My Own Thanksgiving Reality Show

26 Nov

My Own Thanksgiving Reality Show

My mother’s family came from a little town in the Ukraine, (my father’s side came from Slovakia), and my sister and I often referred to Mom as the “mad Russian,” as she was constantly ranting and raving about something with a terribly negative view of people – including her husband – while my father, always the diplomat (I think I learned my knack for public relations which became my career from him), stood quietly by. Once when I was grown and long out of the house, I boldly confronted him as she was off on one of her temper tantrums with this demand: “Why don’t you rap her already?” He just shrugged his shoulders.

In hindsight, I think my mother had real clinical psychiatric issues. She may have been dipolar, with a heavy dose of a Napoleonic Complex. Perhaps, deep down, standing at just four eleven, and growing up in Depression poverty of immigrant parents, she felt insecure and inferior and never outgrew her tomboy scrappiness and aggressive often “in your face” character for, in her mind, it was the only way she would be heard. Though she was forced to drop out of high school a month before graduation because she needed to help her family, Mary was intelligent and savvy, and everything I know about handling money I learned from her. Yet she was obsessed with being the center of attention wherever she went and had the emotional maturity of an eight year old. But if it’s true opposites attract, it was these very qualities I think that, besides her beauty, drew my father to her.

All this made living with Mom like walking on eggs. You never knew what would set her off and when, which made holiday family gatherings or just simple Saturday afternoons sheer stomach wrenching experiences. And when my father, who never smoked, rarely drank, and seemed to be in terrific shape for someone who was not an athlete, dropped dead at 74 in the bathroom after coming home one night from a VFW meeting, I blamed cohabitating with this crazy woman for nearly fifty years as the cause of his early demise. After all, she was the one who smoked like a fiend – shouldn’t she have been the first to go? Overly critical of him while he was alive, my mother was totally lost when he left, demonstrating the best performance by a widow in a leading role, though her grief did not stop her from trying to sell his three month old Cadillac to friends and co-workers at his wake.

My sister dropped out of the family theatrics early in the game, marrying at 22 and moving to Long Island, leaving me, the single son (my closet homosexuality, interestingly enough, never became a subject of family discussion) to watch over Mom.

One Thanksgiving, in my feeble attempt to keep the family together, I drove all the way to extreme northwest New Jersey where my mother, without consulting either my sister or I, had moved to after my father’s death, and brought her to spend the night with me on Staten Island which, in holiday traffic, seemed half a world away. The plan was for us to drive over the following morning – Thanksgiving Day – to my sister’s on Long Island, another marathon on the Long Island Expressway.

But the next morning, Thanksgiving Day morning, when my mother saw some light snow falling that holiday morning, she refused to budge, and my frustration in seeing my carefully orchestrated holiday plans go down the sewer reached the point of no return, and in a sudden fit of rage, I knocked this then seventy something woman to the floor. She pretended in typical Mary style to be injured – she wasn’t – and all I thought was how I, a senior health care executive, was going to be charged with elder abuse of his own mother.

Several hours later, we buried the hatchets and spent Thanksgiving as the old lady and her fag son in a local diner. Talk about suicide by Mother.

It was the last time I attempted to play Family Man, and today when I see those warm and fuzzy commercials with the family around the table and the big turkey ready to be devoured, I chuckle to myself and start figuring how many extra hours in the gym it’s going to take to burn off the Thanksgiving dinner my partner, who’s a great cook, and I will eat together, with the “kids,” our four dogs, waiting in the wings.

Happy Turkey Day!

Sex And Intimacy

24 Nov

Sex And Intimacy

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

It’s a fact: Many of us – gay and str8 – either single or who may have partners no longer interested in doing it, are using sex as a substitute for intimacy.

Deep down, though, we know they’re not the same.

Sure, there are the sex addicts who crave the endless attention and are only interested in their personal body count, and the asocial (if there is such a word) who look on guys as necessary evils who just happen to carry the appendages or orifices they desire. For them, the more anonymous the sex, the bigger the turn-on.

But then there are those who have been burnt in relationships where one loved more than the other, who are tired of the emotional roller coaster ride relationships can bring, or who have a significant other who no longer gives us what we need in the way of sex and intimacy but who we stay with for other practical reasons – co-mingled lives, financial realities, or just the desire not to be alone. Yet our need for intimacy remains and so we turn to sex to compensate, since sex, in the end, is easier to find. The more men we have sex with, the more we’re loved, right?

