R.P. Andrews's Blog, page 69

Foreplay in the Extreme

Foreplay In The Extreme

Recently on my Facebook page I posed the question, “Like a lot of foreplay with your man or do you just do it?” Not surprisingly, the overwhelming majority of guys voted for edging the hell out of one another first.

Now there is foreplay, your garden variety of sucking, licking, kissing, body rubbing, pits, tits, rimming – you get the picture – as you work one another up to the Main Event. Then there is Foreplay in the Extreme when Lady M rules and foreplay IS the Main Event since your dicks, though they may feel just won-der-ful, are about as stiff as boiled spaghetti. (Unless you get a shot of Trimix in your cock which gives you the perpetual erection of a 13 year old, but that’s for another blog.)

I’m not here to extoll the virtues of meth because there are none, but I can’t deny that as a curious writer of erotic gay fiction willing to explore almost anything for my art I was bedazzled by the impact it has on one sexual psyche and how it can bring foreplay to a whole new level. It transforms your body into one phallic wonderland.

Like the time, under the influence, I had the wildest threesome I ever had in my checkered gay career with two super specimens of Fort Lauderdale manhood where we devoured one another’s bodies while chatting away about that week’s sales at Targets in smack speed talk. Two of us even attempted to stick our putty pricks in the third’s butt at the same time and might have succeeded if we were stiff, not smacked.

Or the time, Eduardo, a tall, trim, hairy Cuban architect with a fat uncut dick that was eight inches soft and stayed that way let me nibble on his droopy foreskin for hours; or Hugo, with the buzzed body of a gymnast, just lay there with his muscular thighs spread apart while he urged me on to bang his bounded up bull balls with a rubber mallet till my wrists gave out.

Of course, afterwards, when he’s gone home to his goldfish, and you can’t sleep, you end up stroking your limp dick all night as you pull up every snippet of favorite porn and enter a kind of perpetual foreplay séance, determined to cum when you know that ain’t gonna happen.

My absolutely most devastating example of foreplay in the extreme was my humpy, hairy buddy, Mitch, NYU educated, Steve Jobs smart, and a total meth head. He’d play with his beer can dick for weeks on his extended highs till it all caught up with him, and he fell asleep at the wheel driving back from Key West and drowned. He was 43.

Yep, there is foreplay and then there is foreplay in the s-l-o-w lane. Having tried both, I’ll vote for the garden variety any day.

HIV Rate Down For Everybody – Except Us

HIV Rate Down For Everybody – Except Us

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

According to the latest from the Centers for Disease Control, the HIV rate in the U.S. fell by one third each year in the past ten. Experts hypothesize that maybe the disease has essentially burned itself out much. That’s what happened with the Plague of the Middle Ages after it wiped out a sizable portion of Europe’s population, or the Spanish Flu of 1918 that killed more people than those who died in all of World War I.

Rate drops were seen in almost every demographic group – men, women, whites, blacks, Hispanics, heterosexuals, even injection drug users.

Every group except for gay and bisexual men where it remains on the increase.

So what gives? After all the propaganda fostered in the gay community about safe sex for decades, what is it?

Are we stupid?

Delusional?

Naive?

Complacent?

Or just hopelessly horny?

To begin with, as I‘ve said before, the pharms should be running ads not of happy twentysomethings on the pill, but of decaying fiftysomethings who’ve been on the meds since they hit the deck in the mid-late nineties, but who can’t escape the almost inevitable effects of the disease – haggard looks, early dementia, loss of muscle tone unless they OD on steroids and Human Growth Hormone, deteriorating joints, shot livers, etc., etc., etc.

But we know that won’t happen. The gay media which benefits from all the pharm advertising does a lot a pontificating but won’t dare kill the golden goose by demanding more relevant ads.

The state health departments aren’t much better, pushing testing and condoms when they should be policing the bath houses and sex clubs for unsafe sex, or as San Francisco did at the height of the AIDS epidemic, just close them down. Ditto with bareback sites and any mention of BB’ing in hook-up profiles. (You can’t say “shit” in your profile but “BB only” is just fine.)

No, we can’t rely on outside forces. This change has to start with each and every one of us and with it, a sense of personal responsibility.

But after over thirty years since we knew a bad bottle of poppers wasn’t the culprit, will that ever happen?

I Was Never a Celebrity Fanatic …

I Was Never a Celebrity Fanatic …

… many of the people we idolize in show biz, as talented as they are, just got lucky (how many Barbara Streisands are out there that weren’t in the right place at the right time), and even the Pope has to visit that little room every morning.

But what strikes me most about Robin Williams, one of those truly one-of-a-kind talents, hanging himself is how apparently all the success in the world – he enjoyed ten times the success most people would only dream of – means nothing if you’re not happy in your own skin no matter how you try to change things. Look at literary giant Ernest Hemingway who shot himself, or pop culture’s queen Marilyn Monroe who was a psychiatric basket case, to pick just two names out of the hat.

Ironically it’s often this failing that makes the most creative among us, well, iconic.

If I Could Choose, Str8 or Gay, What Would It Be?

If I Could Choose, Str8 or Gay, What Would It Be?

For more info about my erotic gay fiction, visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop, or gay-erotic-fiction.com on your tablet or smartphone.

I don’t think any post on my Facebook page pulled as many thought provoking responses as my video blog that posed the question: “If you could choose gay or str8, knowing what you know today about gay life, what would you choose?”

While most of you were firm about choosing gay, there were those who pointed out that in a world dominated by str8’s, being hetero is just easier and poses far less obstacles personally and professionally, and there were some who regretted not having children which just a few decades ago would be unheard of if you led a gay lifestyle.

