“Only Those Seeking an LTR Need Reply”

22 Sep

“Only Those Seeking an LTR Need Reply”

I admit it. I’m addicted to the hook-up sites. I’m on at least five of them at last count, plus another three or four phone apps, and while they’re like playing the slots – plenty of wasted time and effort – you keep surfing since you never know when your number will come up. And, one time out of hundred, it does. After all, since the popularity of the web, bars which used to be centers of cruising are now largely social clubs where every fifth guy is on his smartphone; and whorehouses like long standing bath houses are dying off faster than the African elephant as the young guys are crazy-glued to their keypads and the baths’ established goers are just growing older and older and older till they fade into the seventies’ gay art that still adorns the bath house walls. (There were over 200 bath houses at the height of Gay Liberation; today their number stands at just 70.) So where else can you find a roll in the hay with honey on it than places like Manhunt, Bear 411 or Growl’r.

That said, I’m convinced from my cyber-philandering that the thousands and thousands of men who these sites boast as members (“103,000 hot guys online right NOW!”)are hardly representative of gay society as a whole. With some minor altruistic exceptions, most guys who populate these sites fall into two broad categories:

“Selfish Sams,”guys looking for sex, just sex (do I really have to tick off what kinds of stuff two guys get into?), but sex on their terms. You use your gas or subway token to come to me, screw me and leave. And, oh, by the way, don’t forget to bring the lube and meth or grass so I can feel good while you fuck me, and a personal pizza me and my doggie Lulu can have after you get your ass out of here.

The other benevolent group are the “Wandering Wally’s,” partnered guys in closed, open and sideways relationships looking for recreational sex and a boost to their frail egos (“if I were your bf, I’d tie you to the bed and never let you leave the bedroom”) just as long as their playdates don’t get in the way of his and Herbie’s weekly bowling league.

So when on a rare occasion I hit up a guy for a little afternoon delight who responds “sorry, looking to date,” or “on here for more” I politely answer, “good luck,” and just wonder, if the guy is not blowing me off but is honest regarding his intentions, what kind of grass he’s smoking. Can guys really meet somebody on these hook-up sites adorned with porn and toy ads who they can take home to mother?

I wanna know what you think and I’ll be publishing the results of my little poll in a future blog.

In the meantime, happy hunting!

Here’s an Excerpt from My Latest Gay Romantic Novella, “Not In It For The Love”

17 Sep

Here’s an Excerpt from My Latest Gay Romantic Novella, “Not In It For The Love”

From Totally Bound Press, and on Amazon.

Not coverSet at the turn of the new millennium,. “Not In It For the Love” is the story of Josh, a young street-smart Florida drifter/hustler who is “adopted” by Bishop, a Wall Street power broker who sets him up as his trophy boy in Manhattan society. Josh leads a promiscuous lifestyle within New York City’s gay sub-culture of the late nineties, where he views himself as a sexual commodity when it comes to men. All this changes, however, when he meets Hylan, a young, bi-racial, down-on-his luck, wheelchair-bound musician…

It was a hot, steamy Sunday afternoon in August. Perfect for strutting the Village’s Christopher Street catwalk. Bishop had fallen asleep on the sofa watching From Here to Eternity on TCM, and a couple of prospective hot web dates had ended up going nowhere. Even my usually reliable ‘port in a storm’ fuck buddies weren’t responding to my ‘Hey, got some time?’ emails. The guys down in the Village for the Dugout’s weekly beerbust would be spilling out onto the sidewalk and street soon, shirtless, sweaty and hungry for one last screw for the weekend, even if they tried to hide their appetites behind smug ‘don’t give a fuck’ expressions.

I usually rode the subway down, less of a hassle with traffic and all, but I opted that night instead to take Bishop’s new, just-leased BMW out for a spin. It was parked in the basement garage in a space that cost more than most people’s rents. Although parking in the Village on Sundays was tight with all those out-of-town suburbies wanting to experience the City, I’d come to know the side streets where I could still find a space if I moved my ass.