I’m also convinced guys, particularly younger guys, use coke and meth during sex to heighten the experience and put themselves in some state of euphoria so that the guy they just met – and who they may not even be strongly physically attracted to – suddenly becomes the love of their lives.

That is, until the drugs wear off.

The same holds true with the undercurrent of loneliness from all these guys on the cyber hook up sites that hit one another up to either fantasize about having sex, sex laced with words of endearment, sex that conveniently will never happen because thousands of miles separate them, or who just want to shoot the breeze with a fellow brother and feel some kind of connection. And not just guys in the boonies where you would expect it but also guys in some of the largest urban gay meccas where men are as plentiful as cockroaches, who ironically, either by choice or by default, are as isolated as some farmboy in the middle of Nebraska.

We all know technology has killed most bars (and even most bath houses) as cruising grounds where you could look the guy in the eye before you grabbed his crotch. Just count the number of men the next time you’re out who are on their smartphones GPS’ing their latest hottie who is sitting on a toilet seat ten and a half yards away, instead of catching the eye of the guy across the way who wants them. And who maybe, just maybe could change their lives and be more than just a hard dick.

Could it be all that soulful hugging we see in the bars when buddies get together, whether or not sex has been or is in the picture, could all this genuine camaraderie be their way of expressing a kind of man-to-man intimacy they don’t experience much anymore between the sheets?

And yes, too many of us sit alone in the dark by our laptops, content to conduct our social and sexual lives on a screen, where fantasy is better than reality because we can mold our fantasies into just about anything we want, create personas that make us more desirable than we could ever be in life, or have 10 message sexual encounters which are not always all about sucking and fucking but are often intertwined with virtual intimacy. Camming with a guy in Dubai who asks you if you’re a good kisser somehow makes you feel human even if all he and you are are 0’s and 1’s

Maybe it’s a sign of the times, a fall-out of living in such a modern age, that true intimacy between two human beings has been lost when we need it the most.

Yet some of the most satisfying in-the-flesh sexual experiences may have little to do with hard cocks and hairy butts. It’s when the two guys, obviously turned on by one another’s physicality and masculinity, can just lie there silent in one another’s arms and forget for a brief moment the outside world exists.

The Perfect Fuck

21 Nov

The Perfect Fuck

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

His name is James, never Jim. He’s five foot ten, lightly muscular, hairy all over, with dark, tight cropped hair and beard, piercing brown eyes, and well-proportioned features. Great furry chest, great abs, great ass, great legs, great back, he’s no gym bunny, but at 48, a seasoned man who definitely knows how to take care of himself. And who makes the most of places like Haulover, Miami’s nude beach, or Lauderdale’s gay Halloween bash where he strutted around in not much more than a jock strap. He’s masculine without being super butchy, articulate without sounding nerdy, personable without being pushy.

What more could any homo want?

Ah, but there’s another James. The James who bikes around South Florida because he can’t afford a car. The James with full blown AIDS who looks terrific thanks to human growth hormone. steroids and testosterone. Well educated with his college diploma on his bathroom wall, he’s a sometime musician, most of the time between gigs, who lives on his disability check in a walk-up studio just off the beach and uses his charm to sponge off friends, fuck buddies and even afternoon flings in such a way they’re the ones thanking him. Most of time he’s broke.

His name is James, the guy, no matter what your type, who always gets that second look. There are thousands of men like James out there, Hotties in a Life where Hot is everything.

Even if all they are is a crumbling Hollywood set.

The other night at Hunter’s, our very, very popular dance club, I spotted a short, (shorter than me if that’s possible) “Plain Jane”  rotund guys on the dance floor.with smiles on their faces, obviously enjoying not just the retro-Studio 54 crowd but themselves. I walked up to them and asked if they were partners to which they nodded.

“Happy?”

They nodded again.

“Good, It’s the pretty boys who should be envious of you.”

What’s Serious M2M Erotic Fiction? It’s “Huckleberry Finn” If Huck and Jim Got it On

19 Nov

What’s Serious M2M Erotic Fiction? It’s “Huckleberry Finn” If Huck and Jim Got it On

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

Most literary scholars agree Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” ranks as America’s first true novel. Now if Twain had a bent toward the kinky and Huck and Jim was doin’ instead of just talkin’, it might have ended up as America’s first great gay erotic novel.

