On Your Knees: My Born Again Manhunt Hook-up

24 Oct

On Your Knees: My Born Again Manhunt Hook-up

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

He seemed like a regular guy on his Manhunt profile. Cute with a nice, compact body, Bruce sounded even more interesting on the phone as we chatted a bit about intellectual matters like education ( I taught college and he was finally finishing his degree in Computer Technology) and set a date to have dinner at the Olive Garden, my treat.

I asked him to meet me at my house so we would take just one car to the restaurant. I also had an ulterior motive for this suggestion. If we were both horny enough, we might reverse the order of our appetites and have dessert first in my bedroom.

The initial red flag went up when he pulled into my driveway in a beat up Chevy (O.K., I thought, the struggling student even if he were almost 40). The second was when he emerged not in a nice tight T or even tank top to show off that bod that I had been so enamored with on his profile, but a rather baggy sweat shirt, especially strange for a balmy Florida night in May. On the back were emblazoned these words, “Jesus Loves You.”(Ex-Christian summer camp counselor?) Then I caught the logo of the “Lauderdale Redemption Center” on the front, one of those local church sponsored shelters who rehabs dead beats.

He had barely jumped out of his car when he immediately went for my lips which I found awkward in front of my house, smack in the heart of a kinda straight suburban neighborhood, and I instead coaxed him quickly inside. I politely asked if he wanted anything to drink before we left for the Olive Garden. He said no, chattered on about the mechanical antiques on display in my living room (I own a couple of Edison phonographs, old, turn-of-the-century typewriters and some antique Kodak cameras), then we left. Somehow, my lustful thoughts of raping him as soon as he arrived had slipped away.

Ah, but it was as we got closer and closer to the restaurant that the words “God” and “Jesus” came cropping up more and more in his conversation. How it was coming to know Jesus who had changed his life, which before had been wrought with “sin and damnation.” (Drugs, alcohol, male prostitution – not necessarily in that order.) Curious – like a stray cat is for a four wheeler thundering down the highway – I asked over shrimp cocktail when exactly this transformation had taken place. Gleefully he replied with amazing total recall: 3:12 in the morning on November 10th past, at Andrews and Broward when a john threw him out of his car, Bruce too stoned on Tina to “perform.”

Now it’s one thing for someone to extol how the virtues of religion have improved their lot; it’s another when that same person tries to proselytize, which is exactly what Bruce proceeded to do with me over our lasagna. Did I believe in the living Christ? Was my life in need of redemption?

I was a Sunday school teacher in my youth; over the years, however, my study of religion, the historical Christ, etc., has led me to the conclusion that the Gospels are largely a fairy tale. But, hey, that’s me. I’m not asking anyone to agree with me. But nothing turns me off more than someone preaching to me how their way is the only way.
When I asked how he reconciled his faith with being a fag, he replied that Jesus loves us and viewed being on his knees – with another guy, that is – his way of showing his love for the Master. I pictured us in my bedroom saying grace before I fucked him.

It was at this moment that I took a deep breath and summoned the waiter to box my largely uneaten meal. Bruce, seemingly unperturbed, continued munching. Then I got up from the table, and very quietly but very firmly said: “Finish up. We’re done. And I don’t want to hear the words, Jesus, God or Love from your mouth til we’re back in my driveway.”

The ten minute conversation-less ride back was painful and as we parted ways in front of my house, I yes’d him to death about his insistence to “still stay friends.” (Huh??)

Yep, about the only creatures on God’s green earth that were happy that night were my three little doggies who dined like gourmet devotees on my lasagna. And all I kept thinking as I reviewed Bruce’s profile again on Manhunt that night to see if there were any cues of his spiritual side I should have picked up on (there weren’t), I figured I’d suggest to Manhunt that they add a new category to their menu of sexual Intos: “Born Again.”

Boy, would that drive the guys wild!

