R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 61

The Alabama Soft Shuffle

The Alabama Soft Shuffle

State appeals of federal judge’s decisions re. gay marriage have been going on for a while, and just about every one of them eventually caved in. But what happened in Alabama this week to me is indicative of what may happen in the future on a couple of fronts. And if any of you are from Alabama, Mississippi, or Louisiana, I wanna hear from you on this.

First, the state’s own Supreme Court had the balls to reject a federal – a federal – judgment that the state could not ban same sex marriages on Constitutional grounds. It took the United States Supreme Court to step in and order them no way. Yet, Alabama still fought the edict from on high, reminiscent of how Southern states fought the civil rights legislation back in the sixties.

Will we see more of this backlash in the weeks and months ahead, supported even in states where it’s legal by the Religious Right?

Secondly, by being butch this time and saying outright that Alabama was dead wrong, the U.S. Supreme Court may have tipped its hand on what its final decision will be regarding same sex marriage nation-wide come June.

But what I find particularly odious is that one of the two conservative justices on the bench who supported the Alabama ban but was outvoted was Clarence Thomas, an African-American who owes his career, in part, to the civil rights fight. And many blacks share his views, mostly on religious grounds, despite the parallels between their fight for equal rights and ours.

More damning, again when it comes Justice Thomas, is the fact he even owes his marriage to the civil rights movement. He is married to a Caucasian woman, an attorney, but that would have never happened had the Supreme Court not struck down laws against miscegenation or marriage between the races in 1967. Many gay advocates point to this decision as a forerunner to what is happening today in our arena.

Interesting, very interesting. Maybe what’s good for the goose isn’t always good for the gander.

Is Incredible Male Beauty A Barrier To Long Term Love?

Is Incredible Male Beauty A Barrier To Long Term Love?

We’ve all seen them – maybe you’re one of them – those incredibly handsome fuckers, the one percent of gay society, who have it all – the face, the body, the height, the age, the demeanor – that you’d blow the entire credit line on your clean Visa card to spend one night with them. And more times than not, they’re with their clone buddies or clone lover, in the club, shirtless of course, caressing or kissing unabashedly right on the dance floor for the rest of us mere mortals to gawk at with envy.

But the other night as I watched a few of these blessed couples do their thing at Lauderdale’s local dance club, Hunter’s, I wondered if being incredibly beautiful is necessarily a recipe for long term happiness. I’ve known some of these near perfect specimens of manhood in my life – even tricked with a few of them – and in talking to them about their relationships I was surprised to find that many are not really satisfied, nor do their match-ups with top shelf men like themselves last. Even when both guys are stable, financially comfortable, and addiction-free (no drugs or alcohol to muddy the waters), clashing egos (who’s prettier and getting the most stares in the supermarket) begin to erode their once happy nest.

Many incredibly good looking guys are also incredibly insecure, and even when they’ve hooked onto someone who they thought was the love of their life, they’re constantly worrying they may lose them to somebody better. And when temptation is all around, can you blame them? Or one begins to get itchy, even frustrated, that by passing up other men in his effort to remain loyal he’s missing something.

After all, you can only stay pretty for so long.

So what happens? Many times those “it’s only you babes” relationships transition to “we only play together” to “you go your way, I go mine” until one day, sooner or later, somebody else comes along and puts the whole protracted soap opera into auto replay.

Wonder why then, if money is not in the equation (plain is supporting pretty), you see a lot of hot guys paired off with so-so’s (no competition), or why maybe being average or even sub-average or living or staying put in a small town or metropolis and not moving to a mega-gay-polis like L.A. NYC or Fort Lauderdale where good looking men are as plentiful as cockroaches in a tenement walk-up is actually healthier for long term relationships?

The New Meat Syndrome

The New Meat Syndrome

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

While I taught college writing for a while after coming down to Fort Lauderdale from New York, I’m no grammar wiz and rely on spell check like everybody else. But when some guy on the web uses “let’s meat!” in his reply, I wonder if he’s being cute or even knows what a double entendre is, or is just plain close to being functionally illiterate.

