of guys whom they hung out with on their weekend or vacation leather romps with a CVS disposable digital camera and had all four years worth of their lives and trips together hanging like a scrapbook on the closet door. There at the end of the fifth row were the four of them by the back pool table in Touche’s. Thirty somethings like them, tall swimmer body types, but no hair at all.

Suddenly it all came back. Dave may have forgotten their names but he never forgot an ass. The four of them had cabbed it back to the motel where, ironically, they were all staying and had spent the night and most of the next morning in a quintessential fuckfest that got so sloppy that they flipped to the other’s room when the Crisco on the sheets had gotten too slippery.

Dave showed A.B. the invite.

“But how did they get our names and addresses?” asked A.B., curious. “All you gave them was your e.”

“Abel, if a 12 year old can hack the Pentagon, two leather boys in SF can get our addresses,” said Dave already at his laptop, checking the Travelocity code. Sure enough, everything was right there, all in perfect order. They had nothing else planned for Labor Day except maybe doing an overnighter on Fire Island. And a perpetua-fist fucking session beat that any day of the week.

“But Christ, that’s next weekend,” said A.B. and he rushed back to the closet rummaging through the boots and sneakers and gym bags on the floor. “I got four Fleet Enemas left. Think that’s enough?”

“Just remember this time to put ‘em in the check-in luggage, not the carry-ons so they don’t think they’re some new type of plastic explosives, thank you.”

The anticipation suddenly stiffened Dave up and he grabbed A.B. from behind and stripped off his Nike shorts. Then he pulled his own jeans and underwear down to the floor.

“But what about the spaghetti?”

“Feed it to Belvedere.” Belvedere was the cat of their 75 year old neighbor Mrs. Sylvester, a former Rockette, who lived on the first floor. “There’s always take-out.”

Dave preferred using a glove but the open can of Crisco sitting on the window sill beckoned him and, seconds later, he was plunging his fist into A.B.’s dirty, but obedient asshole, back and forth, back and forth, picking up the pace ever so slowly until A.B. squirted. Then A.B. quickly turned around and caught the sperm that was already spurting from Dave’s dick with his tongue. After all these years, they had it down to a science.

Dave decided to vacuum the apartment, while A.B. pedaled to the Chinese restaurant on West 12th. Dave was still vacuuming when A.B. got back with the lo mein.

They had stayed at the SoMar twice before so Dave was glad their hosts had booked a room upstairs in the rear away from the pool that could get noisy with token straights and their kids. They had time to take a nap and walk up to Sally’s Coffee Shop off Ninth and Folsom, about the only place around to grab a sandwich unless you hiked to Union Square. South of Market, with its dingy streets littered with homeless, wasn’t glitzy Castro but all the real S and M stuff was within a few blocks of the SoMar.

So was 817 Harrison.

They left the motel around 10:30 in their chaps – Dave wore his harness and A.B. his tight, waist length leather vest, both of them showing off their dark hairy pecs to their best advantage like good bearded brothers – and scooted over to Mountain Men, the bear/leather bar just around the corner. The front bar was half empty, but out on the back patio the bellies and hairy chests were bumper to bumper.

After two quick Buds, they began their slow stroll down Harrison. A youngish, bearded guy with long hippyish hair that he kept pulling lice out of, was begging on the corner two doors from the address. They ignored him, then pushed the buzzer.

No one came to greet them but they heard the click and took the freight elevator – there was no place else to go – to 3. The loft was well lit if sparsely furnished and there at one of those home bars you bought at Target’s, donned only in black jocks and high- laced black boots, were Eden and Elee. Their metal tit rings sparkled in the light almost as brightly as their shaved, waxed heads.

“Guess we’re early,” said Dave after they had jock-talked and small-talked a few obligatory minutes.

“Not really,” answered one of the boys – he didn’t know who was who and, frankly, what did it matter. He soon learned the one with the tight mustache – a new addition since MIL – was Eden.

“We did say a very private party on the invite, didn’t we?” said the other.

A.B. looked puzzled. Dave just grinned.

A.B. liked being tied up spread eagle when he got fucked and the twins had no problem complying, duct-taping him down to a large slab they used in mortuaries for embalming. For the next couple of hours the three of them took turns fucking and fist-fucking the by now very coked-up A.B. Then Eden lay beside A.B., ass up, and Dave started using one hand to fuck Eden and the other A.B. while Elee knelt down, grabbed Dave’s dick from behind, and rough-sucked him off. Eden quietly extracted himself. A.B. just continued to writhe on the slab, waiting for more.

“So cowboy, like being lassoed?” asked Eden, not waiting for a response. Dave, buzzed out by endless lines of coke and beers, gave him little resistance.

“Dovid,” said Elee as he watched his brother tie Dave to a wooden cross that had been hidden behind some old plastic shower curtains.

No one had called him that in almost twenty years. Not since he had run away from North Miami Beach at 17, away from a life that he couldn’t, wouldn’t live. He tried to clear the haze from his brain.

