Here’s One for the Ladies …

31 Oct

Here’s One for the Ladies …

…from my quartet of horror stories excerpted from my short story collection, “Basic Butch, “ available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It’s called “Mind Fuckers.”

For more visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or erotic-gay-fiction.com on your mobile device.

Her college days behind her, Melanie thought she was long over the pain of the one-sided infatuation she had had with fellow soccer player Karen. That is until a call from Kar, now working in New York, saying that she was headed down to Lauderdale on vacation, made Mel hope for a second chance…

The rain had started up again and Melanie was running late. She had switched her cell phone off by mistake when she got on the Florida Turnpike at Commercial Boulevard. When she switched it back on to call Mom so she wouldn’t worry, she noticed she had a message. But first her call.

Just then, Mel hit a bump on the road, causing her cell phone to fall off the seat next to her onto the floor. She thought her five foot-ten frame would be enough to reach it but no luck, so she pulled over to the shoulder, carefully got out and retrieved the phone from the other side. She brushed the rain out of her closed cropped brunette hair and hopped back in.

“OK, Hon, but watch coming in,” cautioned Mom. “All that rain we had last night washed out the road again.”

Then she checked her message.

“Mel, thank God it’s you. I thought maybe you changed your number by now. It’s me, Kar. Listen, I’m coming down for the George Washington holiday weekend. Want to see you real bad. You can reach me at 212-565-5433. Call me, huh?”

Mel was all ready to push delete, then stopped.

She wish it were so easy

She had grown up in Ocala, Florida, to the smell of dog shit and swamp musk, on her Mom’s puppy breeding farm – small dogs only, terriers, mini-doxies, and Chihuahuas – but even this sleepy backwoods place was changing. Condos and housing developments with names only gay guys could think up dotted the road like those black lizard shit pellets on her stoop back at Grandma’s old house in Fort Lauderdale.

Mom was right. The potholes in the road onto the property could swallow up Rhode Island, but Mel went slow with her Jeep and made it fine. The endless chorus of barks made her feel instantly at home. At least with dogs, you knew exactly what they wanted when they spoke.

Feed me or watch out.

“I’m sorry, Hon, could you finish feeding the terriers? All that rain really put me behind. And I still have to start dinner –”

“Don’t worry about cooking. We’ll go to Sammy’s, it’s my treat,” said Mel, “Remember, I’m making good money now.”

“I know, I know, my daughter, the Big City junior advertising executive.” Mom patted Mel on the head. “Talking about money, those developers were around again last week. You know, they upped their offer.”

Sometimes looking at Mom, Mel, a flat-chested string bean who had gone to Florida State playing women’s soccer, often wondered if this plus-size woman really was her mother. And if Mom hadn’t been a toughy in her youth. Maybe they were right. Being gay was in the genes.

“Well, it’s your decision. You know you can always move in with me til you find something,” offered Mel.

“Look, I could have done that when your grandma died instead of having you take care of her old place. Besides, how could I leave all these noisy little bastards and the best paved roads in central Florida?” she quipped, as she headed to the shed for more Puppy Chow.

Before going out to feed the terriers, Mel instinctively went over to the pen that Mom had smack in the middle of the living room, reserved for that handful of newborn runts who weren’t weak enough to be put to sleep. And there was Squeaky, a slip of a Chihuahua, not much bigger than a dog toy, still a bit slow on his feet but definitely with more meat on his bones than the last time that Mel had seen him two weeks before. Mel had fallen in love with the little bastard and, for a moment, her mind was off Kar’s message.

“He ain’t quite ready yet,” said Mom later at Sammy’s Country Diner, reading Mel’s mind. “But I’m pretty sure the next time you come, you’ll be able to take him.”

“Karen called,” said Mel, not looking up.

“You mean, that friend of yours from your college soccer team? Thought she was back in New York.”

“She is. She’s coming down on vacation next week.”