All of this spouting off about the decline of American language skills by a guy with two degrees in English is really meant to be a segue to a subject which has nothing to do with spelling, what I like to call the New Meat Syndrome – this time I’m using the right “meat.” No matter how much we moan on like silly adolescent girls about finding a long term relationship, or covet a harem of fuck buddies to satisfy our wanton, prurient desires on a regular, predictable basis, too many of us suffer from the New Meat Syndrome, always wanting some fresh cock or voluptuous new butt to suit our fancy and get us hot and horny like the first time we jacked off over a Sports Illustrated ad in the bathroom when we were 13.

Combing the websites, hitting the sex clubs, cruising the bars, checking out the guys waiting in the ten items or less aisle, even when you’ve already had your “protein shake” for the day. Looking over the shoulder of the guy who’s blowing you at some bath house or sex club for a view of the hottie three feet away bouncing his rock hard cock in his hand for your enjoyment while you hold off with Exhibit A, thinking you might snatch Exhibit B next. Ready to pass up a buddy on Manhunt who’s been product tested asking if you wanna fuck when there’s some new fresh hottie simultaneously wooing you on Daddyhunt. All too often you end up losing both of them.

Maybe it’s that Viagra hangover, you know, you’ve gotten your rocks off, but a couple of hours later that last dribble of sildenafil citrate churning through your loins makes Pouty Peter want it all over again. Or maybe what you had was a club sandwich and you’re determined to get that filet minion. Or maybe it’s the addictive character of the hook-up sites that you play like a gambler waiting for your number – a new, fresh scrubbed face of course – to come up because sometimes it just does

But satisfying the New Meat Syndrome can be exhausting, frustrating, and an enormous waste of time that could have been better spent doing your laundry. Trying to negotiate with some asshole on Manhunt who you find out, sixteen e-mails later, never had any intentions of hooking up. Like the top who hit me up and who I told, since we were both lids, Maybe that kind of back and forth bullshit is tolerable at 7 in the evening but not at 2:30 in the morning when all you wanted to do was get off.

Is this almost insatiable need for new a symptom of America’s throw-away mentality? The fact there are so many

different kinds of dicks out there, and we want to have a taste of every one of them, like flavors at Baskin Robbins? An ego thing, you know, the more you score the hotter you are, right? Or is all this borne out of something more mundane – like boredom. Or worse, sexual ennui, i.e., being immersed in a 24-7 non-stop sexual environment.

Or having played the game too long.

Fuck Buddies

Fuck Buddies

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

At first blush (and I don’t blush easy), a fuck buddy is just what it says it is. A buddy you get together with now and again on a regular basis to get one another’s rocks off. No hearts and flowers. No Godiva chocolate on Valentine’s Day. No walks on the beach. No emotional roller coaster rides. Or arguments about your mother. Just slam, bam, thank you ma’am, and see you in a few weeks for more of the same, Jake.

But those who have or have had fuck buddies know that these fellow playmates are much more than a hard dick or ass you get to know as good as, or even better than your own.

First, many guys turn to fuck buddies when sex has gone out of their own “LTR’s.” That’s why it’s good that at least one buddy in a fuck buddy duo has his own place. Sleazy motels can add to the experience, but they still cost $$ and mean logistical pre-planning.

But, unlike tricks that might prove dangerous to a relationship that otherwise has something else going for it, fuck buddies are safe like a warm kitten. In fact, many a fuck bud has actually saved a “marriage” by giving the guy an outlet to let off his sexual steam, so to speak.

A good fuck buddy is also a good listener. He’ll listen to shit about your job your partner won’t because a FB doesn’t want anything to spoil that next hour of hot, unbridled sex. He can play marriage counselor of sorts, even if all you do is vent, at least for those ten minutes of conversation before the two of you do what you met for. Sometimes these conversations can include topics like new sex toys, or reviews on new play spots in the scene that only two sluts without any agendas could engage in.

A good fuck buddy is also reliable and convenient. You know exactly what to expect from him and him from you. No uncomfortable surprises like with a trick with whom you haven’t had the chance to go over your sexual do’s and don’ts check-off list. Plus, you pretty much know one another’s schedules and so can predict and anticipate (isn’t hot sex half anticipation anyway?) when you’ll get together. Guaranteed, satisfying sex at 4:30 in the afternoon on the way home from work. What more could a boy want? It beats having your lover pile your shit on the curb if you came home at 3 in the morning from a loser trick.

