I Live in a Gay Ghetto – Sort Of

2 Sep

I Live in a Gay Ghetto – Sort Of

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

For the past dozen or so years, I’ve called Fort Lauderdale home, and living only ten minutes from our gay ghetto, Wilton Manors is in sharp contrast to what I dealt with as a gay man in my prior life back in the Northeast.

Then I lived and worked in the burbs and every time I wanted to play in those pre-Manhunt days of the nineties and early two thousands, I had to drive to the local metro mecca, in my case Manhattan, buck the traffic, deal with mega-tolls, then find a place to park on the lower West Side and walk blocks, whatever the weather, to my favorite watering holes in the West Village to save a small fortune on a lot. And I was always afraid to overdo it on the booze since I knew I had at least an hour’s tough drive back at 1 or 2 in the morning when the cops were out like cockroaches.

If I was in a bath house mood, like, say, the East Side Club which had the kind of seasoned men I preferred versus the more convenient West Side Club which was frequented by the under thirties, I’d park my car downtown and take an expensive taxi ride or two subways to the Upper East Side to avoid traffic and parking terror.

And all of this trouble guaranteed me zilch.

Sure, I had my little coterie of fuck buddies, reliable sex with some grass or coke thrown in as icing on the cake, but again they were all in Manhattan (most were ex-bath house buddies) which still meant traffic, tolls and bullshit.

Again, I left NYC for Fort Lauderdale in 2002 just before the web got hot; otherwise I might have been able to stay on Staten Island, the most Italian-American county in the U.S., and enjoy some Italian sausage close to home. But for us pre-Millennial guys, it was a different world then.

Even today, up at my summer place in rural Pennsylvania, things are no better. Here the web is the ONLY way to meet men; there’s a bookstore somewhere I never checked out, and one gay bar thirty miles away on dark, winding country roads where there’s few men of my liking, usually with their bf’s, among the leather lesbians and RuPaul wannabes.

And while there are some very hot men here in PA and neighboring upstate NY (a few of which I’ve been lucky to have), a lot of guys, closeted by family (including wives) or job or just the fact we’re in redneck territory are understandably hesitant to go beyond texting hot cock shots. And when he does want to get down and dirty, distance is a big problem. Often the guy is twenty, thirty or forty miles away, and if we’re decide to meet halfway, the motels start at seventy bucks for ninety minutes of fun. Two guys asking for a room at two in the afternoon also generates some raised eyebrows.

For all my focus on sex, you can understand there’s no sense of any kind of cohesive gay sub-culture to put your arms in either the burbs or the boonies. The best you can hope for are some close knit friends and cyber-buddies.

Zip fifteen hundred miles south to “it’s always summer” Lauderdale where it’s all so easy. I don’t mean scoring, though your odds are better, because there are a hell of lot more of us, both townies and “new meat” out-of-towners, especially during Season which is November through May. Yea, you still got the mindfuckers and cockteasers and deceivers and meth heads, but it’s the potential – real or imagined – that keeps your cock in a perpetual semi-erect state. We’ve got one of the best gay beaches in the world open all year to case out prospects; the hookup sites are busting with hot dicks and butts; and any bar or sex club or bath house (we got two of ‘em) or gay toy store or clothing outlet with the latest see-through bikinis or gay-friendly gym are just ten or fifteen minutes away from me. If I lived in Wilton Manors, most are practically walking distance. Ditto with the guys. Hell, when I get hits from Miami, just thirty minutes away, I hesitate if the guy wants me to come to him. After all, why should I have to get on I95? Except maybe to check-out the nude beach at Haluover, minutes from Miami.

For all this immediacy, however, those of you used to the Castro or Hell’s Kitchen or West Hollywood or Chicago’s Halsted might not find quite the sense of community here in Lauderdale even with our men’s chorus, soccer and baseball teams or bowling leagues, maybe because we’re still a car town (pedestrians are an endangered species), and even Wilton Manors is more suburban sprawl than tight urban living. And making friends, while not impossible, is also harder when guys are on the make for the next hottie off the plane from NYC or LA or Chicago or Berlin and can’t see investing time in relationships.