When I was young growing up in the age before dinosaurs, I fell for the Freudian crap about dominating mothers and submissive fathers as the causative agent for getting hard-ons for men, and though my parents largely fit that mold, I realized, as I grew older and the research validated my own opinion, being gay is a genetic roll of the dice. Sure, family dynamics, peer ties, religious upbringings, even where and when you grew up can re-enforce or suppress sexual orientation – that’s why you got some str8 married guys with three kids looking for gay guys on the down low to fuck ‘em – but the elemental foundation for what we like sexually and emotionally is in our DNA.

So be it.

But how you would answer a question as I posed is, to some degree, generational. Even after Gay Liberation hit the deck forty years ago, if you knew in your heart and soul you liked men, not women, and, very important, did not want to deny yourself that part of your identity, you often had to choose, as Robert Frost put it, “the road not taken,” which, not always, but often meant compartmentalizing your life, often closeted at work and/or with family or str8 friends, cultivating a tight secret network of fellow brothers, sometimes leading a double life with a wife and kids, or blowing the hinges off the closet door and waiting for the shit to hit the fan. Which it usually did.

But an urban Millennial gay guy or one growing up in the upscale burbs, a twenty or thirtysomething, would probably respond, “Hey, what’s the problem, bro?” where today’s veneer of acceptance makes everything seem cool. Hell, there’s even members of the Pan Sexual Generation who have gay friends and str8 friends and gay lovers and str8 lovers and have no hang-ups or feel compelled to choose one side of the fence or the other.

All that aside, we can’t be that dumb not to realize discrimination and actual hatred against gays still, and will probably continue to exist everywhere (isn’t that always the way when somebody’s different? – or better put, threatening?). It’s particularly pronounced in working class Small Town, America, where the gay star high school quarterback even today ends up marrying his naïve or “I’ll change him” high school sweetheart, and the class “fairy” is bullied and tortured til he can get out of town and live in some urban gay ghetto.

(As I’ve said before, I think our growing acceptance is based not just on our numbers and perhaps changing social views, but on our discretionary spending – “liking” us just makes good business sense, from two guys buying a house together to having – fuck! – a wedding reception – cha-ching, cha-ching!)

Unlike many gay guys of my Baby Boom generation, I was never pressured by parents or ethnicity to marry when I was young, and I pretty much led a quiet, uneventful life as a solo gay guy and later a partnered one. In fact, neither my folks nor his folks when both were still alive ever questioned what was going on between us, and to this day, I am not just accepted but genuinely liked by G’s adult niece and nephew as he is by my sister and her hubby. We also realize not everyone in our shoes has been that lucky.

Yet yes, there were times I wish I had had kids, feeling like an outsider when I saw those who did, and yes, there were times in my closeted career, successful as it was, that I wondered if some gay glass ceiling where a spouse counted as much as brains stopped me from going further, or how I felt awkward when I went to job-related social functions stag, surrounded by stodgy str8 couples (a few of whom I knew were fuckin’ around on the side). As much as loved loving men, I questioned at times whether I should have settled for porn and followed the str8 script (marry by 25, 2.3 kids by 30).

I’ll never forget how a confidant at work, Charlie, brilliant but openly gay, was passed over for the Corporate Operating Officer’s position in our Catholic healthcare system solely because the Archbishop publicly said he didn’t want a “queer” running their hospital. Five years later, under “good old boy” str8 leadership, we were bankrupt.

And certainly, many if not most gay guys, by happenstance or choice, end up alone in old age, without the benefit

of a partner, spouse – or kids.

Okay, but now let’s take the “Leave it to Beaver/Father Knows Best” glasses off, shall we?

Sixty percent of American marriages end in divorce, and there are plenty of str8’s who “did the right thing” who are still left alone, widowed or divorced, and whose grown kids live on the other side of the country and are just waiting for the will to be read. Sure it’s great to have adult children to rely on later in life, and there are many who have been blessed with that plus. But there are also str8’s whose offspring were nothing but nightmares, either walking medical dictionaries or unrehabitable losers. Or worse.

And there are also a lot of gay men, not just of my generation, who cave into family or peer pressures, or think they can just “work things out,’ marry, then find themselves supremely frustrated and miserable. If they ultimately choose divorce as an out, the kids they thought would be understanding ostracize them and the wronged wives take them to the cleaners.

Sure, there’s a lot wrong with the stereotypical gay lifestyle that some of us lead by default or choice: its overemphasis on sex and physicality and superficiality. But hell, aren’t str8’s just as guilty?

And if you divorce the glitz from the real, isn’t all we want is to feel comfortable in our own skin with someone who feels comfortable with us? And if that’s a guy, however you define your guy, and not a gal, life is too short not to seek that.

Given all those pluses and minuses about gay and str8 life, let’s return to my question.

If I were thirteen again and knowing everything I know about gay – and str8 – life that I do today, and I walked into that voting booth to choose my sexual orientation, what would I choose?

Str8, of course, simply because it’s the path of least resistance. It’s got a script. Gay life is free fall.

But just then, as my finger was on the voting leaver, and I felt a tinge adventurous, well…

I might even write-in “bi.”

After all, why not have your cake AND eat it too?

Not a Slam Dunk Yet

Not a Slam Dunk Yet

For more info on my gay fiction, check out rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or gay-erotic-fiction.com on your mobile device.

Most of us thought – me included – that it would only be a matter of time before same sex marriage would be the law of the land. Either we would win test case after test case, state by state, on the constitutional grounds declared by the Supreme Court, challenges that could take years. Or the Supreme Court next year would finally say: “That’s the way it is – just do it!”