At the same time, fuck buddies are the perfect sex partners to experiment with, things you’d be afraid to try with your love partner who might accuse you of straying (“where did you learn that?”). Hey, and if those shoe laces and fish sinkers don’t work, no big deal. You already know one another’s tried and true hot buttons.

And do I need to remind you that FB’s are also great for NSA threesomes that a member of a love two-some might feel uncomfortable with or even threatened by?

Where some fuck buddy relationships go sour is when one begins to take the other for granted. While you’re breaking your ass trying to hold onto those three pack abs, he’s decided to live in the fridge. This usually happens when one is content to get most or all his sex from the other and doesn’t feel he needs to keep his marketable edge, the same shit like two straight marrieds or gay partners. A relationship is still a relationship, whatever its premise. You still have to work at it.

That’s why when you’ve had a shitty week at work, your partner is up your ass again (figuratively that is) or prefers watching an eighty year old Bette Davis movie over sucking your cock, or you’re box office poison that week in the bars or baths or on the web, it would be great to know you can rely on a buddy with benefits to make it all right again.

At least for one and a half uncivilized hours.

.

A Roll Of the Dice

A Roll Of the Dice

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

The other day, I ran into a local discount supermarket to buy a gallon of fat-free milk that was on sale for under four bucks. Walking in a few yards ahead of me was a trio of females: a not quite heavy set older lady in a moo-moo dress who had a pronounced limp; a younger woman in slacks; and a little girl in pigtails who I just assumed was the younger woman’s daughter.

It wasn’t until I got to the check-out line with the trio again just ahead of me that I realized that the younger woman who I thought the mommy was actually profoundly retarded (I know, that’s not the politically correct term – so sue me), and that the older lady was probably the mother of both her and the little girl. Mom kept scolding her daughter with the stupid grin for babbling on to the cashier whose hand she held for a second, remarking how “pretty” it was. The cashier mercifully took it all in stride as I, usually the cold-hearted cynic, thought to myself, “but for the grace of God go I.” Whatever the cause of the poor woman’s plight – the victim of bad genes or a crack pregnancy or an blow on the head, her fate, her life had all been decided by a roll of the dice.

Later that night as I strolled into my favorite bear bar, I noticed an untypically huge circle of guys hovering around the pool table. Once I was able to inch my way through the maddening crowd, I saw instantly what, or I should say, who the fuss was all about.

There, under the bright lights playing pool with one of the bar regulars was this six foot six, well proportioned, lightly muscular thirty something #14 with a thick head of black hair and beard to match. He wore a washed-out white T-shirt with the saying, “Just Do It” emblazed across his pecs, and his ordinary jeans – though not ordinary on him – loosely hugged his waist. He was a cross between a Hollywood agent’s wet dream and a porn producer’s cash cow. It was almost as if he were the Pope of Gaydom that night, holding audience with his very horny subjects. Either he was the warm personal type or that beautiful butt and crotch had gotten around because every other guy who smiled or chatted with him like some prom night sweetheart was rewarded with a warm hug.

With that near perfect body that didn’t look gym bought or steroid-fueled and that super face that would put plastic surgeons out of business, he looked like it had all just come his way – good genes, maybe some good cleaning living, or maybe not, but definitely, the product of a roll of the dice.

I wonder how many of us who have everything or anything to offer the world realize how much we owe to luck and appreciate our good fortune.

Instead of acting like we deserve it.

The Golden Age of Gay Sex

The Golden Age of Gay Sex

A columnist for the South Florida Gay News, probably around my age, recently reminisced about the days when the only infections gay boys had to worry about were syphilis and gonorrhea. Those were days I look back on fondly today as the Golden Age of Gay Sex, when getting it – sex I mean – was easy and real. Today, the members of the younger generation with their smartphones and phone apps think they got it made, but actually, as I’ve said many times before, the internet has, for many, become an end unto itself – virtual sex in the form of sexting and skyping. It may sound strange to say this, but in those technologically barren days of the 70’s, 80’s and into the 90’s, when we felt like members of some secret society, not demographics for politicians and marketers to exploit, being gay was a lot more fun.