“Hope she doesn’t plan sponging on you,” said Sally pretending to scan the menu that she practically knew by heart.

“Mom, hell, she’s making triple what I am. She’s working for some big-ass PR firm in midtown Manhattan. I’m sure if she’s coming down on vacation, she’ll be staying at one of those high priced hotels by the beach.”

“I’m just telling you, your grandma with all those extra rooms always had freeloading snowbird friends of hers she hadn’t heard from in twenty years come knocking on her door in the winter. Then one of your cousins on your deadbeat daddie’s side came down unannounced. To fix him, your grandma said O.K., but it’ll cost you room and board.”

“You’re kidding!” laughed Mel.

“No, I’m not. The word soon got out. Mildred O’Connor ain’t no patsy. But we never had to worry about that, did we, hon. Us living out in the middle of nowhere like this, close to nothing, nobody wanted to wake up in the morning to the fragrant odor of dog shit.”

The waitress came for their order.

“You and Karen – you guys were pretty tight, weren’t you?” said Mom, dead-toned.

“Yea,” said Mel, glancing out the window. “Were.”

All the way on the ride back, Mel kept replaying Kar’s message in her mind. That way she wouldn’t have to think what it might mean. When she got back, the spa service guy’s mini-van was in the driveway. Mel had left the back gate open for him and found him crouched over in the back of the spa off the patio.

“I see you got this filled up. You try using it yet?” asked the guy, a blonde body-builder type whom she realized she had seen a few times at Jocks Gym with his pretty boyfriend.

“I was, then I thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea if somebody looked at it first since it’s gotta be at least fifteen years old,” explained Mel. ”My grandmother died in April and I moved in. But I remember even when I was kid how she said it helped her arthritis.”

“Well, she’s lucky she didn’t get killed,” said the guy, getting up. “I think it’s got one of those nasty shorts that only show up when the water gets hot enough. I’m going to have to order some parts before I can fix it. Just make sure you keep it off and nobody – I mean nobody – use it. O.K.?”

“Should I drain the water?”

“No, I should have the part in by next week.”

Mel had thought she would have been staying at home tonight taking care of Squeaky, but with no dog and Kar’s call still on her mind, she needed to get out. She’d wait til tomorrow to call Kar back. Maybe she’d get lucky and Kar had left the wrong callback number.

Deb’s off Wilton Drive was its usual Saturday night self. Big Packin’ Momma, who had a levi crotch that a male porn star would envy, was by the door collecting the two dollar cover. Mel sometimes fantasized her dating Mom and wondered who’d play butch. She drifted over to her usual spot in a hideaway corner of the rectangular bar and watched the Pool Pattys aim their sticks. Just then, she felt a warm hand touch her shoulder ever so gently. Mel turned around. The girl, her own age give or take, big tits, short and a little chunky but okay, was what Mom would describe as a mutt – “not a pure bred Irish girl like you” – coco-colored with long silky hair and wide Asian eyes, all made up. Not her type, but Mel smiled politely back anyway.

“Listen, you mind having a drink with me?” asked the girl almost pleading.

“Sorry, don’t drink much. I’m a bottled water addict.”

The girl’s façade smile disappeared and suddenly she began tearing up.

“I don’t usually drink much either, but my – my dog died today and I need a drink. Only I don’t want to drink alone.”

Mel instinctively grabbed her hand.

“I’m – I’m sorry. What kind was he?”

“A Boston terrier – just turned four.”

”My mother breeds terriers. Was he sick?’ asked Mel, genuinely sympathetic.

“No,” said the girl, Alisha. “Chucky was fine one minute and having a seizure the next. I rushed him down to the vet emergency center, but it was – it was too late. They said he must have eaten one of those poison toads in the backyard – goddamn Florida!”

An hour and four vodka cranberries later, Mel, who, still thinking of Kar’s message, was pissed that she had thrown away that old prescription of Prozac, thought it time to leave but almost fell over as she got off the stool. Alisha, who apparently could hold her liquor better than she had admitted, caught her by the waist.