Ah, but a three judge federal panel in Cincinnati dominated by Republicans has taken up cases challenging aspects of same-sex marriage restrictions in Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee based on rulings favoring us made by judges. And right now the message out of Cincinnati when it comes to legalizing gay marriage in those states is: Not so fast.

Why? Well, the panel is wondering whether courts, as they have largely up to now, shouldn’t be the decision makers; maybe that decision should either be made by the voters (as it has – not in our favor – in places like Ohio and Florida) or their duly elected representatives in their respective state legislatures.

If the panel decides in that direction, it’s going to be much tougher than if we were fighting religious zealots. Though opinion polls say 55% of Americans today are okay with gay marriage, that’s an average and means shit in Bible Beltin’ states.

Will the Supreme Court ultimately come to our rescue, underscoring the constitutionality issue, much as it did with segregation sixty years ago (it didn’t leave it up to the states to decide); or are we going to have a crazy quilt mess in this country of pro-gay and pro-str8 states. This would be akin to where we were just before the Civil War, when some states were slave and some states were free and the battle was on deciding which way new states entering the Union could go, a decision that was going to be left up to their citizenry.

That is until the bloodiest war in our history decided otherwise.

Hell, we might even see a reversal in states that have made ssm legal based on a judge’s decision.

Stay tuned – and fasten your seat belts. It’s definitely going to be a bumpy ride.

Size Matters – Or Does it?

Size Matters – Or Does It?

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

You gotta feel for the guy with the micro-dick that’s only four centimeters long hard who second mortgaged his home to finance some cock-extending surgery. According to the experts, the average size cock, when erect, is 5.6 inches. The smallest dick reported was an inch and a half (guess they didn’t talk to our poor fella) to a whopping 10.8 inches (shit – who needs a colonoscopy?) But the study also concluded, when it comes to fuckin’, women, and I guess guys, too, prefer girth over length.

We all know cocks come in a variety of shapes and sizes and you can never really tell what kind of cock a particular guy’s got just by looking at him. (So much for the big nose, big feet theories). You know how many 6’6” guys I fucked who have a thimble between their legs?

So what’s the perfect cock – not just any cock – but the perfect cock, you ask?

Well, it all depends on who you’re talking to. If you happen to prefer or just like oral sex, you wanna a cock you can handle, a nice size, let’s say six and half to eight, maybe, a nice girth, but not too thick, something you can enjoy and savor like fine wine without throwing up your veal parmesan dinner.

O.K., so what’s my perfect cock? Cut, six and half to seven or eight, nice mushroom head and a nice thick shaft to grab onto. But hey, your personal best may be different, and nibbling on some droopy foreskin sure can be fun too. All while he’s getting hot and hard just for you.

But if you’re a bottom boy, power bottom, or just plain anal freak, you want your man hung, right? Don’t we all – even those who prefer oral – fantasize about that BIG dick? And for those of us who want it up the ass, the bigger the better, as long as you don’t end up tasting his foreskin on your tongue.

Anatomically, though, the prostate is only a few inches up to the side of a guy’s rectum. (Next time you’ve been fucking away and Mr. Peter is pooped, try sticking a few fingers up his butt hole and do a little massage dance – he’ll groan better than when you had your tool way up there.) So logic would dictate that an erect penis say five and a half to say seven or so inches should be more than adequate to drive a man crazy. Now, like I said I got nearly 7 and seem to more than satisfy my partners, judging by their grunts. Either that or they’re pulling that “When Harry Met Sally” restaurant scene on me (“I’ll have what she’s having.”)

So how come we’re so fascinated by, and obsessed with HUGE cocks? I know phallic symbols were a big deal in ancient cultures like Greece and Egypt. But is it modern society’s obsession over big things, big men, big buildings, big boobs that makes us stop and gawk at a big piece of manmeat? Does a big dick make a man more of a man? Is it just the sight of that alien-like telephone pole between a guy’s legs that mesmerizes us as if it weren’t connected to the guy at all but a foreign being there for us to worship?

I mean, do huge dicks give men real physiological pleasure? Or is it the psychological delight that that thing is inside them, dominating their being?

So what do you do if you’re below “average” and wanna be the Top Gun? Buy a penis pump, or check out Fort Troff, that online treasure trove of sex toys, and its penis extenders. Or fall for one of those penile enlargement centers. You know, the ones that either promise “more girth” so that your dick, if not longer, at least looks more like a battering ram; or say they can “add two inches to your dick in two weeks!”

(Contrast our pettiness with those guys coming back from Afghanistan and Iraq who not only lost their legs to some roadside bomb, but their genitals along with them. As one guy, str8 and married, who regretted he hadn’t stored up some spunk in a sperm bank before he was deployed, put it, “I wish I were dead.”)

But let’s get back to happier thoughts.

Frankly, from my experience, many of the guys I’ve had intimate relationships with who possess sausage beer can dicks can’t get hard enough or sustain an erection for penetration. But I can’t deny even I am blown away when I see a guy with a snake-leg, like the tall, simply beautiful black man who came into my room at Chicago’s Steamworks baths on my last visit and, without looking for reciprocation, knelt down and blew me. All I could say to him as he got up to leave, naked before me in all his majesty, was, “That cock of yours belongs in the Smithsonian.”

Or the tall, lanky, hairless kid from NYC who I connected with at Slammers, Lauderdale’s sex club, who had nine inches and low hangers. I was proud with myself that I could go down on him all the way. That is before he asked me to fuck him.