For me, the golden age of gay sex is synonymous with my days as a New York City slut. On weekends, there was the West Village scene and Christopher Street, Boot and Saddles, the Monster, and Tys, which morphed into a zebra bar (white guys and black guys cohabiting). But for most of us, those bars – and places in the West 20’s like Rawhide – were just foreplay to the triumvirate of hot guys, the Eagle, and the Spike, both on West Street, and just a short walk over, the quiescent leather bar, the Lure. Cruising, real cruising, not the flirtatious cockteasing you find in bars today, was why you were there. And the arousable scents of sweat and piss and poppers were far more intoxicating than the liquor they served.

Sadly, most of these watering holes are gone, and the once deliciously seedy West Village has been largely yuppiezed.

For the more practical minded there were the East Side Baths, uptown off Third Avenue, populated by a seasoned blue collar crowd, and the West Side Baths, downtown, where the young and buffed pranced around like peacocks.

In the 70’s, Man’s Country, a multi-storied whorehouse in the 20’s, ran two dollar locker nights on Tuesdays that resembled some ancient Roman orgy. In fact, it was at Man’s Country that some hottie introduced me to poppers that to this day, like Pavlov’s dog, I associate with hot sex.

Even when it isn’t.

Twenty years later in the 90’s came Wally’s Place, a warehouse-sized sex club in the West 20’s, named after the same guy who had given birth to the Lure, where on a Wednesday or Sunday evening you checked your clothes at the door in a paper bag  and left a few hours later with cum dripping from your goatee.

I can also thank the baths and sex clubs for helping me build my private stable of fuck buddies – Joe, the cancer researcher who worked at Sloan Kettering; Mike, a pharmacist at Pfizer’s who introduced me to its new experimental med, later marketed as Viagra; and Doug, a cameraman for NBC, who started our evenings with grass and a beer and ended them with sex and a few lines of coke. We knew how to push one another’s buttons; after all, we had all product tested one another in the whoreholes.

Bobbie Rosenberg from my playful New York days lived on the Upper East Side in an old walk-up, a relic of the turn-of the-last-century days when immigrants crowded what were then considered tenements. We had met at Uncle Charlie’s, a local bar, played around one night, then morphed into Saturday night bar hopping buddies. Moonfaced, stoop-shouldered, Bobby nonetheless knew how to play the system, and I was, yes, jealous how successful he was at it.

Bobbie also had the not-so-coveted knack of contracting the Disease of the Month which didn’t bother him at all; in fact, he’d often brag to me about what exotica he had caught getting fucked. Amoebas were my favorite.

December 31, 1979, Bobbie hosted a New Year’s Eve Party in his tiny apartment. I remember watching Dave Clark who had that gay iconic group, “The Village People” on. They sang some song extolling the upcoming new decade and the buzz among us gay guys that night was that the ‘80’s were to be OUR time.

Instead, the 80’s signaled the abrupt end of the Golden Age of Gay Sex.

Had we known what was ahead, we would have dumped our poppers down the toilet and joined a seminary. Looking back, though I know it wasn’t true, AIDS seemed like some Biblical retribution for the Sodom and Gomorrah ‘70’s.

And Bobbie was among the first wave of gay men to be swept away by the scourge.

But hey, you have to admit one thing.

For as long as it lasted, we sure as hell had fun.

Fort Lauderdale’s Sebastian Beach Named THE Gay Beach in the U.S.A.

Fort Lauderdale’s Sebastian Beach Named THE Gay Beach in the U.S.A.

Sebastian Beach, our gay sandbox by the sea, was recently named by “Out Traveler” magazine has the hottest gay beach in America. This follows Wilton Manors, our gay ghetto, being named Gayborhood of the Year and Fort Lauderdale being honored as the LGBT destination of the year.

Named for the street it butts against (appropriate choice of words, wouldn’t you say?), Sebastian Beach is sandwiched between two long strips of Ft. Lauderdale’s straight beachfront. Ironically, it is at its busiest October through May when other beaches are deserted, and America’s sun-hungry, straight and gay, flock to that alien planet known as south Florida, the warmest spot in the continental U.S. in the winter.