I had made good time coming down the Westside Highway. At the first red light off the highway in the Village, I weaseled out of my sleeveless open shirt and was snaking through the Meat Market District when, a half a block from the Lure, that leather bar, this shirtless guy in a wheelchair sailed out of nowhere and sideswiped me.

My first reaction was shit, Bishop was gonna kill me for banging up his precious car. Then I saw in the rear-view mirror that the guy had been knocked out of his chariot onto the street and looked like he was pretty banged up. So I parked the car illegally by a pump and trotted over.

Even in his scruffed-up condition—he was dressed only in army fatigue shorts and sneaks, and his shoulder, knee, and forehead were all scraped and bloody—even messed up as all that, I found him…well, beautiful, a word that, frankly, had never come into my head before about any guy. His body fur was thick and wiry like steel wool, and his tangled, scrambled hair and beard stuck out like one of those African natives in those old copies of National Geographic people threw out at the trailer park. Even lying there on the street, his body reminded me of that bronze statue of Zeus I had seen in the lobby at the UN on one of Bishop’s attempts to show me some big city culture. Not overblown like a gym bunny, he was built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something. Even if his withered legs didn’t quite match his bulked-up upper torso.

“I’m sorry, man, didn’t see you coming,” I tried to explain as I knelt down and stared into those ocean-blue eyes. He had the strong, rugged features of a Midwestern white boy but I knew his cocoa tan didn’t come from a week in San Juan. A half breed, as Momma would politely put it when she was sober. Like the kind of models I kept seeing in those store circulars and on TV, not white, not black, so they kinda fit everybody.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I wasn’t looking,” he replied with the same kind of nerdy yet sexy voice I had heard on a few TV car commercials. “Could you help me get back to my place—I live just a few blocks from here—I’ll be okay.”
And that, folks, is how Hylan Jonathan Demarest—Ironsides as he called himself—sailed into my shitty two-by-four life.

I folded up his dented wheelchair and put it in the trunk—Bishop’s baby had suffered only a minor scratch—draped a blanket left over from this past weekend’s beach outing at Riis Park onto the front passenger seat so no blood would get on the leather then ever so gently lifted this hunk of man in.

His chair, though a bit bent, was still usable. Once we got to his address, I placed him back in it then wheeled him to the commercial elevator of the warehouse building off Jane Street, where his loft was.

Scratching at his door to greet us was Hylan’s big black lumbering motherfucker of a dog, Bosco, as furry as his master, who helped him, as he told me later, live. He sniffed the dry blood on Hylan’s knee and whimpered a little but accepted me in a second. Guess he realized I was here to help, not hurt his handsome buddy.
Once in his place, almost as large as Bishop’s penthouse but stripped down to the bare essentials, Hylan wheeled himself over to the bathroom and gestured for me to help him get his shorts, jockey underwear and sneakers off. No bag on his side or diapers like Old Man Shanahan, who lived a couple of trailers away from ours in Shady Isles and who I took care of once when his daughter couldn’t make it. Bosco, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable on Hylan’s king-sized bed.

I was getting so hard so quick my dick hurt, cramped in the crotch of the super tight jeans I wore when I was out cruising so my package looked even bigger. Funny, I always thought paralyzed guys couldn’t get it up anymore, but as he maneuvered his body with those powerful biceps into a plastic stool that sat in the shower stall, I could see he was getting aroused too, the head of his uncut cock beginning to make a surprise unveiling. He told me later that his plumbing didn’t always work so fast, so I must have been doing something right. And even if he couldn’t really stand, I figured he was about my height or even a little taller, and definitely bigger where it really counted. I figured his piece was nine, even ten inches and thick like a flashlight. Then he turned on the shower and braced himself under the water.

I quickly undressed, my aching dick bouncing off my abs, and joined him. Under the shower, I gently washed his cuts as I slowly caressed his broad furry shoulders. We said nothing, but when he gestured me to stand in front of him, I knew what he wanted and I surrendered my stiff manhood to his mouth. For the next five minutes he worshiped my cock with his tongue and his lips. All the while the shower beat down on us like a waterfall. Just as I spurted down his throat, he fell back like in some kind of trance, then slumped back into the chair. Nothing had shot out of that beautiful cock of his but I could tell in his own manly way that he had come too.

