Another Beach Bear Weekend Coming Up in Sunny Fort Lauderdale May 6-11

27 Apr

Another Beach Bear Weekend Coming Up in Sunny Fort Lauderdale May 6-11

And bears certainly come in all sizes, from the rotund to the muscled, from towering Sequoias to short fuckers like me. Maybe I’m old school, but I think the one common identifying trait that links us all is fur.

Either we got it or we want it.

Now you know and I know not all guys like fur on their bedmates, even many furry guys, and despite all the five o’clock shadows on the models in GQ or some TV series lead, for some guys, even furry guys, there is this compulsion or societal pressure to shave or even permanently laser it all off. Why? So their hard earned muscles show up better, they’re hotter or think they’re hotter to the objects of their desire, or maybe because they just want to feel like a prepubescent boy again.

A hot German guy I made it with while he was on vacation down here in Lauderdale had shaved his body to fit in with everybody else back home but loved furry guys like me.

Go figure.

A few weekends ago, my partner and I hit Swinging Richards, the male strip club here in Lauderdale, one last time before he returned to our summer home in the boonies of PA. Now he’s got his favorites and I got mine. Like Dominick, a nicely built Latin with his cap on backwards in bad boy style who, trying to woo me back to a VIP room for a “private dance” that would cost my Visa card a hundred and fifty bucks for 15 minutes, dropped his shorts to show off his furry, furry butt that was just four inches away from my tongue. He knew I was a hairy guy, judging by my tank top and figured – correctly – if I was going to pay for it, fur was my preference.

As he pointed out, “I’m the only one with a hairy ass.” And he was right. In fact, every guy, every hunk on that stage, humpy and beautiful as just about every one of them was, were hairless like their bodies had been buffed by a polisher. Is that what the masses really want?

So be it. Maybe I’m a member of some outlier class, but I think fur is very sensual, and while you can always take it off, you can’t put it on.

BTW, my response to Dominick’s advances was simple, though a joke: “Sorry, bro, I’m a rentboy and tonight’s my night off.”

To which he responded before moving on to his next prey: “Gee, I gotta try that sometime.”

For more info on our hot weekend coming up, check out

Hillary or Marco? Who Do YOU Think?

24 Apr

Hillary or Marco? Who Do YOU Think?

The supposed darling of us gay boys has been getting lambasted lately in, of all places, the gay media, for her very ungay stances on marriage and the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policies of her hubby Billy Bob while she was First Lady.

Now they accuse her of being “politically expedient” for changing her views and welcoming us with open arms.

So what? Isn’t every politician “politically expedient?”

Would you rather have Marco Rubio (though I admit he’d be cuter to look at), who’s gaining more traction every day, and who’s attempting to make nice with the gay branch of the GOP, the Log Cabin Republicans, by saying while he’s not against gay marriage, he still believes marriage should be between the opposite sexes? Huh? What the fuck is that? Political double speak? Plus he feels that gay marriage is a state’s rights which should be left up to the voters or their legislators, not the courts. So if Rubio was running back in 1955 instead of 2015, Alabama and Mississippi would have the right to uphold their Jim Crow laws. Hmm.

At the same time, I found the parting paragraph in an editorial that ran in one of Lauderdale’s gay weeklies just a bit presumptuous. It read:

“Ultimately, regardless of any other campaign pledges and positions…. it will be same-sex and LGBT issues which will decide the outcome of the Presidential race.”

Come on guys, let’s get real here. Gay marriage, abortion, and gun control may be important issues, but they’re peripheral to the much larger ones affecting all of us. Like our still lagging economy which needs to create more high quality, good paying jobs, not more minimum wage ones for both ends of the age spectrum: the young who can’t find work, and the old who got fucked in the last recession. I know three over fifty buddies looking for work right now.

Or making sure our kids graduate high school knowing how to read and write, and do math without taking their shoes off. And are trained to take on the twenty-first century hi tech jobs that right now go begging, not dream of being on “The Voice.”

Or having somebody with steel balls in the White House (even if he’s a she) to deal with ISIS in a no bullshit way.

I mean if you need a job and the candidate who you think can help you get that job is against gay marriage, would you pass them up for the chance at matching diamond-studded cock rings?

Huh? Would you?

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

22 Apr

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

Buddy: I came out when I was 19 while in college and almost ten years later all I have to show for it is a string of fair-weather friends and two week romances. I feel all alone and I hate my life, even if I have a good professional job making good money, and hate being gay. What can I do to get out of this slump?