Tinker Bells

22 Oct

Tinker Bells

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

I taught college in between doing research for my books in the dark venues of Lauderdale’s sex scene, and I was constantly amazed that almost two thirds of my students and the ones with the most smarts are women. I mean, Christ, where are the men? Are they all planning to be web designers, rock stars, or live off a woman’s six figure corporate lawyer’s salary? Again, I talk in generalities, but my conviction is that the ladies are far more mature than the guys and that a good percentage of the American male population, straight and gay, still lives in a world of adolescent exuberance. Straight guys who fall in this category I like to call Peter Pans: out with boys, into football and playing jock, forgetting they’re 45 or 55, beer bellied, henpecked with three kids, and up to their asses in debt. Or single and still living with Mommy and Daddy.

Now the gay equivalent I label Tinker Bells. Gay guys who partied through their twenties and thirties with little in the way of career aspirations or investments and now, at the Just for Men time of their lives, have no notion or, worse, haven’t even thought about who’s going to take care of them when the Viagra doesn’t work anymore and their asses are sagging. Oh, we’ve all run into them, the great-in-the-sack, still hot at forty something or fifty something guy who lives in “A Rented Room” and has had a string of Christmas help, minimum wage, temp jobs. The same guy who pissed the money away as fast as it came in, sometimes on drugs, other times searching for that next great lay in Amsterdam, Rio or Montreal, or following the moveable feasts of Leatherfests and Bearfests. Social Security quarters? Pensions? 401K’s? Who’s running for President again?

Now, the crème de la crème of the Tinker Bells are the ones we see on gay-friendly beaches like Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, the buffed thirty year olds with the Matinee looks paired off on the blanket with some old man, I don’t mean older, I mean a member of the Denture Cream Generation. What I’m sure they know but don’t want to face up to is the reality that the Old Man is the one really in charge and that they are as expendable as a used condom on the floor of a sex club.

So why should I give a shit about the Tinker Bells? None of my fucking business, right? I beg to differ. First, I predict that there will soon be a huge underclass in this country of Tinker Bells (and Peter Pans) who the government – meaning us – will have to support in their old age. More immediately, we’re forced to deal with them every time we venture into our closeted, two-by-four gay worlds. (And if we’re not hidden away in some corner of the burbs or the boonies, we are ghettoized, boys, make no mistake about that.) They’re the waiters at the gay restaurants, the help behind the sex club or bath house entrance windows, the clerks at the gay shops, or check-in help at some gay resort we’re vacationing at.

You’re dropping $45 for a T-shirt to cater to your petty ego that you know was made in Vietnam for a quarter, and there’s a Tinker Bell, having a-diarrhea-of-the-mouth or diarrhea-of-the- fingertips conversation on his smartphone while you’re trying to check out. Suddenly that frumpy look comes over his face, unless you’re cute of course. You’ve disturbed him. It’s at that moment that I’d like to say three things to the fucker AFTER he’s taken the security lock off the rag I’m buying: (a) “I don’t have to spend my money here,” (b) “Don’t take it out on me that at 48 you’re still working at a minimum wage job,” and lastly, (c) “When you run my Visa card through with the twenty thousand dollar credit line, I want a smile on your face and a ‘thank you, sir’ from your mouth.”

“Fuck Yea!”

20 Oct

“Fuck Yea!”

I’m at Slammers last night, our local sex club, getting my fifth uncompleted blow job of the night at one of its glory holes (my moment of triumph would cum a half hour later), when a guy, apparently hitting the jackpot on the other end, yelled out, “fuck yea!”

It struck me that this is probably the most frequently used phrase us gay boys utter in our tainted, jaded vocabulary. Now the origins of the word, fuck, are kinda murky. Some scholars trace it to Latin, others say it’s Germanic, and that ‘fuck” initially meant “to strike,” then later “to penetrate.” There’s even one silly hypothesis that claims it dates back to when sex was illegal unless it was permitted by the king, so people who were legally having intercourse were doing Fornication Under Consent of the King or F.U.C.K.