Period.

Sure, it’s filled with male eye candy, though I often get a bunch of shriveled old fucks standing up near me half the afternoon, blocking my views of those luscious hunks when they decide to stroll, nonchalantly of course, down the shoreline.

Gay advocates will wax on how we are discriminated against by straight society, but take a gander at Sebastian on a typical Saturday afternoon and you will see segregation alive and at work, gay style.

Most obvious is the fact the beach is 97% male (at least anatomically). Do gay girls have a higher rate of skin cancer than gay guys or something? Or are women in American society far more mature than men and may have more productive things to do with their time than lay virtually naked on a beach and get fried.

Most of the interior of the strip spreading to the shoreline is usually populated by tourists glued to their fellow buddies from Boston or L.A. or Omaha (how ya gonna meet anybody, guys, if you stay together?), or by 20 inch waist twinks and, in a few cases, their girl friends.

Towards the back under the palms by the wall adjoining the sidewalk and AIA are the May/December couples, you know the old retired guys who can hardly stand up (rich retired dentists from Chicago or doctors from Butte, Montana) with their 35 year old power paramours. True love. Sure. Or maybe they’re their private duty male nurses. Hope I got the dough if and when I get to their age.

Lastly, on the left hand fringe (if you were facing the ocean) jammed against the lifeguard station are the juiced up muscle men and the bears, fur optional. Maybe that section of the beach just looks more dense because they’re all so BIG.

I also think Sebastian has the honor of being the beach smartphone capital of the world. Who the fuck are all these guys chatting with and about what?? Are they all real estate agents trying to sell that overvalued condo? Male escorts or one of those “deep tissue” masseurs lining up their next appointment? Or are they just horny fucks checking Growl’r fort the fourteenth time today?

Hey, guys, drop the cells and look around. You just might meet somebody!

Which brings to me to my last point, the thread that binds us all. Ego and the thirst for attention. I think my best take on Sebastian was the one I used in my upcoming new novella, slated for publication later this year, called “Buy Guys.” Buy Guys is the story of Blaze and Pete, two young, gay handsome drifters with nothing and nothing to lose. Blaze convinces Pete, who is falling in love with him, to leave dreary New Jersey and lead free and easy lives as male prostitutes in sunny Fort Lauderdale. Blaze, however, soon pulls Pete into a much larger, more dangerous scheme, a scheme that eventually threatens to destroy them both.

This scene takes place shortly after their arrival in Fort Lauderdale:

“It was a hot July afternoon in late October and the beach, only a block long, was littered with men. But it was only Tuesday and from what Blaze told him, Season, as the locals called it when all the tourists came down, didn’t actually get going until Thanksgiving weekend. So what with all these guys, yea, some wrinkled old farts, but plenty of young hotties too. Doesn’t anybody work in this town, thought Pete.

Blaze spied a cluster of juiced up muscle boys near the lifeguard station and gestured to Pete to follow him there to an open spot closer to the ocean.

Throwing down the blanket, he lay on his stomach and pretended to take a catnap, while Pete watched the moveable feast before him. The best looking guys made sure to instinctively stand up like erect dicks and swagger and stroke their abs or lather lotion over their chests as they chatted with their buddies, or on their smartphones or bobbed in the waves, all just to be noticed among the sea of attractive clones, desired, lusted after, even ridiculed. Anything, thought Pete, but be ignored.”



One troubling development of late has been the small but growing influx of str8’s to OUR beach. Seems the luxury hotels across the street may be the culprit. People staying at these places for three hundred bucks a night and up see a beach and make a beeline to the sand. I truly wonder how many of them pick up on the fact that the beach is unstr8 when they see it littered almost totally with men.

Or is it when their little 8 year old Sally asks them, “Daddy, where are all the mommies?”

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Why Obama’s State of the Union Failed Us

Why Obama’s State of the Union Failed Us

Look, I ain’t wealthy and I ain’t poor, but as I see it Obama’s grand plan to assist the middle class as outlined in his State of the Union message the other night ain’t gonna help ME. Okay, there are those of you who are married with kids either from previous str8 marriages, adoption or the petri dish, but let’s talk turkey: six out of ten gay guys and gay girls are sinks (solo income no kids) or dinks (double income no kids), at least in the eyes of the law and the tax man. And from what I experienced during both my working life and now retired one, single people with a couple bucks get the shaft.