“Listen, why don’t you come and sleep it off at my place. My apartment is just around the corner. I promise I won’t hassle you. It’s just I need somebody around tonight – that’s all.”

Mel barely remembered getting on the elevator. In fact, it was the tip of Alisha’s tongue licking her down there that woke her up. Lying on her back on the bed, Mel, who found herself naked, looked down. Alisha, who was crotched down between her legs, lifted her head from her prize and smiled.

“I know I promised, but you’re – you’re so beautiful,” Alisha whispered, moving up onto Mel so that the sweat from Alisha’s heavy breasts on Mel’s ice cones made Mel’s own nipples erect. Then Alisha smothered her with her body and lay her cheek next to Mel’s, breathing deeply but saying nothing. Mel liked her women tall and thin, but there was something comforting about Alisha’s soft, warm, ample flesh. The fingers of Alisha’s left hand slowly began massaging Mel, as Alisha guided Mel’s hand to her own source of pleasure. Soon both of them crossed into the zone of no return.

When Mel awoke for the second time, she found herself on the bed, this time fully clothed. It was after 3 a.m. She could hear water running and saw the light from what appeared to be the bathroom down the hall. She got up and walked in.

There, swallowed up by bubbles, was Alisha soaking in the tub. The stench of their perfumey scent almost made Mel gag. Alisha beckoned to join her.

“I – I have to go,” clipped Mel, holding her breath. “I’m sorry but I’m allergic to all that shit.”

“I’ll – I’ll wash it off,” said Alisha apologetically as she rose from out of the tub, bubbles and suds still enveloping her.

“No, that’s okay,” said Mel, feeling for her car keys and wallet. “I have to go.”

“But I like you!” pleaded Alisha.

“Sorry, but I really have to leave. Sorry about your dog, huh?”

“There was no dog!” she yelled back from the tub, apparently pissed Mel was leaving. “I hate fucken dogs!”

Back home, Mel took a shower, then grabbed the pillow she had pulled out of the closet for Squeaky and stuck it under her arm. One moment she pretended it was the dog, the next moment that it was Kar.

The following morning Mel called her back. Kar was all bubbly and enthusiastic and they set a time and date to meet when she was down. The call lasted all of two minutes but hearing Kar’s voice took Mel to a place in her heart she thought and hoped she had left so long ago.

Though they had barely nodded in the locker room, Mel had eyed Kar, about her height and build but with a darling, heart-shaped face that needed no make-up, right from the beginning of that last season. Kar was a transfer from Ohio State and a pretty damn good field goalie at that. Plus she was showing up Jan who thought she was Miss Hot Shit of South Florida Female Soccer. But to Mel, playing soccer as well as Kar did was only icing on the cake.

Half the women’s team took Miss Marshal for Trig. They had heard she was partial to girls, and not just because she had been an ex-jock herself. But even that didn’t help Kar who was failing famously. Maybe she was little too fem for Marshal’s taste, thought Mel.

One day, out of the blue, as they bumped into one another in the locker room after practice, Kar just blurted it out.

“Listen, Mel, I see you’re a wiz kid in Trig and I’m really messing it up. Do you think you could help me? You know, play tutor. I’d pay you –“

Jan, in earshot, chimed in. “Guess keeping track of all those mutts at your Mom’s puppy mill make you a wiz at numbers, huh?”

Mel fumbled with her locker key.

“Sure, sure I can help you,” she said, as if Jan weren’t there. “But don’t worry about money. Treat me to a movie or lunch or something. If they kick you off the team, we’re all screwed.”

For the next few weeks, Mel helped Kar who, at least, began passing her quizzes. But the tutoring was becoming torturous. Here Mel was sitting inches away from that beautiful woman with the blue-green eyes and sleek-satin face and bod, and all they did was talk numbers.

Then one night the conversation switched gears.