If this had been one of my usual hit-and-run man encounters, I’d be heading to the door by now. Instead, we slowly dried one another off and I carried him back to the bed and lay next to him, all quiet like, with Bosco still on the bed, making us some weird kind of threesome. Then, without thinking about it, I turned to Hylan. And began kissing him. First on the lips, then trailing down his hairy, massive chest and furry six-pack to his cock.
As we finished for the moment, his scratched up wheelchair, leaning against the bathroom door, caught the corner of my eye.

“I’ll— I’ll pay to get that fixed,” I whispered.

“You sure you wanna do that?” said Hylan. “After all, it was my fuck-up as much as yours.”

“No,” I replied, stroking his chest softly. “I’m okay.”

“Well, considering what you drive and what you wear,” said Hylan, tugging at the Rolex on my wrist, “my first guess was you’re a lawyer, or doctor, or own your own business maybe.”

Then he stared down at my still hard cock, then back at me.

“But looking at that handsome baby face of yours, I’d say you’re just being kept.”

I grinned the same way I had to charm the girls in high school as Hylan crawled between my legs and laid his head on my dick.

“My parents wanted me to go into medicine,” he began, stroking my leg. “My father is a civil rights attorney back in Chicago, my mother counsels troubled kids, but I was in my second year at Chicago U when I decided to switch majors to music.”

“So what happened?” I asked, staring at his once strong hairy legs, with their hint of muscle, now thin and frail looking like an old man’s.

“Everybody automatically thinks I was in a car accident or was some crazy biker boy who crashed his motorcycle into a wall, but I can thank a bug for my wonderful wheelchair existence.”


“A virus that hit my spinal cord. I won’t bore you with all the medical jargon, but it’s been three years now, just after I moved from Chicago. One Thursday I was jogging on the old West Side Highway. By that Sunday my legs were useless. The emergency room docs at St. Vincent’s knew what it was but there was nothing they could do for me except give me painkillers till there was nothing left to feel.”

“How…? How did you stand it, dude?” I asked, rubbing his leg as if by some fuckin’ magic I could make him whole again.

“I felt like doing myself in in the beginning, but there are worse things that can happen to you, right? And having been a high school music teacher, I’m at least able to continue making a few bucks as a tutor, in between doing gigs at clubs here in the Village—I play a mean guitar—where I can show off some of my stuff.”

“You mean you write songs?”

He asked me to bring his wheelchair to the edge of the bed, then hopped in and led me to a side corner off the bathroom where a tower of computer equipment and a keyboard glowed in the shadows.

“Let me show you.” He brought up on the PC screen a song he had written and began playing it. “That’s why I moved to New York in the first place. If I’m ever gonna make it.”

I couldn’t resist stroking his chest and abs as he fiddled around with all those keys and knobs.

“So where did you get all this fur?” I whispered in his ear. My mind was on other things than music.

“From my mother,” he quipped, then laughed. He had a funny kind of laugh, round tones and all stagey like, like one of those laugh tracks on TV. “She’s from Argentina—Spanish and Italian blood. My grandfather and uncle are gorillas.”

“And that fuckin’ humpy body, too?”

“A mix of both sides. My father was a gymnast in college, one of the first black men to make the team at his school, and I competed in swimming when I was at Chicago U, if that counts,” he replied, snuggling closer. “Now it’s just some weightlifting”—he gestured to the barbells lying on a table a few yards from his bed—“and wheeling myself around.”

Back in bed we made love, kissing almost every inch of one another’s bodies a thousand times over, then dozed off till around five when Hylan nudged my shoulder.

“I know you have to leave but I wanna show you something first.”

I helped Hylan dress, then got him into his magic chariot and, leaving Bosco behind slumbering on the bed, down we went in the freight elevator back to the street.

“This way,” said Hylan, pointing to the river and the piers just a block or so away.

And once we got onto the piers, we stayed there, just us, my Hylan in his chariot and me standing proudly behind him, my hands firmly on his strong shoulders, watching the tease of a sunrise begin to light the skies.
Hylan reached up and grabbed my hand.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” he mumbled, his eyes still fixated on the horizon.