But, who the fuck cares how it came to be, right? We all love the guttural sound of the phrase and its lustful, super-butch impact when you say it, making you feel (if you aren’t already) like some hot, big, brick shithouse of a guy, bearded and hairy and hung ….

And we gay guys use it for every occasion:

When somebody’s going down on you and doing a great job, its “fuck yea, buddy, fuck yea!” alternated with “fucken A, fucken A!”

Or when you’re plowing a guy, his hairy muscled legs up on your shoulders, and he’s laying there, starry- eyed or his hairy fucken butt’s in your face, or you’re the one getting plowed, every thrust generates another “Fuck yea man, fuck yea!”

Or when we see some hottie across the way at a bar or a bath house and you whisper to your buddy or, suitably plastered, just go up to the guy and spurt it out, “Fuck yea, man. You are fucken hot! So when are we gonna fuck?”

Or as we’re shootin’ our load, whatever position we’re in, don’t we all yelp, “fuck yea!”

Sure we do.

Fuck yea!

Pig Dance

17 Oct

Pig Dance

“What’s pig dance?” reads the message on Scruff from R., a new NYC transplant now living in Paradise, after thanking me for the warm-up blow- job I gave him the other night at Slammers as I tell him I’m on my way to the Ramrod.

“Crowded,” I reply.

Pig Dance is a monthly gig sponsored by Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, as a way to boost liquor sales, and it works. While weekend nights down here before Season and the tourists hit in late October are so-so, Pig Dance pulls ‘em out in droves, some young, but mostly older leather boys like me who are running out of places to wear all our shit.

I go because I’m bored and, yes, a bit depressed. I’ve just had two Latin kids, both in their thirties, back to back in the last few weeks who I thought loved their furry daddy, but I realize now why they call them Latin Lovers. Hot as geysers one night (“I can’t stop kissing you!”), cold as icebergs two days later when you try to confirm a date and feel like your texts went to Pluto.

So solo on a Saturday night, I wrestle with my bulldog harness – the new rage in leatherwear but a pain in the ass to put on – decide to wear black short shorts rather than jeans, lace up my boots and hit the door early so I can get a decent parking space and before the place gets too crowded and shrinking five foot six me is surrounded by the Sherwood Forest, i.e., the tallest gay men in south Florida.

I arrive about quarter of eleven and the larger of Ramrod’s lots is still practically empty as is the bar, but within half an hour, as I nurse my beer, the place is transformed into Grand Central at rush hour.

Sure, there are a handful of glory boys – tall, handsome, muscular fucks you’d whip your Visa card and cock out for. But most of the crowd is well, pretty ordinary – just like the human race I guess. Here and there, the curtain has gone up on the theatrics: two half naked guys making out at the bar, their jeans down and ass cracks showing, as if they were shooting the beginning of some porn flick, as bored and lonely men voyeurishly converge around them like this was some sacred virgin experience.

Or the master/slave dynamic duo, master dipped in leather, slave, an Auschwitz poster boy, clad only in a red jock and a collar around his neck for master’s leash, prancing around the dance floor, desperate to be noticed. But few do. After all, this is Saturday night in a leather bar and such sights become ho-hum for us seasoned gay men. Plus neither guy is that attractive.

And then there are the regulars, a pair I’ll call Jimmy and John, obviously partners, north of forty, who usually come in shirtless and suspendered with their jeans drooping around their 28 inch waists. Tonight, they’ve changed costumes and wear tight spandex work-out pants like gay foot players wear I guess, that probably cost a cool hundred bucks. But I can see in their faces that the bang for the bucks they expected from the humbled masses hasn’t happened.

I speak to a few guys I know, one a humpy Latin from the gym who gets more touchy-feely every time he passes me by that night which I assume is directly correlated with the number of drinks he’s had; the super tall, super-built owner of the clothing store down the street where I got the black short shorts I’m wearing who bends down and whispers in my ear, “New shipment coming Tuesday,” ; and here and there a guy strokes my chest or grabs one of my nips as they pass by with a smirk as I smirk back.