Daddy: You are what you are. Gay is in the genes, so self-hatred is bullshit. If you don’t want to act on your impulses, that’s fine. But there’s a hell of a lot worse stuff that could happen to your DNA, so get over it daddy 2 (3)and move on. Consider yourself a member of some secret society even if at times you feel it’s a society of one.

Don’t live your life through other people like celebs who so many airheads in America put on this lofty pedestal. (Who really gives a fuck if so and so is getting laid?) Live your life for you and appreciate whatever you’ve got.

Don’t fall for the gay pop propaganda machine. Come on, now, is the cover guy from GQ the only thing that will turn you on? His chiseled body is probably because he has a meth habit, not a gym one. There are so many other guys out there for real if you just let it happen.

By the same token, don’t measure or compare yourself against these shallow stereotypes of this overblown sub-culture of ours. If greater society glorifies physical perfection, hell, we gays have made it a god. Many of these so-called beauties are shitheads when it comes to interacting with people or being successful at anything more than loving themselves. And I’ve seen more average looking guys make it than the pretty ones because they know who there are – good and bad – and aren’t waiting for someone to tell them they’re pretty.

So, search in yourself what you find good and appealing – to you, not HIM. You say you’ve good a good job. Hey, that means a lot in this shitty economy. Use that as a something you can, yes, even gloat over all your fair weather friends who work at Walmart. Once you’re confident and comfortable with yourself, the rest comes easy.

Don’t follow the herd. I think a lot of guys – young and old – think they have to adopt the stereotypical look and mannerisms and lifestyle of what society equates as being gay (including the super butch, buzzed look) to be accepted or popular or sexy if, by this sub-culture’s standards, they have nothing else to offer. Again be yourself – whatever the fuck that is for you.

And don’t envy all those coteries of knock-out guys you see in the bars or on the beach with so-called dozens of friends. Most are surface, drive-by relationships, acquaintances, or fleeting fuck buddies, if that. Stats prove most of us have, maybe, two or three people we can rely on. And if there’s no one, so be it. My greatest personal comfort is self-reliance.

In the end, what is to be gay any way? We’re men who are attracted to men, whatever the type: young, old, butch, fem, bald, hippy, tall, short, hairy, smooth, chubby, jocky, geeky, slow, smart. Enjoy whatever it is in a man – your type of man – that turns you on and gets you off. But just remember, sexologists say most sexual encounters only last 17 minutes anyway. What about the other 42,031,000 minutes of your life?

Ain’t you got better things to do?

Got a question for “Go Ask Daddy?” Send it to

An 81% High School Graduation Rate is Great?

20 Apr

An 81% High School Graduation Rate is Great?

The U.S. Department of Education thinks so. So, on average, two out of every ten teens starting out in life (and if you’re black it’s three out of ten) don’t even have a high school diploma in a society where college educated individuals, young and old, can’t find jobs. So what are your prospects? Shoveling shit till you’re 65?

It comes as no surprise that non-grads make ten thousand dollars a year less than their graduating counterparts. And each costs taxpayers $300 thousand a year over their respective lifetimes when they go on public assistance because they’re often non-employable. Half of all the people on the dole are high school drop-outs.

And I’m making a big assumption here that the high school diploma itself means anything in a country that spends more money on education than any other country in the world yet ranks twenty-third in reading , thirty-fifth in math, and twenty-seventh in science.

Why are students dropping out? Sure money has something to do with it if you’re a kid in a single parent household that needs another income, however meager, to survive, or grows up in a household or subculture where education isn’t valued, or you’re pregnant, though the teenage pregnancy rate has dropped significantly. Kids who feel overwhelmed or with undiagnosed or poorly treated learning disabilities or who just plain don’t like the regimen of school (i.e., life) fall into that same purgatory. But the experts also blame feeling left out or alienated or bullied by their peers or parents (maybe if you’re gay?) as other contributing factors.

As a former educator, I think an even larger culprit is our own media-crazed society’s elevation of entertainers, sports figures and just plain do-nothing celebs to some iconic, even religious status. (The word “fan” comes from the word “fanatic.”) If these guys can make a million dollars a week, why not me? Well, how about us glorifying the researchers or engineers or health care professionals, yea, and the educators who are making a real contribution to our society? Hey, I know why – they don’t sign mega-million dollar bonus contracts.

I also think the whole high school curriculum needs to be overhauled to reflect the real world. Take English. I was an English major in college, but the way the subject is taught in most classrooms would bore even virginal Emily Dickinson (Some scholars think she had a “girlfriend” so good old Emily may have had some fun after all.) . Everyone should take a mandatory course in Communications – oral and written with literature and newspaper editorials and blogs among the learning tools. Those who want to OD on lit can take an elective.
And please stop all the show-biz emphasis on extracurricular glitz to the detriment of what kids are in high school are: to prepare for life. How many of your star football players are gonna make it to the majors?