“So Mel, got anyone special?” asked Kar, closing her notebook.

“How – how do you mean?” Mel intentionally kept her eyes riveted to the desk.

“You know someone to roll in the hay with honey as my grandma used to say.”

“Well, it’s not easy when you’re not – not part of the mainstream,” said Mel boldly, but going no further.

“Different strokes for different folks,” said Kar without missing a beat. “I was asking because I was wondering if you’d like to take in that new Tom Cruise flick tomorrow night, you know, my little thank you for helping me out and all.”

“Sure,” said Mel grinning. “That would be great.”

The next night, Mel waited outside the Aventura Cineplex. She knew the night was one big mistake when Kar arrived around the corner with Jan – and their dates, two guys.

“So where’s your beau?” said Jan, smartly.

Mel thought quickly.

“Herb – he wasn’t feeling well.” Herb was a nerd that sat in front of her in Trig. “Looks like I’m going stag tonight.”

“Well, hope Tommy boy shows a little ass in this flick for your sake,” said Kar as they walked up to the ticket booth.

The sacred George Washington weekend, a big one for NYC vacationers, had arrived and they were to meet for lunch that Friday at Catfish Dewey’s, one of Lauderdale’s best known fish places. Mel at first didn’t know what to wear, then decided on her white slacks, low heels, and white polo. She had worn that outfit at an end-of-season awards luncheon when the soccer team was honored and remembered how Kar had told her how nice she looked.

Arriving at Catfish Dewey’s, Mel grabbed a table near the back and waited.

A few minutes later, Kar walked in. Tall, tanned, with white slacks and a white polo, collar turned up. Her combed back hair that was going premature gray in college was now one glaze of sexy white. She immediately saw Mel and gave her a smile and wave as she trotted to the table.

That one hug is all it took.

“We always did think alike,” said Kar infectiously, as she pirouetted around.

“So, how’s everything going?” said Mel, pouring a beer for Kar from the pitcher she had ordered.

“Well, actually everything’s going great. They like me, I like the job. They do pay professional bullshit artists well and I may be in for a promotion. And you? And how’s your mom?”

“Oh, Mom’s doing fine, still steeped in dog doo. I’m doing O.K., too,” said Mel, self-effacing. “I’m an advertising rep at Millers in downtown Lauderdale and the money is good but, you gotta remember, this ain’t New York – they don’t pay ad people down here what they pay up North.”

“I’m just glad I have a chance to dress down sometimes like now,” said Kar. “At work, I have to doll up, you know, like a lipstick lesbian.”

Mel was thrown by that comment but continued to sip her beer.

“But hell, it pays, the guys love me and I use it to the max,” confessed Kar. “A lot of professional women types, you know, they throw their femininity away, think they have to be one of the guys to get what they want. They forget most of these guys want some pussy.”

She smiled slyly, “And I just purr.”

“It’s been awhile,” said Mel. “Almost two years since I saw you or heard from you. Didn’t think we’d run into one another again.”

Just then, Kar put down her beer.

“Oh, so I don’t forget, I’ve got something for you,” and she reached into her handbag. It was her half of a friendship ring necklace that Mel had bought for the two of them after that first season of playing soccer together.

“Remember this?” said Kar smiling.

“I thought – I thought you said you lost it.”

“I did,” she said, “Then I was cleaning out my bookcase a few weeks ago and guess what pops out of our class yearbook.”

She grabbed Mel’s hand and lay it gently in her palm.

“I want you to have it.”

“But I bought it for both of us – you – you should keep your half.”

“No, I want you to have it – it’s better this way.”

Just then at the entrance, behind a foursome of overweight senior widows here for the early bird special, Mel saw her, then so did Kar who got up and began waving almost hysterically.

It was Jan.

Bubbly Shirley Temple blonde hair – that where’s the bubbly stopped – in lean and mean grey dress jeans and a button-down lime blouse.

Mel dropped the jewelry on the floor.