One handsome, bearded thirty-something harnessed, humpy couple catch my eye and I fantasize for a moment what a threesome would be like with them, until one of them opens his mouth and my fantasy is blown away faster than a puff off a meth pipe. What a waste of Grade A beef.

The solo guys I have an eye for? It never fails – they usually end up with one another.

By 12:30, the place has become a fire hazard, and I debate whether or not to have my third rum and coke (you see, my beer doesn’t count), but as I make my way through the crowd to my favorite bartender, John, who actually puts liquor in my drinks, I scan around and realize that I’m surrounded pretty much by a bunch of old men like myself with an occasional young, usually twinkish exception thrown in every tenth man. When the guy who’s so big and so wide he must be his own zip code moves three men ahead of me into the tiny aisle next to the bar where John awaits, I decide it’s time to call it a night.

Sure enough, three cars converge on me in the parking lot as soon as I press my security lock key and the lights of my Honda Element flicker, but I manage to maneuver out before the feeding frenzy for my space begins.

Now in the old days, once you left a bar or a whorehouse, that was it. But with the web and phone apps, well, now cruising is a 24/7 game. And at this hour, midnight, the night crawlers are just waking up.
But I wait til I get home before I check my phone, lying on my car seat.

After all, I need some surprises.

And as they say, you got to be in it to win it.

Sexting, Teens and Us

15 Oct

Sexting, Teens and Us

According to a study published in the Journal of Pediatrics, more than 25% of teens who engage in sexting – dirty talk – dirty pics – are more likely to become sexually active a year later.

Well, maybe that’s true with teens, but I think the exact opposite is happening with us gay guys. And I don’t just mean guys who’ve hung up their jock-straps because of Father Time, or feel they don’t have much to offer physically in such a looks-conscious sub-culture. No, more and more young virile hotties are doing it too. Replacing real sex for virtual sex. Like I’ve said countless times before, with the web and phone apps making it oh-so-easy to get hard and get off on some guy in cyberspace, there’s less and less motivation to go after it for real. After all, why waste the mouthwash?

Is that such a bad thing you ask? No, if you live in the boonies and distance or redneck mentality make hooking-up complicated. But sexting is a bad thing if you live in gay-saturated urban areas like Chicago or New York or Fort Lauderdale and you CHOOSE to sex chat instead of press the flesh.

Take a guy I’ll call Hal who lives literally less than a mile from my house. He hit me up on one of the hook-up sites, the attraction was mutual, and we started chatting which I hoped would lead to “when and where.” But instead he came up with excuses (like a partner who sounds like he’s got him on a leash, a common problem in many places especially here in Lauderdale where a lot of couples have moved from wherever for the sun). So, instead we drifted into sexting and hard cock pics and lustful patter till we shot our loads.

I left the door open for us to meet in the flesh and told him I have a pretty flexible schedule (he admitted he sometimes worked from home) but I wonder if I’ll ever hear from Hal again. Now that we have one another’s hard cock pics in our message memories.

Then there are those guys who keep returning to my profile again and again who when I ask if they wanna connect rarely respond at all. Do you think it’s because they like the color of the speedos I’m wearing?

Or the guys on the other side of the world who hit me up even on my Facebook page and talk like we were already sweaty lovers though 2,457 miles separate us. Like Andre from Paris: “I want you so bad, I want you to fuck me all night!” To which I responded: “Unless you got a private jet, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Have we become a community of voyeurs and not doers? Maybe because the fantasy is better than the reality?

As much as I like the real deal, I’m even beginning to wonder.

Have You Had One or More of the Top Twenty Five Men in Your Town?

13 Oct

Have You Had One or More of the Top Twenty Five Men in Your Town?

Or maybe you’re one of ‘em (Wanna text me?).