Okay, what’s the downside you ask? Sorry to say, some gay businesses exploit rather than respect their customers because they have the misguided attitude,”where else you gonna go?” (not as true as it used to be), and forget us townies are the ones keeping their afloat when the vacationers aren’t around.

And, let’s face facts: gay ghettos are gay ghettos because they are magnets for those gay men who frankly eat, shit and sleep the gay lifestyle or feel understandably more secure and safe among their brothers, and would paranoid living almost anywhere else. Live and let live, but some are just not my kind of gay guy or the kind of men I want to be surrounded by 24/7. In the supermarket. In the gym. At the laundromat.

No, living near, not in a gay ghetto means I can conveniently go in, get what I want, and get the fuck out when I’ve had enough.

Working Out in Str8Land

29 Aug

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

Now I live in Fort Lauderdale and go to probably the gayest gym in town not for the sights or because I feel more comfortable being surrounded by my bros – seven of out 10 are 40+ and more there to chit chat and see and be seen than lift – but because it’s one of only a handful of gyms near me that comes free with my health insurance.

Well, as you know, if you follow my posts, I spend my summers in rural PA in a small town which borders on rural upstate New York, as alien to Fort La-de-da as the Amazon Rain Forest is to Pluto’s ice-encased moon. And Planet Fitness, the top notch gym I go to about 20 miles away in Port Jervis, New York when I’m up that way, couldn’t be straighter – or at least more straight appearing.

The young male eye candy is enough to put you in into a diabetic coma, but what intrigues me is watching these older guys – no, not the ones who were ordered to exercise by their docs or else dig the hole and sit in their lawn chair and wait – no, the over 50 guys, some in decent shape, others wearing sweats from their high school or college glory days that don’t fit them any more with their baseball caps turned backwards, strutting around like jocks seeking conversations with these young perfect specimens of manhood. OK, some may be their coaches or family friends, or maybe even their dad or uncle, but what about the rest?

Now, I think, gay or str8, some guys who wanna talk to kids old enough to be their sons or grandsons do it to feel young and relive, in their own shitty little way, the days when they were that kid. Hey, isn’t this whole fucken society focused on the young, and those of us no longer young on nostalgia?

But then you’ve got the guys I wonder about. In the gay gym, it becomes pretty obvious by the body language and perpetual grin and stalking eyes that the Old Man would like more than just a conversation about the Cher concert with a twenty something that needs the abs machine like Marilyn Monroe needed bigger breasts. And on occasion it works. The Kid is looking for a daddy (mentor or moneyed.)

But what about these fifty plus gray haired men I see at Planet Fitness with these glued on grins and jockey stances as they chat with Pretty Guy? Hey, we’ re in Rural America where , from my experiences in trying to make a guy online, is as closeted, understandably, as you can get. Is this the way some of these “latent” homosexuals, gay men or befuddled bi-guys mentally get their rocks off? Not just gazing at all this male beauty than surrounds them, but actually making contact with one of them?

Could some secret liaisons actually come out of all this? (Who the fuck knows.) Or is it just all genuine jock talk?

Or, maybe, am I jealous I’m not talking to them too?

Revenge Fuck

27 Aug

Revenge Fuck

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

Being human, we all lie a little on our cyber-profiles, be they friend-seeking Facebook or guy-seeking Bear411. Like quoting our dick size in Manhunt inches (as one of my buddies put it, “Where do some guys measure from, their ass crack?”) or shaving a few years off our age. (Notice how everybody’s 49?)