“Waiting for you to find me,” I whispered back in his ear.

“Not In It for the Love:” From Totally Bound Press, and on Amazon.

Just Out: My New Romantic Gay Novella, “Not In It For the Love”

15 Sep

Just Out: My New Romantic Gay Novella, “Not In It For the Love”

Not cover

From Totally Bound Press and on Amazon.

Set at the turn of the new millennium,. “Not In It For the Love” is the story of Josh, a young street-smart Florida drifter who runs away from his drug addicted parents to play a male hustler in a cheap Key Largo motel run by his uncle. It’s there that Bishop, a Wall Street power broker finds him and sets him up as his trophy boy in Manhattan society.

Josh leads a promiscuous lifestyle within New York City’s gay sub-culture of the late nineties, where he views himself as a sexual commodity when it comes to men, be they one night stands he picks up in the bars or bath houses or on the web, or Bishop’s well-heeled business associates who pay him.

All this changes when he meets Hylan, a young, bi-racial, down-on-his luck, wheelchair-bound musician who awakens in Josh what love can be between two men. But their chance at happiness and the lives of those around them are instantly and forever changed by 9/11.

czar fb5“Not In It For the Love” follows the publication this past summer of my erotic novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive” which focuses on the underbelly of the contemporary Fort Lauderdale leather scene. From Kokropress, on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

For more info, check out rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or gay-erotic-fiction.com on your tablet or smartphone.

What the Hell Were They Thinking?

12 Sep

What The Hell Were They Thinking?

It’s been all over the news in Fort Lauderdale this week: two retired professional well-heeled gay guys take in a 50 year old, still sexy man they meet at the gym who’s got a mile long felony record, and is a dopie and dope dealer, in the hopes they can rehab him and get him back on track. Eight months into this rescue mission, the guy, high on drugs, pissed off, or just plain crazy, pulls a gun on them in their home. The partners barricade themselves in the bathroom and call 911. The police converge on the place, Crazy comes out, wielding his gun and taunting the cops to shoot him. Which they do. Dead. Suicide by Cop.

First off, I don’t believe for a New York minute the cover story that these guys were honestly trying to help a deadbeat. More likely, he was their toy boy (hey, even a fifty year old can be a boi if he’s still cute). Only their toy proved defective and should have been put on the recall list, not the sales floor.

What the fuck were these guys thinking? Two educated, intelligent, successful men taking in a total loser they know does drugs? Huh?!?

But this is not the first time I’ve heard this cautionary tale of older gay men who retire to Florida totally naïve about the scene and the scammers and predators who inhabit it. A buddy of mine, again financially comfortable, who divorced his wife after forty years to live the life of an urban gay gentlemen, took in a still pretty HIV-poz methhead who had absolutely nothing but who won my friend’s heart. “But he loves me,” sniffled my buddy till he found the guy’s drug paraphernalia around his condo and threw him out. Two months later, my friend discovered all his gold jewelry was gone. (Duh.) As I told him, he was lucky that’s all that happened to him.

So what’s the lesson here?

If they’re a good fuck, just fuck ‘em. Don’t have them move in with you.

9/11: I Was There

11 Sep

9/11: I Was There

As I’ve been doing every year at this time, here are my personal memories of 9/11:

Bin Laden’s death, however euphoric, was bittersweet for those who either lost people they knew or loved, or who were there when it happened.

Both were my realities.

In fact, 9/11 was one of the one hundred and one reasons why I left NYC for SoFlo back in 2002.

At the time I was the Public Relations VP for the Staten Island Division of NYC’s now defunct St. Vincent’s Hospital System, and we had a corporate meeting scheduled that Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. at the Motherhouse as we jokingly referred to St Vincent’s in lower Manhattan. Living – and working – on Staten Island, New York’s forgotten borough, I would usually take the S.I. Ferry into the City if I had business, but that morning I instead drove my car over the Bayonne Bridge which connected S.I. to New Jersey and took the PATH subway system which had recently opened a station in Bayonne. It left me off right on Seventh Avenue and 14th Street, a short walk to the hospital.