Unlike gay “get up and get off” prose, serious M2M erotic fiction has convoluted plots, complex characters, and plenty of sweaty sex. Lots of people are writing it these days, including women (God bless ‘em! – guess the guys out there are just doing it).

So what separates me from most of them?

The stuff I write I lived.

Not most it.

All of it.

But those of you who have followed my postings know that already.

I’ve lived in the gay ghettos of New York, L.A., and Fort Lauderdale, played in San Francisco’s South of Market and Chicago’s Halsted, all locales for my books, at the height of their wickedness. Been a paid escort, done porn, yea, done drugs, all for my art of course. Seen Gay Liberation take root, survived the AIDS crisis, and played the web and phone apps like a Vegas gambler. All while fucking and fisting men from well-heeled Mafia contractors to meth head losers from across the country and around the world, and having a couch potato sports junkie partner longer than most American marriages have lasted.

Convinced?

Yea, I’ve been a busy boy and I’ve been a bad boy. A real bad boy.

But hey, only bad boys know how to write great erotic gay fiction.

For a taste of what I’m talking about, check out my newest novel of deceit, betrayal, and self-discovery, “The Czar of Wilton Manors.” It’s Peyton Place, South Florida style. From Kokoro Press. On Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Or my new romantic novella, “Not in it For The Love,” a nostalgic look at the NYC gay scene of the nineties when there was still some fun left in the Big Apple. From Totally Bound Press and Amazon.

Kodak Moments

17 Nov

Kodak Moments

For those of you too young to remember, Kodak once ruled supreme in the photographic world, that is until it missed the boat and under-estimated the impact of digital technology which it ironically created. (Thank you, Samsung. Without my Samsung Galaxy, I wouldn’t have been able to take all those scandalous “selfies” that adorn my website and app profiles.) But when Kodak was King, it ran an advertising campaign that encouraged people to use its cameras and film to capture and save those once-in-a-lifetime memories, what its copywriter geniuses cleverly branded “Kodak Moments.”

So what’s a Kodak Moment for me as a gay man?

When it’s more than just mechanical, hit and run sex, which is practical and has its place but is only physiologically satisfying at best. It’s when you connect with a guy on more than just the dick and butt level, when he’s your type and you his, when lust and not expediency (or drugs) drives the two of you to do things you wouldn’t do with other guys but hardly think twice about doing with one another. The setting, be it a comfortable bed or a cramped sex club booth, and time spent, all night or just seventeen uncivilized minutes, are less important than what you do with them. It doesn’t matter if you ever connect again, though at the time the two of you think and even talk about doing just that. The reality is that you did connect and, in the end, that’s somehow enough.

So what’s a Kodak Moment?

It’s loving in the fast lane.

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

The Crystal Meth Playbook

14 Nov

The Crystal Meth Playbook

Remember the buzz you got when you took some over-the-counter cold med to get through work? Well, multiply that by a thousand and you have some idea what it’s like to be on that Big Bad Wolf, Meth.

As someone who’s done the shit every which way, who better to tell you the cold hard facts?

First, what’s meth’s allure?

It puts you in the most euphoric, sensual state you will ever experience in your life, and even if the guy you’re with looks like Woody Allen’s older brother, he’s the love of your life and a non-stop sex machine. And so are you. (Even if your dicks are going nowhere, but more on that later.)

And since it kills your appetite, meth’s great if you wanna lose those stubborn five pounds in two days, what I like to call the Tina Fuck Diet.

So what’s the problem?

If you’re a top, your dick may feel like you could fuck half the humpy guys in your town, but when you look down at it, it’s the size of your thumb. (And neither youth nor 300 mgs. of Viagra will make any difference.)

If you’re a bottom, your hole is insatiable and when you’ve run out of men, that plunger in the bathroom starts looking real interesting.

Because your dick feels so great, you keep pulling on it for hours, even days, til it’s raw. Cumming is almost impossible.

Despite all this talk of an epidemic, the shit is hard to get because most of the dealers and middlemen run things like amateur hour, not as a business. And I’m not even talking about getting arrested and fucking up your life, especially if you’re a professional and licensed. It’s no surprise that meth-related arrests are up here in South Florida, a hotbed of meth use.

Hundreds of dollars go up in smoke, up your nose or in your arm for one night of fun.