“So, how’s things, Mel?” said Jan when she reached their table. She gave Kar’s hand a quick squeeze, then leaned over and pecked Mel’s cheek. Mel could feel her face burning.

“I didn’t tell you on the phone since I wanted it to be a surprise.” explained Kar neatly. “Jan’s down here with me on vacation.”

“Oh, that’s – that’s great,” said Mel, who bit the edge of her glass like a pacifier.

“Jan works for ABC, not far from my office, behind the scenes in their sports division. She’s one of their up and coming writers, you know.”

“Great – that’s great,” said Mel, “So I guess we’re all professional bullshitters at heart, huh?” She looked at their trio of tits. All of them put together wouldn’t fill one cup of Alisha’s brassiere.

Kar and Jan exchanged a long glance as if Mel weren’t there.

Just like the old days.

The waiter, a tall, cute collegiate type in his blue Catfish Dewey’s T uniform, came for their order.

“So, know any good places to hang out?” asked Jan. We hear there’s a lot gonna on down here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t go out much,” said Mel.

“Never?” said Jan.

“Well, Deb’s,” said Mel, finally testing the waters. “It’s a few blocks from here.”

“Yea, yea, we heard about it from some friends back in New York,” acknowledged Kar.

“It has a reliable crowd most any night,” said Mel, hiding her anger behind a plastered-on smile. “You know how us girls like pool.”

“Yea, you know that pool stick – penis envy,” laughed Jan.

“No smelly, skinny snakes for me, thank you, “said Kar, suddenly edgy.

“That’s why God has to be a She,” said Jan.

“How’s that?” asked Mel.

“Because only She could create plastic – always rigid, always reliable, and always right-on. Men – well even God is entitled to a mistake or two.”

“So, you two – you’re a duo?” said Mel, trying to be matter-of-fact about it.

“Yea,” said Kar beaming back at Jan. “It’ll be three years in June.”

“Too bad we weren’t more open with one another back in school, huh,” said Jan, finally looking Mel straight in the eye.

“Yea,” said Mel. She wished she could pick up the pitcher and finish it off all by herself right there. Or better yet, pour it all over the two of them. But that would be a waste of good beer, she could hear Mom yelling.

“And you, Mel, how’s your love life?’ asked Kar.

“Pretty shitty,” said Mel. “You’re not the only professional, ladder-climbing, lipstick lesbian who needs to keep guys in the office guessing.”

Just then, a shriveled up dingy white haired lady sitting with her hunched over husband at the table next to them turned around slightly and grimaced at Mel.

“Sorry,” said Mel to Kar and Jan softly. “This place is pretty straight.”

“Fuck the old pruney bitch,” said Jan, loud enough so the woman couldn’t help but hear. No reaction from Nursing Home Nelly this time or hubby. Jan grabbed Kar’s hand.

“So, babes, why don’t we check Deb’s out tonight. The holiday weekend should make it festive.”

“We’ll meet up with you there around 9, Mel, how’s that?” suggested Kar politely.

Mel nodded, and for the rest of lunch she put what she had learned in her college sophomore acting class to good use.

As the three of them got up to leave, the old lady next to them mumbled without looking up, “You people are an abomination in the sight of the Lord.”

Jan stopped and stood her square in the face. By now they had created a bit of a scene. Jan liked creating scenes. Mel remembered once how she had beat the shit out of another team’s player for grabbing her ass at the end of a game.

“Listen, lady, if you knew your Bible, really knew your Bible,” said Jan grabbing Kar by the wrist, “You know that Christ was bi anyway. Whatya think he was doing with all those hunky fishermen and Mary Magdalene? Playing mahjong?”