When I was in high school I was all brains, no brawn, though if they had had gymnastics or wrestling and not just competitive sports, I would have excelled. Well, if you had smarts, the implication from your peers was that you were a “sissie.” Decades later teaching college, I noticed my smart jocks were hesitant to show off their smarts for fear their less-with-it buddies would look at them funny. It’s like a smart male student is considered effeminate. (The exact opposite of the attitude of my foreign students.) Are we fucked up or are we fucked up?

When kids drop out, then, any wonder why they turn to crime and drug dealing or worse, ISIS, to feel important?

Midnight At The Oasis: A Typical Friday Night at Lauderdale’s Sex Club

17 Apr

Midnight At The Oasis: A Typical Friday Night at Lauderdale’s Sex Club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as I’m walking out, Peter, feeling a bit rejected back in my jeans, I see Mr. Green T shirt/canvas pants from the entrance line standing legs spread apart all butchy, looking at me. I glance back. He turns around and strolls out and right into the very first booth off the corridor. I follow him in and he latches the door behind us.
Unlike most of the booths that are in almost complete darkness, this one is decently lit. Visual sex is a big turn on for me and apparently is for him too as he admires my hairy chest and abs, his eyes following his fingers as they comb through my hair and pull on my nips. I feel under his T – he’s smooth but hard – and gesture for him to take it off to which he instantly complies, throwing it to the floor. Waiting in line, I had stripped him naked in my mind, but now I had this very beefy guy right here all to myself. Apparently, like me, his nips are hardwired to his cock too, because when we drop our jeans almost in unison, our erect dicks spring out like jacks-in the box. I grab his buttocks from behind as I slip down to suck him. He’s not as big as me, but his cock is thick and cut and engulfs my mouth. “Fucken A,” he whispers, watching me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All over again.

Series: “Inside The Mind of A Writer” Starts Today on My Author Site and New FB Page

16 Apr

Series: “Inside The Mind of A Writer” Starts Today on My Author Site and New FB Page

A reminder that today I begin my new ongoing series, “Inside the Mind of a Writer” on my author website,, and new FB author page – RP Andrews – where I’ll talk about why I want to write, publishing vs. self-publishing, writers who influenced me, character and plot development, and a whole lot more. I also welcome other writers out there to share their perspectives.

RP Andrews

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

15 Apr

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

Buddy: I’m an older guy, financially comfortable and retired, who after my wife of forty years died of breast cancer, decided to follow my heart and lead a gay existence. Recently I met a man almost twenty years my junior, on SS Disability because he’s HIV positive – which doesn’t bother me – and who works occasionally as a DJ at the bar where we first met. Well, we fell in love, deeply in love, and since he sleeps on his brother’s couch in the flophouse side of town and I have a roomy condo on the right side of town, he’s asked if he could move in with me which sounds great. The only problem is I learned from some of his buddies at the bar that he’s a meth head. When I confronted him with this, he admitted he had been hooked but was clean now.

After nearly a lifetime of denying who I am and now finding this beautiful guy who says he loves me, nothing means more to me than to have him with me. Do you think I’m foolish letting him move in?

Daddy: Fuck yea! I mean, what is he bringing to the table, huh? You’re the one with the condo and the money and probably a nice BMW, right? And what has he got? A disability check, some needle marks and yea, maybe a great daddy 2 (3)ass. So he’s a good fuck – so, fuck him. Don’t have him move in with you! At least not until he earns your trust which means telling him to find a real job (just because he’s on Disability doesn’t mean he can’t work) and find his own place even if it’s a one room flat in somebody’s house. Then maybe in three or six months you can consider him being a roommate with benefits.

If he can’t do that much, he’s a loser looking for Easy Street – meaning you.

And if you can’t tell whether he’s still using, look for some of the telltale signs when he’s with you – in and out of bed. Profuse sweating, a Chatty Cathy mouth, jumpy behavior, no appetite, insomnia and the need to carry bottled water around like it was oxygen.

If any of this is evident, it’s not you he loves – it’s the meth. Ditch him and ditch him quick before you end up in the ditch yourself.

Got a question for “Go Ask Daddy?” Send it to All quires kept confidential. I mean, you don’t want your BF to find out how you’d like to swindle him out of his Star Trek collection, now would you?


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