I just wish the first guy who I tried to have fuck me when I was a mere gay tyke wasn’t nine inches. We were both in our twenties, he was a Vietnam vet who had lost both his legs from the knees down in a mine field, and I was in love and ready to do anything for him. But the pain when he tried to enter me overcame my emotions, and I was turned off to bottoming from that point on. (Maybe that’s why I’m still alive.) Like I tell intimates, what I need is a nice starter dick to turn me into a versatile boy which is probably the best kind of gay guy you can be on the open meat market.

So, anybody out there willing to volunteer their starter dick for my first butthole training session? I got a nice furry one.

I may even consider paying the airfare.

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

Rejuvenate Me!: Testosterone Therapy and More

Rejuvenate Me!: Testosterone Therapy and More

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

If you’re one of the guys like me who go faithfully to the gym three or four times a week, I’m sure you’ve shared my frustration when you’ve busted your hump to raise your weight threshold and then watch some built-like-a-brick shithouse guy who you know is juicing (i.e., taking steroids in heavy duty, illegal doses) and probably has a set a balls the size of peanuts, sit down on the same machine, lower the weight to half what you just pressed, do twenty faggy reps and move on, muscles bulging like some gay God.

Yea, I thought of taking steroids myself, which either one of the personal trainers at the gym or my new body builder/financial planner could sell me, but I just couldn’t stomach sticking a needle in my butt every day. So, after skipping those ads in the weekly bar rags for rejuvenation centers (not legal in most places except for the Wild Wild East known as South Florida), I decided to give them a second look. It sounded like testosterone, Mr. T, was the fountain of youth that would max my results in the gym and give me the lean mean look I coveted. Among other benefits. My financial guy confirmed that most guys’ T levels drop after 30, obviously a major problem in America, eclipsed only by the federal deficit; thus the need to find it elsewhere. So I figured it was time to trot my ass up to the northern fringes of Palm Beach County to see what all the voodoo was about.

Now, I’m sure I wasn’t the first or five hundredth fag to visit the Life Enhancement Center and I know Josh, my “consultant,” a handsome, humpy, thirty something, breezy, fast talking surfer type who was a Center client himself, knew exactly why I wanted the stuff – to beef up. But that wasn’t a legitimate enough medical reason for the Center docs to write a script.

So, first came the survey for which Josh practically set up the answers. Not sleeping well? Yep. Lacking energy? Sure. Libido weak? You betcha. Next I paid three hundred bucks for blood work at a nearby lab which the Center either owned or got a kick-back from. It confirmed what I knew from the last physical with my gay M.D. in Lauderdale: I was as healthy as a horse (no cholesterol, sugar, blood pressure issues, negative for HIV, etc., etc.). But, surprise, surprise, my testosterone levels were in the sewer. Thank you, Gay God! I think.

The stuff was a topical that came in a pump dispenser like skin cream ($90 bought you a two month supply) and once a day, after you showered, since it took 3 to 5 hours for the shit to enter your bloodstream, you were supposed to squirt a dose on the back of your forearm and rub your forearms together til it was gone. Again, since Josh read my real agenda – wanting to look hot for whatever sexual animal I wanted to snare – he also got the Center doc to prescribe a kosher dose of Stanozolol, (a steroid, by God!) you took just before working out to give you more stamina and endurance and which the guys at the gym told me would give me that wet dream “cut” look. At five bucks a dose, it was the most expensive sugar cubes I’d ever sucked on – but hey, what’s money? As long as my Visa card didn’t self-implode.

As I was ready to head back onto I-95, my wonder drugs tucked away in a paper bag like a McDonald’s burger, Josh pronounced his final two caveats:

The stuff needs time to kick in, and I wouldn’t see any visible changes in my physique or demeanor for a good month; and because of the higher doses of Mr. T and especially Mr. S, I needed to take hefty daily handfuls of fish oil, calcium and zinc supplements, along with a good multi-vitamin so my kidneys or liver didn’t turn to mush.

Three months after I started my testosterone therapy plus, I definitely saw a difference in how much I was pressing at the gym (I was able to up the ante every time I went) and, most importantly, in my bathroom mirror. I had always had a good build but now I saw broader shoulders, bigger arms, a bigger neck, broader back and – shit – for the very first time in my life as a 5 foot six kinda of stocky guy, a six pack! Mr. T also helped with weight control, and while I certainly didn’t need it, I think my hairy body was even getting, well, hairier.

On the negative side, I really felt no dramatic change in my energy level (except when I was at the gym and had just popped one of my five buck sugar cubes), and my libido was about the same. (I mean how horny can one horny guy get?)

I also found that my Russian temper, that I definitely inherited from my mother’s side, and which I was able to control most of the time, now tripped into overdrive at the slightest provocation. Like the time, just after the earthquake in Haiti, I was strolling out of a local Walgreens, and sitting at the exit was a table of gussy-upped Haitian women looking for a donation. My response was to yell on the top of my lungs, “How about practicing some birth control down there first, huh?”

Or the time I nearly got into a fist fight with some old fuck (I know, look who’s talking) who was ahead of me in the 20 items or less aisle at Wal-Mart because he had 21 items – yep I started counting them as he took them out of his basket.

At about this time I was shopping around for new health insurance to bring my deductible down and saw Blue Cross would sell me a policy at almost half of what my Aetna coverage was costing me. As part of its app process, I needed to undergo more lab work which happened just a few weeks after my blood work at Life Enhancement. I thought I’d pass with no problem and so was shocked that Blue Cross rejected my app because my good cholesterol was below standards. Out of curiosity, I called Life Enhancement and Josh confirmed that can happen when you’re taking Mr. T and Mr. S. If I wanted to stop the stuff and OD on pistachios and niacin – the no flush variety – for a few weeks, I could maybe reapply. But, hell, what was more important, looking buffed or getting a break on my insurance?