A buddy of mine once claimed every town, be it the big Apple or Missoula, Montana, has its Top Twenty Five Men who the rest of us poor mortals either salivate or pre-cum over. I must confess even this rapidly shrinking, rapidly aging gay man has had his share for which I gratefully thank the Gay God or just good timing or the guy’s meth high.

The funny thing is, and maybe this has happened to you too, when these guys appear in your life it’s not something you plotted or dissected the algorithms of Manhunt like some Silicon Valley guru or pulled out Aunt Susie’s Ouija board to summon. Or figuring those twenty extra reps at the gym or dyeing your chest hair with Just for Men medium brown instead of dark brown made the difference. No, more times than not, he just, well, pops up. And then proceeds to tell you he’s been eyeing you for a while, either on the web or in the twenty items or less aisle at Wal-Mart or at the local watering hole where you’ve stood in the same fucken corner for the last eleven years where the same fucken guys, totally oblivious that you’re standing there, have stepped on your steel toed boots in exactly the same spot. (Right foot, third toe in.)

Your next reaction is one of wonder and amazement like some peasant saint-wannabe seeing the image of the Virgin Mary in her laundry soap suds. “How can I be worthy to have this prince, this specimen of manhood, like – ME?”

Sometimes he turns out actually to be a nice guy and the two of you hit it off like soul brothers-in-sin for the night – or a lifetime – or two weeks. Whichever comes first. Or sometimes he’s a totally self-absorbed jerk with nothing but his looks – that handsome, rugged face and body sculpted by God – to carry him.

So what? Isn’t that fucken enough?

Well, maybe. I was at our local bath house a few weeks ago on Leather Night which I think better described the condition of the skin on the guys there rather than what they were wearing when this colossus of a man, 6’4″, porn star body with the fur and face to go with it, came up to the door of my room and, pulling on his nips asked, “Are yours hardwired?”

“Yep,” I replied.

And with that, he closed the door, instructed me to play with his nips for the next five minutes while he stroked his thick cock (which I couldn’t touch) until he shot all over my cot. Then he turned around, mumbled, “Nice fur,” and left.

So much for romance.

But the main flaw in my buddy’s premise is that once you’ve had your pre-ordained share of your town’s Top Twenty Five Men, or gone through them all, you pig, you’re stuck with either settling for someone who’s real and not some Men’s Fitness cover mirage, or leaving town to start trolling some other town’s Top Twenty Five.

Or, like me, if you live in a gay vacation mecca like Fort Lauderdale, waiting for the next jet to bring a sampling of some other town’s Top Twenty Five Men right to you.

Thanks, Jet Blue.

Most Gays Apathetic About HIV: So What Else Is New?

10 Oct

Most Gays Apathetic About HIV: So What Else Is New?

According the Centers for Disease Control, 12 to 13 percent of gay men are poz, and a third of them don’t even know it. Worse, new infections are on the rise – South Florida is the epicenter for this growth – particularly among younger gays.

Should we be surprised? Not me with all the bare backing I saw going on at our local sex club the other night. It was like the tops were waiting in a deli line for their turn at the bottoms who, on their stomachs in the dark and probably high, couldn’t care less if their mother with a dildo strapped on was fucking them.

Well, according to a recent Kaiser Family Foundation (Kaiser founded HMO style health care back in the 1940’s in California), over half of the guys polled don’t think HIV will affect them personally. Only 30% of gay and bi-guys have been tested in the last year and the percentage drops even more the younger you get. While 75% of gays polled agree not knowing your HIV status is a major reason for the rise in HIV cases, only a third knew cases were growing to begin with, and one in four thought they were actually dropping.

What fucken planet did you guys drop from?

Yet, despite all this apathy, most neg guys say they would be hesitant to have sex or a long term relationship with a poz guy. And the young guys who aren’t keen on getting tested, well guess what? They’re the ones who would avoid a relationship with a poz guy the most. A little age discrimination going on here, ya think?


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