But one thing I don’t do is post pics that were taken when Clinton I was still President. With me, what you see is what you get. Most of my profile pics are a few months old, and I make it a habit to update them regularly with some porny pose. So I expect the guys I contact to do the same. Hey, a tinge more gray or a few extra pounds around the waistline are tolerable, but not a shot of you smiling like you did at your first communion while the guy who shows up at the door looks like a poster boy for Depends.

Understood, there are guys who create delectable virtual personas from their scrapbooks of yesteryear for whatever reason – age, illness – who know damn well they will never meet you in the flesh as much as they cocktease you into thinking they will. And there are a number of guys on Facebook who think they’re fooling me with a twenty-seven syllable name and a shot of Tom Selleck when he was a hottie as their profile picture.

But if we’re gonna screw, I expect a facsimile of what I saw on the phone app.

Which gets me around to the story of my quintessent revenge fuck.

I was visiting family on winter vacation in Tampa – a four hour drive from my home in Lauderdale – and decided to stay in a gay guesthouse in nearby St. Petersburg where hopefully I could play between my G-rated social commitments. A guy with a gymnast body who looked in his late thirties, early forties at the most, wooed me on Growl’r and a we set a date for him to come visit that evening. He didn’t list his age in his profile and my mistake was not asking him. After, his pics said hottie, right?

Well, what greeted me at the door of my room was a skinny, stoop-shouldered fifty- something, balding pale-faced man with a brazen “gotcha” grin. I know, anyone else would have told him to get the fuck out, but he figured that now that he was here and I was all horned up, I’d give him a pity fuck. But there was a method to my madness as I showed no reaction, smiled, and invited him in.

He was a bottom, and after a few licks of my dick, he assumed the position, back on the bed, his boney legs apart and up in the air, his tired, loose pussy staring me in the face. He was looking for a good fuck and I happily obliged for about five minutes. He kept groaning and I kept pounding, but just as it looked like he was ready to pop, I whipped my tool out so fast he winched, and asked him in a low, measured monotone, “Just how old are your pictures?”

“A – a couple of years.”

“Well, if they’re just a few years old, you’ve obviously lived life in the fast lane.” With that, I pulled up my drawers, and handed him his. It took him literally ninety seconds to get his shit together and reach for the door knob. In fact, he was so quick, he inadvertently left me his bottle of fresh poppers as a peace offering.

As Shakespeare said, “to thine own self be true…’

My old secretary Liz from my days in public relations put it better:

“Don’t bullshit a bullshit artist.”

Double Standards?

25 Aug

Double Standards?

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

Ferguson. The Bay Earthquake. ISIS.

Maybe we need a break for a moment from ugly reality and dwell on something more pleasant.

Like the male anatomy.

Or more specifically, what I think is a double standard when it comes to what TV, the mainstream web, social media and even film are willing to show of male private parts versus female. A legit movie loaded with boobs barely gets a yawn anymore, but male “frontal nudity” is a boost to box office. Or take a typical Victoria’s Secret commercial where stunning, voluptuous specimens of female perfection prance around in lascivious poses with practically nothing on while all most Hanes commercials for men’s underwear show is the package – the cellophane kind I mean.

What brought this to mind is the multimillion dollar lawsuit against Facebook by a girl who claims FB failed to take down a bogus profile of her posted by some ex-friend. Out for twisted revenge, the ex depicted the gal in the nude, using Photoshop magic to stick her head on some fetching naked chicks.

All I can tell you is when I post a pic on my FB page with a little too much bulge showing: (a) FB tells me to take it down or be banished from its cyber-kingdom; (b) some evil queen reports me and FB tells me to take it down or be banished; or (c) FB plays censor and never posts it to begin with. (Ask me about my infamous but innocent shower scene.) So how, pray tell, was this female porn obviously in violation of FB’s community standards up for MONTHS even after the gal who was wronged asked them to remove it?

Again, are we talking double standards here? Female curves are okay but male bumps aren’t?