Eventually I switched to a local doc and testosterone pellets that are inserted just beneath the skin above one of the cheeks of your butt. Unlike the cream which you need to administer daily and must be absorbed into the skin, the pellets last about six months and give you a continuous feed of the hormone right into the bloodstream. All without thinking about it. And when that research came out recently indicting T therapy as contributing to cardiovascular disease, Doc poo-pooed it and handed another seemingly reputable research article that refuted Mr. T as the culprit.

But my problem is more immediate: what the fuck do you do when you feel perpetually horned up, the web or app boys are too strung out on meth or their jobs or their egos to “cooperate” in your hour of need, and all your favorite porn has gone stale?

Yes, life can be a bitch, can’t it?

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

Here's Another Excerpt from "the Czar of Wilton Drive" ...

…my latest erotic gay novel about Fort Lauderdale’s contemporary leather scene. This excerpt is all about kinky PNP sex for those of you who like it that way or those who just want to fantasize.

may19aLet’s set the scene: Jon, a barely out-of the closet kid from New York inherits two of Fort Lauderdale’s hottest bars from his Uncle Charlie, including the town’s leather bar, The Gear Shaft. Attending a “Celebration of Life” gig for Charlie where the guests are all dressed in leather as Charlie would have wanted it, Jon runs into Gil, the manager of the Gear Shaft, a leather hottie who invites Jon back to his place to “show him the ropes”…

“So get comfortable,” said Gil as the two of them strolled into Gil’s studio, a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. “Gotta hit the head.”

Jon lay down on the air mattress, not knowing quite what to do or what to expect. All he knew is what he wanted.

The bathroom door was wide open and from his angle, Jon was able to see Gil in the vanity mirror. Pulling his mesh T off, he admired himself for a moment, then opened a drawer, pulled out what looked like a needle and stuck it very carefully in a vein of his arm. Jon watched the sudden rush on his face. Then as he turned to come out, Jon readjusted himself on the bed. Everything was so fast, Jon had no time to react to the moment. All that came immediately to his brain was the image Uncle Charlie had painted of his parents lying on that bed with needles sticking out of their arms.

Should he get up and leave?

Should he say anything?

Instead, Jon did nothing, waiting for the next cue from Gil.

“So you wanna smoke some stuff?” asked Gil casually as he reached over for a glass pipe. “You smoke before?”

“Grass. My j-o buddy Ernie and I would smoke a reefer before we started flipping through those profiles on Growl’r.”

“Same shit,” said Gil, holding a lighter under the glass globe of the pipe. “Just gives you a better high.”

Gil took a long puff, then handed the pipe over to Jon.

“Now move the globe back and forth a few times as I hold the lighter under it, take in a long puff, hold it in just a second or two, then let it out through your nose.”

Jon breathed in, then exhaled. Within seconds, a feeling of super-sensitivity enveloped him.

“Wow.”

“I told you this stuff was better than grass.” Gil took a puff, placed the pipe down in an ashtray on a plastic patio table that served as a bed stand, then reached over and, as he pressed his lips against Jon’s, he exhaled into his mouth.

Jon fell flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he felt Gil’s fingers embrace every inch of him. It was as if
an electric charge was pulsating through him wherever Gil touched, first stroking the hairs on his chest down to his abs, then his crotch. Then he lay on top of him and began rubbing their beards against one another in some ritual dance.

Gil was the most beautiful man he had ever seen and now he was his. Totally, completely, forever his.

Within minutes, Gil had slipped off his jeans and pulled off Jon’s so the two of them lay there naked.

“Want this off?” said Jon, tugging at his bulldog harness he was still wearing.

“No, buddy, leave it on. You are so hot, fucker, and I’m not saying that just because you’re my boss. You’re just like Charlie. Only better.”

“How, how can I be better. Uncle Charlie knew so much more about all of this than I do. I feel like some country hick.”

“You won’t after today,” said Gil who began eating him up like a piece of hard candy he had just unwrapped. Jon could feel Gil’s massive cut cock – bigger than even Growl’r’s Hairy Aussie’s – digging against his abs. Then, after playfully sliding Jon’s PA around in his fingers through his pierced hole, Gil stuck Jon’s hard dick in his mouth, savoring it like a slow melting ice pop. He moved to Jon’s ball sac, swallowing each ball one at a time, tugging on them as Jon felt Gil’s tongue as they lay nestled in his mouth. He raised Jon’s legs in the air and darted the tip of his tongue in and out of his butthole.

Jon was on another planet.

“Hairy butt – love that,” murmured Gil. He lowered Jon’s legs back to the bed and suddenly bolted up on his knees, his dick twitching up and down like some toll gate in holiday traffic.

“OK, boss, now show me what I taught you.”

Just then he reached for the pipe.

“Want some more?”

“Shit yea,” said Jon positioning himself so his face was inches from Gil’s naked manhood. Two puffs later, he was devouring Gil’s tool like a pro as if he had been doing it for years.

Uncle Charlie would have been proud of his queer nephew. Ernie, his j-o buddy back home, would have thought he was crazy.

But he noticed Gil starting to go soft in his mouth.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect, Boss, just perfect, my dick feels won-der-ful.”

It was then that Jon noticed his own cock going down a bit – this had never happened to him before – even though it felt ten feet long.

“I think it’s time for your advanced course in a little kink,” said Gil and he reached from the side of the mattress to retrieve a length of cord which he tied around Jon’s balls and then his own. Only a few feet of cord separated their sacs, but ever so slowly he began to stand up on the bed.