There’s no such thing as quality control. Some stuff sucks, other stuff smoked feels like you’re slamming. (And the difference between smoking it and shooting up with it is like the difference between kindergarten and graduate school.)

You are totally dehydrated for days, drink water non-stop, can’t take a shit, and your urine smells like a garbage dump.

You are wired for days and can’t sleep unless your buddy slips you some Xanax (yep, one drug leads to another). So what else is there to do at 4 a.m. in the morning when you realize after playing with it for two hours, your super sensitive cock ain’t gonna do anything, but vacuum your place twice, right? Or do a five hour work-out at the gym – if a heart attack doesn’t get you.

Til the shit wears off, you become increasingly paranoid. Either everyone’s looking at you because you’re the hottest motherfucker in the room. Or everyone’s looking at you because they know you’re tweaking.

Unlike alcohol which is a dead giveaway, you can control your outward appearance and behavior if you put your mind to it. Like slowing down on the smack speed talk or your driving on a local street.

And, of course, if you can’t deal with the inevitable crashes, hey, you just do some more. Chances are in six months your job’s gone, your apartment’s history, your dog is in the shelter, your teeth are getting loose because of lack of saliva, you look like shit, and you’re searching out a five hundred dollar a month room in some flophouse. I know of at least half a dozen guys who ended up this way if you think I’m bullshitting you. One beauty I knew fell asleep at the wheel after two weeks of non-stop partying and went into a canal. Dead of drowning at 42.

But hey, that’s the price for feeling good, REAL good, right buddy?

My Southern Rebel Boy

12 Nov

My Southern Rebel Boy

Since my teens, I’ve been something of an amateur Civil War buff. Over the years I’ve collected memorabilia, visited the Museum of the Confederacy in Richmond, and the Civil War Museum in PA, along with the battlefield at Gettysburg, have bought tons of books on the subject, including one on the primitive medical treatments of the time … you get the idea. I guess the attraction for me has been the romantic, larger-than-life character of the conflict vividly contrasted with all its horror and gruesomeness as documented by photographic pioneer Matthew Brady and others which brought the war home to folks in a way that had never been done before. Hell, it was the war that invented embalming so poor grieving parents, hundreds of miles away, could see their boy as they remembered him when he came home that final time.

This all leads up to my Southern Rebel Boy, Steve, who hit me up late one night on Adam4Adam. He was in town to help some buddy, in just for the night from Saint Augustine in the northern part of Florida which some people jokingly refer to as South Georgia, and was looking for fun with a hairy daddy. Besides being a slightly younger Ethan Hawke look-alike, with a slim, smooth tight body, he had a southern drawl that gave me an erection even before he took his clothes off, and our Daddy-Boy role playing quickly transitioned to a Civil War theme.

“This is what Yankee Daddies do to their Rebel Boys for being on the wrong side of the war!” I blasted as I ate his fuzzy butt in preparation for the main event.

Steve went with the flow.

“What do you mean sir?”

“I’m gonna give your rebel boy butt a good, long, deep Yankee fuck to teach you a lesson.”

“What lesson, sir?”

By now I was thrusting him good.

“That us Yankees call the shots, not you Rebel boys.”

Yea, dad, yea.”

“Learnin’ your lesson my cute rebel boy?”

“Damn, you Yankees know how to fuck. Had I known that when I joined up, I would have fought for the Union!”

We went on like this, him sucking my dick in between me fucking him til we both came. Then we laughed and kissed and he left. His plan was to hit the road for Saint Augustine early the next morning, a good five hour drive. But he promised the next time he was in town, he’d be ready for another heavy duty punishment by his Yankee Dad.

A few days later, I don’t know what motivated me, but I decided to text him. That’s when I thanked him for the evening and told him that he reminded me of Ethan Hawke who costarred with Denzel Washington in “Training Day.”

“Hey, what a compliment. I had an awesome time too.”

“Hope we can do it again, Rebel Boy.”

“Most definitely.”

“After all, your Yankee Daddy still needs to give you a good fucking for being on the wrong side. That’s how us Yankee men treat rebel boys like you by fucking their sweet rebel boy butts til they learn their lesson.”

“Hell yeah!” was his reply.

Wonder if there’s a book out there about the gay side of the Civil War. Who knows, maybe my little fantasy with Steve was no fantasy at all.

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