As for that other gal who participated of her own free will on “Dating Naked” and is now suing the producers for not blurring out her pubes, and lost her bf in the process – please! He was okay with her being on the show but heaven forbid if her pubic hairs showed? – I think the one who would feel a lot more embarrassed would be her male date mate if his pecker was showing and he turned out not to be as well-endowed as he bragged to his buds.

Telling Your World

22 Aug

Telling Your World

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

O.K., so you’re just a regular gay guy, comfortable in being a guy. Should you tell the world you’re gay? You know the world I’m talking about, the shitty little two-by-four world each of us occupies, work, school, family, friends.

So, should you spill the beans?

Well, my answer to that lofty question is the usual politician’s cop-out: it all depends.

If you live in a megalopolis, your retro-hippie parents raised you in a commune, most of your friends or co-workers are gay, bi, or super liberals, you work in a gay-friendly office or an industry or profession where being gay is actually a plus, well, what the fuck, why not?

If, on the other hand, you live in Smalltown, Nowhere, your parents read the Bible while taking a shit, your
college buddies think a wild Friday night is finishing off a couple of six packs, cursing in the office is frowned on, or you work for an ultra-conservative employer (like I did – the Catholic Church), then I don’t think so.
Using some common sense, and what God gave you upstairs, you have to decide whether coming clean is more grief than benefit.

Sure, sometimes there are financial and legal advantages, like if you have a legit partner and he and you live in a state or city or work for an employer that offers domestic partnership benefits. (It always blows my mind when I think about Disney, one of the most family-oriented corporations on the planet, also offering same sex benefits even if it took them awhile.). But if signing up will only make you a pariah with co-workers or your tight-assed boss (Human Resources personnel are notorious for being the biggest blabber mouths in a company), you and your guy may reluctantly just pass it all up.

A buddy of mine decided to take advantage of domestic partnership benefits at his job for him and his partner, only to be grilled by the H.R. director for all sorts of documentation that living-together straights are never asked for. I admire him for not backing down and bringing a discrimination grievance against the prick.

Again, you need to carefully weigh your own private reality and see if it makes sense. White lies are not mortal sins, but if questions from family or straight friends about marriage start getting under your skin, and you’re tired of dodging the bullets (and possibly misleading some woman into thinking you’re ready to buy the engagement ring), maybe it’s time to consider relocating to a place where nobody knows you and you can live your life as you want. (Change jobs, decide to go to college out-of-state, etc.) That’s not being a coward; sometimes it’s just being sensible.

But what if you’re already married, wifey truly suspects nothing (doubtful), and you wake up one morning and
decide you’re tired of waking up to a woman? Well, again, whether you kiss and tell may be dictated by circumstance.

Is there a family legacy you must protect?

Is she your boss?

Would a divorce leave you broke? For a woman I think marrying for money is about as recession-proof an investment
as you can make. If you’re not a woman, spend the $50,000 on a sex change operation; then snarl a guy with some medium bucks, get fucked a few years, then divorce the jerk and get half of what he’s got. Sure beats playing the market. By the way I hear women at the gym constantly tearing up their hubbies or boy friends, I’m beginning to wonder in this great age of feminism if more and more ladies aren’t following this playbook.

Is there some guy waiting in the wings, or do you think leaving your straight life behind for a studio apartment in Boystown would solve all your pent-up sexual angst? (Don’t count on it.)

But if you really want to tell your world, I mean, REALLY want to tell them, just keep two maxims in mind:

Reality #1: There’s no gay law that says you have to tell the world. Do people walk up to total strangers and ask them if they’re straight or got their ladies to suck their dick yet? Whose business is it anyway what people do in their private lives, as long as they’re not raping young kids or robbing banks? I am constantly bewildered by some gays’ obsession to spill their guts out. Why? Who the fuck cares?