“Fucken hot,” said Jon, five light years from earth by that point as he watched their balls giggle in midair.

Jon’s cock itched to spurt, though he was wondering where his erection was going. Gil untied the cord on his balls, lowered himself back down to the bed and immediately swallowed Jon’s cock for two minutes before sliding it into his hairy butt hole. With that Jon exploded inside Gil and they both lay on the bed, smelly and spent.

“So how ya feeling Boss?” asked Gil smugly licking the sweat off Jon’s chest.

“I don’t know – I – I’ve never felt this way before …”

“Next time, I want you to tie me up while you fuck me.”

He pressed his mouth to Jon’s ear.

“Oh, and by the way, welcome to Fort Lauderdale.” Then he placed Jon’s still dripping cock in his hand and gave it a kiss.

For a while they just lay there, side by side, Jon’s eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, counting every water stain and dust mark. Usually after he came with Ernie, both of them would take a fifteen minute power nap. But now he felt like he could run the New York Marathon.

“Why don’t we hit your place? said Gil.

“But I’m fine right here …”

“I mean your other place, the Gear Shaft. It’s underwear night. Should be festive.”

Jon scanned the barren room. Gil got up, grabbed a package of Twinkies from the kitchen shelf, unwrapped it and tossed one to Jon.

“Gil, what were you doing in the bathroom when we first came in?”

Gil grinned like a kid caught by his mother jerking off.

“Whata ya mean?”

“I couldn’t help seeing you in the mirror – you were using a needle …”

“Slamming, boss, just slamming,” answered Gil matter-of-factly.

“What’s – what’s that?”

“You know the stuff we just smoked?”

“Yea.”

“And how good it made you feel?”

“Sure, I’m still in fucken heaven – with you.”

“Well, if you use a microwave to liquefy it and then inject it into your arm, it works that much faster, that’s all. That’s slamming.”

Jon fiddled with his nose ring.

“So, you wanna give it a try? Make the way you feel now like a walk in the park compared to traveling to the moon.”

“But Gil, my folks, they – they died of a heroin overdose. They found them with the needles still in their arms…”

Gil started laughing uncontrollably.

‘Shit, boss, it ain’t near anything like Big H. Hey, you ever take speed?”

“Sometimes, when I was out all night and had to work the following morning.”

“That’s all this is. Speed in the fast lane.” Gil ran his hand across Jon’s chest.

“So wanna give it a try before we hit the road?’

Jon gave a hesitant nod. All he thought as Gil was getting the stuff ready in the bathroom was how maybe he was one of those addictive personalities they talked about on Dr. Phil, that he had inherited his parents’ habit and was destined for this moment anyway. After all, if anyone could be an addict it was him. He didn’t have to work or worry about the money. He had all the money in the world now and wouldn’t have to work another day in his life.

“Make a fist,” said Gil as he looked for a vein. He hadn’t even finished injecting the liquid magic into his arm when a sudden, total rush of heat coursed throughout Jon’s body. It was like that sudden blast of heat Jon felt as he got off the plane in Fort Lauderdale airport. Only a thousand times squared.

Then he grabbed Gil tightly and began kissing him until their tongues had no place else to go.

“Hey lover,” murmured Gil.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all Jon could say as he fell to the bed. “Next time I want you to fuck me Gil, I want to know what it’s like to fucked by a man. I want you to stare into my eyes and fuck me…”

“You know I’m an obedient employee,” said Gil as he straddled Jon, grabbed his soft cock and paired it with his own, stroking them slowly in his hand. Then, still holding onto them, he leaned over and nestled his nose in Jon’s armpit and washed the stench away with his tongue.

“Fuck you Gil, fuck you,” Jon repeated over and over again. “Get on top of me,” and as Gil did, he dug his hands into the eagle tat on Gil’s back and held him against him like a vise.

All those years jerking off over guys’ pictures with his stupid, backward buddy when he could have had this.

This time it was Jon exploring Gil, his strong chest, firm abs and hairy thighs, then he mouthed his cock and balls for what seemed a lifetime, his own equipment tingling with each lick.

“Turn over, man.” he whispered.

Gil lay spread eagle, his powerful shoulder muscles pulsating in the dim light as Jon outstretched his arms across Gil’s hairy back and kissed his furry ass cheeks, gently, ever so gently guiding his nose, then his tongue deep into Gil’s warm butthole, matting the hairs around it.

“Beautiful, you – you are so beautiful,” Jon kept murmuring. “I can’t get enough of you, fucker. My beautiful, beautiful teacher. My beautiful, beautiful man.”

Published by Kokoro Press, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Here’s Another Excerpt from “The Czar of Wilton Drive” …

…my latest erotic gay novel about Fort Lauderdale’s contemporary leather scene. This excerpt is all about kinky PNP sex for those of you who like it that way or those who just want to fantasize.

Let’s set the scene: Jon, a barely out-of the closet kid from New York inherits two of Fort Lauderdale’s hottest bars from his Uncle Charlie, including the town’s leather bar, The Gear Shaft. Attending a “Celebration of Life” gig for Charlie where the guests are all dressed in leather as Charlie would have wanted it, Jon runs into Gil, the manager of the Gear Shaft, a leather hottie who invites Jon back to his place to “show him the ropes”…

“So get comfortable,” said Gil as the two of them strolled into Gil’s studio, a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. “Gotta hit the head.”

Jon lay down on the air mattress, not knowing quite what to do or what to expect. All he knew is what he wanted.