I arrived a bit early, around 8:30, and decided to kill time having an overpriced cup of java at one of the coffee shops on Seventh. Then, at about 8:50 – the time the first plane hit – I began my walk downtown.

Up to then there had been no sounds or commotion, but as I strolled briskly to my destination – Seventh and 12th Street – I noticed more and bystanders looking up. “Why?” I thought until I looked up too. From this vantage point, the WTC usually resembled a picture postcard that tourists from London or Peoria would send to the folks back home. Only now, there was a gaping hole with billowing black smoke right smack in the upper third of one of the towers. Funny, but in person and real time, it looked fake, like a Grade D sifi movie from the 50’s, and actually appeared more real later when I saw the moment replayed again and again on TV.

I called my secretary back on Staten Island and told her to turn on the TV in our office to see what was up. It was the last time that day that I used my cell phone. Apparently there were cell towers on top of the WTC, and soon after our cells’ only use were as paperweights.

When I got to our corporate PR offices in the hospital, my colleagues were glued to the television although we could all see what was transpiring right outside our office window. Everyone probably thought the same thing I did, that a traffic helicopter or small private plane had gone bad. After all, the Empire State Building had been hit by a plane in 1947. But after the second jet plowed into the other Tower, we all knew this was no accident, and our corporate PR boss immediately mobilized us into action teams. You see, St. Vincent’s was the closest hospital to Ground Zero and our job for most of that terrible day was to control the media circus that soon converged at our doors.

Seventh Avenue which fronted St. Vincent’s was closed, the blocks surrounding it barricaded, and ambulances, physicians, nurses, and other healthcare personnel waited patiently for victims that never materialized. Yes, there were casualties, but for the most part, you either walked out of the towers or you were dust. It was there, keeping the press outside at bay, that I witnessed the collapse of the two towers. From that point, ten or so blocks from Ground Zero, there were no sounds of destruction. A thick cloud mushroomed from the site like an atomic bomb, then nothing. It was easy to forget people were still in those buildings.

Health personnel who lived in the area came by to volunteer; and other residents of the Village began forming a line around the perimeter of the hospital to give blood. I remember two gay boys, obviously aware of the ban on blood donations by homosexuals because of the AIDS epidemic, asking me, “Are they taking gay blood too?”

Later in the afternoon, I was assigned to staff one of the tables that had been hastily stationed just outside the hospital entrance, manned with lists of who had been brought to our place. Like zombies out of “Night of the Living Dead,” people who were searching for family or friends in the chaos listlessly came up to our tables to see if we had their loved one. They were obviously exhausted not just from the shock of the day but the fact that the Greater New York Hospital Association had no master list, forcing people to wander nomadically from one hospital to the next. And here, right behind me, on St. Vincent’s brick facing, they began posting those heartbreaking “Have You Seen…” notices that would engulf the City in the weeks ahead.

At about 7, I was released, but because the PATH system was out of commission – the WTC station had been obliterated in the disaster – my strategy was to somehow get to the Staten Island Ferry terminal. I grabbed the subway but when the conductor announced two stops into our ride that there would be no further stops in lower Manhattan, a sea of us fellow Staten Islanders who all shared my strategy vacated the train en masse for the long trek by foot to the terminal which was only a block or so from Ground Zero.

By pure happenstance, I tagged along with two black nurses from Beth Israel who knew the way. No one had any idea whether the Ferry was even running; the rumor that afternoon was that the Ferry terminal on the Staten Island side had been turned into a temporary morgue. The cops we encountered on our hike knew nothing; and we found firefighters and other emergency personnel, shell shocked by the day’s events, sitting on curbs, exhausted or openly crying. Wisely, my new nurse buddies had the good sense to ask for face masks from one of the ambulances along the way, which we put on as we approached our destination.

The scene resembled Pompeii after Vesuvius. A heavy white coating enveloped everything in sight, while in the middle of this surreal world a lone jogger trotted underneath the abandoned West Side Highway, a drop of normalcy in a sea of insanity.