“Remember Yakkov Bickerman?”

Eden came close enough to Dave that he could smell the onions on his breath.

“Yakkov was our brother. Our poor miserable fucked up brother. Remember him now, Dovid?”

Dave said nothing and remained expressionless.

Dave felt Elee hooking something to the back of the cross beam.

“It took us a lot of years to figure out what happened,” continued Eden.

“That’s why you ran, isn’t Dovid – to SoBe, til you found some rich old faggot to finance your trip to New York,” added Elee.

Suddenly duct tape blocked Dave’s vision as he felt endless rows of tape tighten around his neck. His boots began to dangle off the floor. He was being raised up. The prayer for the dead raced through his brain.

A.B. squirmed futilely.

“Sorry, Abel, you had to come along for the ride,” said Elee.

“Well, Dovid,” said Eden in an undertone, as the top of David’s head slammed against the cement ceiling, “now it’s your turn.”

Then, he cut the rope.

What to know how it ends? Check out “Basic Butch,“ my short story anthology of tales on the edge at rpandrewsgayfiction.com

Wednesday, another Fifty Shades of Ray… And Counting: Peter and My Introduction to E-Stimulation or E-Stim for short

The New Yorkization of South Florida

The New Yorkization of South Florida

Well, you can’t doubt the Census Bureau, can you? Florida is now ranked third most populous state in the country, beating New York for the first time in history. And the Bureau attributes this growth to the obvious shift of Easterners – many from New York – to Florida – particularly south Florida – you guessed it – for the sun. The fact we’ve also become a top gay tourist and resident mecca, particularly with retiring or soon-to retire Baby Boomers, certainly also contributed to this. Not bad for a region that just fifty years ago, according to my redneck pool guy who grew up here, was still segregated and had blacks hanging from trees.

Ah, but as a former New Yorker I can say it. New Yorkers are among the snobbiest and most obnoxious fags in the book. And what better time to experience the dubious pleasure of their company than during the biggest holiday weekend in South Florida, Presidents’ Weekend. It’s when our little town is besieged by tourists from all over the world, particularly cold dreary NYC.

So how do we townies know you guys have arrived to party in our playpen?

When our steel toed boots are stepped on at least three times in one night at the Ramrod, our leather hang-out.

I know, I know, we shouldn’t bitch. Tourists, especially gay tourists, are worth a billion dollars to the South Florida economy. After sunburns, oranges, tomatoes, space junk, and Mickey Mouse, what the fuck has this basically redneck state got to offer? A few years ago, Lauderdale had an anti-gay mayor who wasn’t shy about letting his thoughts about homos be known publicly. That is until the Broward Tourism Bureau (Broward’s the county where Ft. Lauderdale serves as county seat) told him to shut the fuck up. He was expendable; all those discretionary dollars from the gay boys up North and the Midwest and as far as California and Germany weren’t.

I wonder what he thinks now that we can get married here too?

All the same, tourists are one big pain in the ass (no pun intended) to us townies (unless, of course, they’re cute):

In the bars, they don’t look where they’re going, don’t move when you try to pass, and haughtily act like visiting royalty, as if all the men milling about were there for their choosing.

On the beach, they’re the ones who take over a square mile of space and are the ones with the blaring radio. Guys, this is the twenty-first century. Ever hear of ipods and earphones?

They e-mail you on one of the hook-up sites weeks or even months in advance that they’re coming to town and want to connect (“You’re so hot!”). Then you never hear from them because everything they want is right there butt-ass naked at the clothing optional pool at the guesthouse they’re staying.

They’re walking fashion statements on not how to dress in a gay bar. It’s Florida, guys, its 75 degrees ten o’clock at night. No, you don’t need that long sleeve pullover. And please, leather vests, Bermudas shorts and floppies the same night just don’t mix if you’re visiting a leather hang-out.

Worse, last season, for every hottie – and yes, there were some guys I’d whip my Visa card out for – there were ten notties. And the age range has been skewed to the more haggard, overweight 45 plus crowd who still has some bucks. The younger ones, on the other hand, are so twinked and femmed with their 20 inch waists, a lot of them look like they’re halfway through trans-sexual surgery. (I do get my share of “Hot Daddy!” gawks, though.)

So I think next time I’m at Sebastian, our gay beach, I’m going to start up a collection from us locals to hire a bus to ship the most obnoxious members of our visiting royalty back to where they came from. If these are the guys we starve ourselves and slave in the gym all summer and fall to look good for, fuck Lean Cuisine. I want my Breyer’s pistachio ice cream right now and don’t be stingy with the scoops.

But, enough of my politicizing, pontificating and philosophizing. It’s time for some true confessions. It’s time to talk sex. S-E-X.

Not just any kind of sex. Kinky sex.

All next week to mark the opening this weekend of “Fifth Shades of Grey.” So, get ready for “Fifty Shades of Ray … and Counting.” It’ll make “Grey” sound like a nursery rhyme.