The bathroom door was wide open and from his angle, Jon was able to see Gil in the vanity mirror. Pulling his mesh T off, he admired himself for a moment, then opened a drawer, pulled out what looked like a needle and stuck it very carefully in a vein of his arm. Jon watched the sudden rush on his face. Then as he turned to come out, Jon readjusted himself on the bed. Everything was so fast, Jon had no time to react to the moment. All that came immediately to his brain was the image Uncle Charlie had painted of his parents lying on that bed with needles sticking out of their arms.

Should he get up and leave?

Should he say anything?

Instead, Jon did nothing, waiting for the next cue from Gil.

“So you wanna smoke some stuff?” asked Gil casually as he reached over for a glass pipe. “You smoke before?”

“Grass. My j-o buddy Ernie and I would smoke a reefer before we started flipping through those profiles on Growl’r.”

“Same shit,” said Gil, holding a lighter under the glass globe of the pipe. “Just gives you a better high.”

Gil took a long puff, then handed the pipe over to Jon.

“Now move the globe back and forth a few times as I hold the lighter under it, take in a long puff, hold it in just a second or two, then let it out through your nose.”

Jon breathed in, then exhaled. Within seconds, a feeling of super-sensitivity enveloped him.

“Wow.”

“I told you this stuff was better than grass.” Gil took a puff, placed the pipe down in an ashtray on a plastic patio table that served as a bed stand, then reached over and, as he pressed his lips against Jon’s, he exhaled into his mouth.

Jon fell flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he felt Gil’s fingers embrace every inch of him. It was as if

an electric charge was pulsating through him wherever Gil touched, first stroking the hairs on his chest down to his abs, then his crotch. Then he lay on top of him and began rubbing their beards against one another in some ritual dance.

Gil was the most beautiful man he had ever seen and now he was his. Totally, completely, forever his.

Within minutes, Gil had slipped off his jeans and pulled off Jon’s so the two of them lay there naked.

“Want this off?” said Jon, tugging at his bulldog harness he was still wearing.

“No, buddy, leave it on. You are so hot, fucker, and I’m not saying that just because you’re my boss. You’re just like Charlie. Only better.”

“How, how can I be better. Uncle Charlie knew so much more about all of this than I do. I feel like some country hick.”

“You won’t after today,” said Gil who began eating him up like a piece of hard candy he had just unwrapped. Jon could feel Gil’s massive cut cock – bigger than even Growl’r’s Hairy Aussie’s – digging against his abs. Then, after playfully sliding Jon’s PA around in his fingers through his pierced hole, Gil stuck Jon’s hard dick in his mouth, savoring it like a slow melting ice pop. He moved to Jon’s ball sac, swallowing each ball one at a time, tugging on them as Jon felt Gil’s tongue as they lay nestled in his mouth. He raised Jon’s legs in the air and darted the tip of his tongue in and out of his butthole.

Jon was on another planet.

“Hairy butt – love that,” murmured Gil. He lowered Jon’s legs back to the bed and suddenly bolted up on his knees, his dick twitching up and down like some toll gate in holiday traffic.

“OK, boss, now show me what I taught you.”

Just then he reached for the pipe.

“Want some more?”

“Shit yea,” said Jon positioning himself so his face was inches from Gil’s naked manhood. Two puffs later, he was devouring Gil’s tool like a pro as if he had been doing it for years.

Uncle Charlie would have been proud of his queer nephew. Ernie, his j-o buddy back home, would have thought he was crazy.

But he noticed Gil starting to go soft in his mouth.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect, Boss, just perfect, my dick feels won-der-ful.”

It was then that Jon noticed his own cock going down a bit – this had never happened to him before – even though it felt ten feet long.

“I think it’s time for your advanced course in a little kink,” said Gil and he reached from the side of the mattress to retrieve a length of cord which he tied around Jon’s balls and then his own. Only a few feet of cord separated their sacs, but ever so slowly he began to stand up on the bed.

“Fucken hot,” said Jon, five light years from earth by that point as he watched their balls giggle in midair.

Jon’s cock itched to spurt, though he was wondering where his erection was going. Gil untied the cord on his balls, lowered himself back down to the bed and immediately swallowed Jon’s cock for two minutes before sliding it into his hairy butt hole. With that Jon exploded inside Gil and they both lay on the bed, smelly and spent.

“So how ya feeling Boss?” asked Gil smugly licking the sweat off Jon’s chest.

“I don’t know – I – I’ve never felt this way before …”

“Next time, I want you to tie me up while you fuck me.”

He pressed his mouth to Jon’s ear.

“Oh, and by the way, welcome to Fort Lauderdale.” Then he placed Jon’s still dripping cock in his hand and gave it a kiss.

For a while they just lay there, side by side, Jon’s eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, counting every water stain and dust mark. Usually after he came with Ernie, both of them would take a fifteen minute power nap. But now he felt like he could run the New York Marathon.

“Why don’t we hit your place? said Gil.

“But I’m fine right here …”

“I mean your other place, the Gear Shaft. It’s underwear night. Should be festive.”

Jon scanned the barren room. Gil got up, grabbed a package of Twinkies from the kitchen shelf, unwrapped it and tossed one to Jon.

“Gil, what were you doing in the bathroom when we first came in?”

Gil grinned like a kid caught by his mother jerking off.

“Whata ya mean?”

“I couldn’t help seeing you in the mirror – you were using a needle …”

“Slamming, boss, just slamming,” answered Gil matter-of-factly.

“What’s – what’s that?”

“You know the stuff we just smoked?”

“Yea.”

“And how good it made you feel?”

“Sure, I’m still in fucken heaven – with you.”