Reality #2: Don’t assume that just because you’ve bared your soul, everyone will be accepting and understanding and ready to buy you a wedding gift in advance just in case you meet the man of your dreams. Contrary to gay fantasies, life ain’t no made-for-Logo movie. We have all known of guys (maybe we’re one of them) who have been:

• abandoned by family, guilty that they somehow failed as parents, or embarrassed that the world knows they have a “pervert” for a son;

• thrown out by wives who feel inadequate or betrayed and take out their anger in bloody, knock-down divorces;

• abandoned by their children who may not be as enlightened as we thought they were;

• shunned by naïve girl friends who thought they had a shot at the aisle;

• demoted or dumped by bosses who just don’t like faggots; or

• deserted by lifelong buds who suddenly begin dissecting every past gesture of buddy affection between the
two of you.

And just because you’re young doesn’t mean a acceptance by your peers is automatic. The pro-gay Freedom to Marry group claims almost 70% of the voting public under 40 supports marriage equality. But not so fast. According to a recent survey published in the journal, “Armed Forces and Society,” half of the military’s youngest officers oppose gays serving in the military. And it didn’t matter whether you were talking about gays serving openly or under the now dead Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell restrictions.

This parallels in a way what I hear coming from a lot of divorced guys I meet down here in Lauderdale now leading a gay lifestyle who figured their twenty something/thirty something adult kids would accept dad’s shift in bedroom preferences. But while I realize this is anecdotal not scientific, the reality is most I talk to have either strained relationships with their kids or grandkids or haven’t seen them in years, their homosexuality at the heart of the matter.

It reminds me of the time a smart, savvy college student of mine doing an argumentative paper on gay marriage, where she would have to choose sides and defend her position, was leaning toward the negative since, after all, she asked, “Don’t gays choose to be gay?”

Could it be that liberal, “live and let live” attitudes we think are prevalent in our twenty first century world may not be as pervasive as we think among the younger, hipper among us?

So be ready for the backlash; just because you want to lead your life gay doesn’t mean the people in your life (present and past) have to agree with you.

Now, my longtime partner and I have never brought up the subject with family, co-workers or straight friends. They
all know we live together, co-own two houses, four dogs, etc., etc., etc. Unless they’re all pretty dumb, I’m sure that at some point most of them figured out that with G and me, 2+2 = 3. But never, never has anyone confronted us or thrown it up in our faces. And if they did, I think we would just say, “yep,” and move on.

Bottom line, you don’t have to flaunt your sexuality or wear it on your sleeve. If people know and respect you, they either don’t care, or have figured it all out a long time ago anyway.

What We Want in a Man (Body Wise, At Least)

20 Aug

What We Want in a Man (Body Wise, At Least)

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

And it’s not what you think, if you believe the results of an admittedly highly unscientific poll taken by one of the web hook-up sites, which asked, “what part of a man are you most attracted to?”

Hey, we’re homos because we like dick, right? So it’s no surprise this crazy “size matters” sub-culture places almost religious significance on the male penis. Because of this, we wear cock rings, get pierced, buy fifty dollar underwear or bikinis or tight, tight jeans all to show off – or shall we say – enhance our crotch. Just so Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now finds us worthy.

But, sorry to disappoint you, guys, only a third of the guys who responded said it was a guy’s package that wowed them the most.

Then there’s a faction of us who view the gym as our house of worship or Nazi den of torture, depending on our mood. We work those abs to exhaustion to emulate those retouched washboard models that adorn the covers of Men’s Fitness; work those biceps and chest muscles and shoulder muscles and legs and gluts, all to look terrif on the beach or shirtless at our favorite guy bar. Some of us even go a step beyond, spending hundreds if not thousands of dollars on testosterone therapy, steroids (legal and otherwise), and muscle supplements to max our efforts with those resistance machines and free weights. But, according to our poll, abs and arms each got a piddley 10% of the vote. Chests did a bit better at 30%, asses, yes, asses that supposedly women so adore in their men, less so at 20%.