Yes, the Ferry was still running – we would get the last boat out at 9, the last that would run for a week – but as we made our way upstairs to the platform, we could see the terminal had been turned into a temporary trauma center. It was also evident that the dozens of cots that covered the terminal floor had remained untouched.

The first reaction of people that morning, fearing what might happen next, was to get the hell out of lower Manhattan as quickly as possible. For Staten Islanders, many of whom worked in the Financial District, that meant the Ferry. In their haste and panic, some who had been injured in the chaos waited until they got home to come to my own St. Vincent’s to be treated. But the largest influx of victims of 9/11 that we would see in the coming weeks and months were those who came to our Psych ER.

Living in New York City, there was no way to escape the ongoing gloom which descended on its residents for months. It was especially dismal on Staten Island, home to many of the Wall Streeters, cops and firefighters who never walked away from the rubble, where every day our local paper announced dozens of funerals and memorial services. Barbara, the secretary of my CEO, knew Ralph, her firefighter husband and a first responder to the scene, was dead when she saw his rig crushed under the concrete and steel of one of the towers on TV.

I attended Ralph’s funeral at Our Lady of Sorrow Church, a few blocks from the hospital, and there, at the entrance like a receiving line at a wedding, were Barbara; Ralph’s mother, Anne, retired from the hospital’s Maintenance Department; and Sue, his sister, a lab tech. I knew them all.

The Church was standing room only, maybe the only benefit, I thought, of dying young.

And I know Barbara and her family were strangely grateful for another reason.

At least they had something to bury.

ISIS, Wall Street and The Cloud

10 Sep

ISIS, Wall Street and The Cloud

There’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that ISIS is out to get us. And add to that, a dozen jets are missing from Libya’s airports, there are American citizens among the ISIS ranks who with their American passports can re-enter the US with no problem since we don’t know who they are, and tomorrow is the anniversary of 9/11.

What the fuck are we waiting for?

Nuke ‘em! Regrettably there will be innocent civilian casualties, but would you rather see Americans in body bags?

Meanwhile, despite all the shit going on in the Middle East and Putin flashing his bull balls in Eastern Europe, Wall Street continues its meteoric rise.

Another example of the separation of the One Percent not only from the rest of us but reality too?

Finally, I’d take the hacking of all those nude pics of Jennifer Lawrence and her cohorts as a publicity stunt though Lawrence hardly needs a PR boost at this point in her career But though I admit my data storage needs are not tremendous – USB’s work just fine for me – I was skeptical about “The Cloud” right from the get-go.

Turn my stuff over to a third party up there in Cyber-Heaven where it’s no longer under my dirty little fingers?

No fucken way!

The Gay Marriage Waters Are Getting Muddier …

8 Sep

The Gay Marriage Waters Are Getting Muddier …

Heavy hitters in the religious arena – the Mormon Church, the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, the National Association of Evangelicals, the Ethics & Religious Commission of the Southern Baptist Convention and even my people, the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod are asking the U.S. Supreme Court on the basis of tradition and religious freedom to uphold Utah’s right to not allow gay and lesbian couples to wed. Previously, Utah courts had sanctioned SSM but the state intervened, throwing the court decision into appeal purgatory. Obviously, if the high court takes this one on, its decision could have wide spread implications across the country, not just in Utah.

My view on all this?

1. Marriage is a secular contract issued by states. Any religious ceremonies attached are simply icing on the wedding cake. The marriage license is all that counts.

2. No one says any religious affiliation has to recognize a SSM or even officiate over one; there I side with the groups and their religious values. But there are plenty of churches and temples that do embrace gay marriages and frankly, as far as the heavy hitters are concerned, it’s none of their fucken business. Again, we are talking about a secular institution.

True, since licenses are issued on the state level, we all know the power struggles going on in many states on this point, but given the Supreme Court’s ruling last year that our constitutional rights as citizens supersede states’ rights should mean that we will ultimately win out.

Ah, but not so fast. For what may muddy the waters is the Court’s ruling this spring that employers with strong religious bends do not have to include family planning and abortion benefits in the health care packages they offer their employees.

Are the heavy hitters using this crack in the dam to reopen the whole religious stance on gays and marriage?

Sure as hell sounds like it.


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