“Well, if you use a microwave to liquefy it and then inject it into your arm, it works that much faster, that’s all. That’s slamming.”

Jon fiddled with his nose ring.

“So, you wanna give it a try? Make the way you feel now like a walk in the park compared to traveling to the moon.”

“But Gil, my folks, they – they died of a heroin overdose. They found them with the needles still in their arms…”

Gil started laughing uncontrollably.

‘Shit, boss, it ain’t near anything like Big H. Hey, you ever take speed?”

“Sometimes, when I was out all night and had to work the following morning.”

“That’s all this is. Speed in the fast lane.” Gil ran his hand across Jon’s chest.

“So wanna give it a try before we hit the road?’

Jon gave a hesitant nod. All he thought as Gil was getting the stuff ready in the bathroom was how maybe he was one of those addictive personalities they talked about on Dr. Phil, that he had inherited his parents’ habit and was destined for this moment anyway. After all, if anyone could be an addict it was him. He didn’t have to work or worry about the money. He had all the money in the world now and wouldn’t have to work another day in his life.

“Make a fist,” said Gil as he looked for a vein. He hadn’t even finished injecting the liquid magic into his arm when a sudden, total rush of heat coursed throughout Jon’s body. It was like that sudden blast of heat Jon felt as he got off the plane in Fort Lauderdale airport. Only a thousand times squared.

Then he grabbed Gil tightly and began kissing him until their tongues had no place else to go.

“Hey lover,” murmured Gil.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all Jon could say as he fell to the bed. “Next time I want you to fuck me Gil, I want to know what it’s like to fucked by a man. I want you to stare into my eyes and fuck me…”

“You know I’m an obedient employee,” said Gil as he straddled Jon, grabbed his soft cock and paired it with his own, stroking them slowly in his hand. Then, still holding onto them, he leaned over and nestled his nose in Jon’s armpit and washed the stench away with his tongue.

“Fuck you Gil, fuck you,” Jon repeated over and over again. “Get on top of me,” and as Gil did, he dug his hands into the eagle tat on Gil’s back and held him against him like a vise.

All those years jerking off over guys’ pictures with his stupid, backward buddy when he could have had this.

This time it was Jon exploring Gil, his strong chest, firm abs and hairy thighs, then he mouthed his cock and balls for what seemed a lifetime, his own equipment tingling with each lick.

“Turn over, man.” he whispered.

Gil lay spread eagle, his powerful shoulder muscles pulsating in the dim light as Jon outstretched his arms across Gil’s hairy back and kissed his furry ass cheeks, gently, ever so gently guiding his nose, then his tongue deep into Gil’s warm butthole, matting the hairs around it.

“Beautiful, you – you are so beautiful,” Jon kept murmuring. “I can’t get enough of you, fucker. My beautiful, beautiful teacher. My beautiful, beautiful man.”

Published by Kokoro Press, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Gay Marriage: Reality Check Time

Gay Marriage: Reality Check Time

Okay, I think we all agree that whatever legal hurdles lie ahead, after the Supreme Court’s decision, it’s only a matter of time before gay marriage is legally recognized across the country. I’m happy that our rights as citizens have been recognized, particularly when we subsidize straight couple’s procreation by paying higher income taxes. And I think it’s terrific that that those of us who are itching to get hitched legally because we really want to and realize and understand the responsibilities and restrictions that come with it have a greater chance of doing just that.

But being the cynic’s cynic I also wonder if some of these life partners that need a flower girl to make their lives complete are doing it for the glitz factor or because it’s the hip “in” thing to do right now. Like the supposedly happily married gay neighbors of mine who proudly passed around their 2008 wedding pictures from Toronto to those of us attending their Thanksgiving dinner party; by March, Hal, the prettier of the two, had left Sam for a twink two blocks away.

What do I think? If you asked many, if not most guys if they really would want to be married, the resounding response you would get would be “Fuck, no way!” The first day same sex marriage became legal in New York State, the media reported “hundreds” of gays got hitched. Gee, wow! You know how many homosexuals live in NYC alone? Straights are moving away from marriage and living together, so why the fuck would we want to go the other way? ( I know why: pensions, social security and health benefits, rights of survivorship, but you get my point.)

Being a practical, no-nonsense fag, I’d like to point out some of the other, not so romantic realities same sex unions face.

Remember, boys, if you’re legally married and it sours, you’ve got to legally divorce. You don’t just pack up your Titan DVD’s and your toothbrush and leave. Hell, some enterprising attorneys down in Fort Lauderdale where I live are already advertising assistance with gay separations and divorces. And based on what I’ve seen with straight couples I’ve known whose marriages have gone south, that ain’t easy, nor pretty. One buddy of mine, married for over forty years – to a woman – before deciding to divorce to lead the life of a gay blade, is still waiting for his half of the money two years after papers were filed, with no minor children or convoluted investments like cattle ranches in Alaska to muddy the waters.

And let’s say you marry a guy who has a lot less assets than you and who at some point decides to run off with a hottie. With community property laws in place in most states, regardless who left who, are you ready to split the 401K you worked so hard for?

But what do I think is the ultimate irony in this messed up controversy about gay marriage? While public opinion is more and more on our side, there are still many uptight straights, driven by misguided religious convictions, who are convinced allowing gays to tie the knot would bring a Sodom and Gomorrah dissolution to our society. (Even if 10% of the population is gay and every one of us wanted marriage, that still leaves 9 out of 10 hetero adult Americans, so I don’t get the math.) Yet, the majority of straight marriages – 60% – many with kids in the equation, end in divorce.

Shouldn’t society be worried about that first?