Now, I’m a basic butch guy when it comes to dressing up. A twenty year old Tee and $20 pair of levis I got on sale at Kmart suit me fine. But I know there’s that group of us who go broke running up our Visa cards on clothes, those $50 polos and $250 jeans, all of which end up on the bedroom floor. Then there are those fancy haircuts we agonize over. (I give myself a buzz for the price of the electricity.) But only 2% of our respondents gave a shit what a guy wears and 4% how he was coiffed.

I know. At this point you’re asking: O.K., so what the fuck’s left? Well, an overwhelming 60% of the guys who answered said it was a guy’s face that got their dicks stirring.

So what should we learn from this?

Goodbye L.A. Fitness, fuck you Gold’s Gym, see ya International Male, and hello Cosmetic Surgery Center of South Florida!

So Just How Many Of Us Are There?

18 Aug

So Just How Many of Us Are There?

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

First there was Kinsey who said we made up ten percent of the population. More recently, a scientifically compiled sex survey by Indiana University concluded 15% of the American population, ages 14 to 94, identified themselves as homosexual or bisexual. Then came a Gallup poll about the same time that concluded our numbers were much lower, on average just 3.4% nationally.

Now, in what it touted as the first large-scale government survey measuring sexual orientation, the Centers for Disease Control says that only 1.6 percent of adults self-identify as gay or lesbian, 0.7 percent as bisexual, and an overwhelming 96.6 percent as straight.

So who’s got it right? Studies like the CDC’s that are “statistically significant” may still not tell the whole story since the bulk of America’s gay population lives in urban areas and such a study, by design, would need to be skewed to recognize this reality. Besides the obvious, that the cities are where the money and the jobs are, gays feel a sense of security in numbers.

Secondly, how many people when asked about their sexual orientation tell the truth? Even in our enlightened times, it’s more likely a homosexual might answer heterosexual or bi rather than the other way around since, like it or not, stigmas and discrimination are still rampant in many areas of this county, particularly the boonies. Some people are paranoid even when a survey is labeled “anonymous.”

And how do you define bisexual? By the number of sexual encounters the individual has with the same sex versus the opposite sex? Or how he or she is hardwired?

Gay is not an absolute, but shades of gray, and like sexuality itself, is as open to interpretation as color swatches at Home Depot. You’ve got guys, regular guys, beefy guys, who rap one another on the ass after a sweaty football game, homoerotic as hell, then go home and fuck their wives or girlfriends silly, maybe because they got turned on on the field? Then there’s the same guy type, maybe he’s a coach or a truck driver, with a male life partner or some fuck buddy who mirrors his under-spoken masculinity, and they very discreetly, or maybe not so discreetly, fuck the shit out of one another every chance they get. You’ve got openly effeminate men, many in the professions, who are as straight as a flagpole with seven kids to prove it and not a homo urge in their loins, and cross-dressers who have ten inch dongs and fuck bi-married men.

The CDC also concluded that gays tend to have more problems with smoking and drinking (what else is there to do while you’re waiting for Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now?) and also suffer from a greater degree of depression than straights. This last point is in direct conflict with a study published in the professional journal, “Psychosomatic Medicine,” which said homosexuals, in general, may suffer from less depression, anxiety and burn-out than heteros. That includes even gays still in the closet to family, friends and business associates where you would expect anxiety to be higher. The study involved both psych evals and measuring levels of the stress hormone, cortisol.

But let’s say the CDC is right with its numbers and we sexual “outliers” constitute less than 3% of the population. That still means we are equal to the largest current minority demographic in America, Latinos. And we’re unique in that we cross all race and ethnic lines.

And for the icing on the cake, there’s our discretionary incomes. Like all demographic groups, there are gays who have no money by wanton lifestyles or bad luck. But with the billions in gay tourist dollars generated in South Florida, just one sliver of the country, or the hundreds of millions of dollars benefiting businesses in states where marriage is legal, what we may lack in numbers we sure as hell make up in dollars.

And after all, isn’t that what this fucked up capitalistic society of ours is all about?


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