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

4 Mar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pig Dance

2 Mar

Pig Dance

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

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

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

Hell, it’s sacrilegious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

27 Feb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

25 Feb

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

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

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

fifty pic c

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gil quickly whipped out the cord and scissors obligingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ever have an accident with one of these?”

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

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

“Hey Jon, don’t joke around …”

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

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

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

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

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

“How did – how did you know?”

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

Suddenly, Gil fest up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Oscars

24 Feb

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

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

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

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

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

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

Off to the Keys this week – chat later.

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

23 Feb

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

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

fifty pic breath control

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

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

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

“Contest?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if I lose?” I asked.

“Then I’ll come home with you.”

“Hotel, you mean.”

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

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

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

That’s when he sprang it on me.

“You into breath control?”

I tried to look and sound ecumenical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20 Feb

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

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

fifty pic ff

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his soul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, why spoil his lunch?

Monday, Breath Control.


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