I know, I know, bambinos are our future social security checks besides being the future of our society (that is if they got at least ten brain cells), but, and forgive me if I sound egocentric (as if you didn’t know that already), as a gay man who paid through the nose in taxes when I was working, and still do today, not one of Obama’s proposals will help me, Mr. Solo Gay Man. I don’t have kids so what the fuck do I care about child care or free college. Frankly, many of the students I taught in my college teaching days would have been better off if they pursed plumbing.

What Obama is saying very pragmatically is while those in this society with dependents and all the other write-offs associated with a family should get a break, we solo boys and girls really get shit on. In fact, all we’re doing is subsidizing other people’s fucking. (If you own a house or condo, did you ever take a look at the portion of your real estate tax that goes to schools?)

If Obama and Washington are going to spend money they rob from the one percent, spend it on stuff for the common good – our infrastructure, which is a joke in the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world, or on environmental change before everything goes to hell, or in real improvements in elementary and high school curricula where the foundation for living responsibly begins. (Three out of ten high school students don’t graduate.) I agree families and single parents that have become a norm in this society have a hard time affording child care but why should that be my problem? (Plus, I’m convinced not having a parent at home during those developmental years leads to fucked up adults later in life.)

As for college – even community college where tuition is a fraction of what it is in private schools – well, I worked part-time throughout my undergraduate and graduate years with modest help from the folks and still maintained a 4.0. Obama is proposing aid to students who graduate high school with a 2.5 average? That’s a C+, unacceptable for college material. If you can’t achieve at least a B, look at some other occupation that a good two year certification program or trade school can give you and make more money than most Ph.D’s I’ve known. In my day, you had to be college material; then when I taught college I discovered we had to remediate students to get them up to college level. Huh? Maybe some more parenting and less emphasis on the high school rah-rah team glitz would make the difference.

And when it comes to affordable health care, I don’t see people coming up to the plate and losing weight and stopping smoking, the two primary contributors to raising health costs and premiums.

So while it’s fine and dandy to pap the hands of the sick and grease the dicks of the fucking, what about the rest of us who work hard, eat healthy, exercise, and live within our means. Huh? What’s Obama’s grand plan for us?

“Monogamy Turns Into Monotony”

“Monogamy Turns Into Monotony”

That was the title of a recent column by “Ask Amy,” the syndicated advice columnist who appears in my local paper, the Sun Sentinel. Seems sex between a guy and his girl fizzled out after a year and now the girl’s distressed her boyfriend favors porn over her.

Sound familiar?

But what was more surprising was Amy’s response: “Sexual relationships are bound to fizzle if one partner finds a sexual outlet that interferes with the connection between the couple. Perhaps your guy would be willing to share his porn with you so you could have parallel pleasures.”

I’m sure there are gay couples out there who do just that, but G and I don’t even agree on the kind of guy we like anymore. He digs increasingly younger, me, more seasoned like the Trivago guy who’s gone through a redo -fucken hot motherfucker!

In fact, my partner of double digit years has preferred porn for years even with me prancing around the house naked half the time (“Put on some clothes will ya?!”) As I write this he’s debating which package of discounted DVD’s he’d like to order from Titan. While he bates me about going out on a weekend night, he rarely wants to join me since I give him a couple of hours of unbridled time to watch his boys while I attempt to get blown at our local sex club or troll our leather bar.

And those of you who follow my blog know my conviction on how the hook-up sites have morphed into private porn sites where guys, partnered or solo, have less interest in pressing the flesh when they can drool over some hot pics of their favorite profiles, or discover some new ones, and jack off without even having to brush their teeth. Ditto with the phone apps like Growl’r where I can have ten minute sexcapades with guys in Dubai or Omaha, exchanging dirty talk and rock hard cock shots til one or both of us shoot our loads. (You know the guy is done when he stops responding to your come hither rantings.).

But the one thing I don’t tolerate is some trick wanting to watch porn while we fuck.

If you need the porn, you don’t need me.