When Mel had moved into her grandmother’s house a few months before, she had found Grandma’s old clothes stowed away in drawers and closets. She had thrown most of it in plastic garbage bags and had been meaning to drop the bags off at one of those Salvation Army bins but never got around it, and so they lay taking up space in the laundry room. Now, as she entered the house after Catfish Dewey’s, she immediately peeled off her slacks and polo and threw them into one of the bags she hadn’t tied up yet, put on some sweats, grabbed the three bags lying there and dumped them in the back of the Jeep. Unloading them at that drop-off bin off Andrews Avenue would be tomorrow’s first priority.

That night, Mel arrived at Jock Gym around 8:30. The place had a mix of after-work guys who were finishing their reps and a young, evening crew wanting to look pumped up for the bars. Mel usually did her work-out early, around 6 in the morning, before showering and heading for the office downtown. But she needed her work-out tonight to keep her mind on idle.

Occasionally in the morning she’d spy a forty-something girl pair doing their reps. Most times she was Jock’s token gay girl. But that didn’t matter, least of all now. She pushed herself to do an extra mile on the treadmill, lifted some light weights for awhile, worked on the abs machine, then sat at the juice bar and shot the breeze with Jimmy as he folded towels, fresh out of the dryer, for the next day’s business.

Ever so slowly sipping her protein shake, Mel watched people cross the parking lot outside, making their way to the trio of bars that surrounded the gym – two boy bars and Deb’s. She kept a watch out but never did see Kar and Jan go in or out.

When Mel got home around 10:30, sure enough there was a message from Kar on her machine. This time, without playing it back, she pushed delete. Then she went over to the spa, checked that the switch was in the on position, walked over to the laundry room where the circuit breaker box was, and switched on breaker 16.

“Sorry,” she said to Kar when she called back the next morning. “I decided to take a nap and ended up sleeping til to 2 a.m.”

“Well, we’re going to Sebastian Beach. Wanna join us?” said Kar.

“Listen, it may be warm out, but the ocean water is too cold to go into this time of year,” said Mel. “Why don’t the two of you come over to my place? We can sit around the pool and have some beers. I even have a spa. I’m warming it up right now just for you guys.”

“That sounds great,” said Kar. “Let me get Jan on. Give her the directs. She’s driving.”

Mel ran over to the Subway’s on Andrews for a few foot longs, then the deli next door for three 6 packs. Kar and Jan’s iridescent blue Saturn convertible rental pulled in just as she was feeding the frig.

The day had started out overcast, but now the sun was high in a cloudless sky, bright and hot and sweaty. Mel gave them a quick tour of the house, then handed them the tube of Walgreen’s sunscreen, SPF 30.

“Wouldn’t want you Yankees getting fried.”

Jan and Kar were wearing matching lime jogging bras and shorts.Mel decided to stay in the tank and baggy black pullovers that she slept in or wore running.

They spoke about Deb’s and Big Packin’ Momma, about people they had known from school, who might have been gay, about New York, and about how Kar and Jan were thinking of buying a condo here and playing snowbirds.

“That way we could see a lot more of one another,” said Kar all girly, as Jan wrapped her arm around her shoulder,

“You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, now that we’re all out to one another,” said Mel, bringing out a third round of Bud Lites.

“What’s that?” said Kar, dabbing on more Walgreen’s.

“You guys – you know – you were already connected when you were sporting those boyfriends that night we saw that Cruise flick?”

“You mean, my beau, Jimmy from Augusta, Georgia?” said Jan feigning a Southern drawl and a gag. “All he wanted me to do was blow him. I told him, fuck off.”

“And Reynolds,” said Kar. “Hell, he was a nice guy, captain of the basketball team, pre-law, I even put out once to see what it was like.” She glanced back at Jan. “But I should have known better.”

Mel finished her beer.

“So all that lovey-dovey boyfriend stuff was just a cover.”

“Total bullshit,” said Kar.

“But, hey, that was their problem,” added Jan.

“Meanwhile, you left me out there in left field,” said Mel in a low monotone, “while all the time …”

Jan got up and walked over to the spa as Kar leaned over and gently reached for Mel’s hand. Mel pulled away.

“Gees, I’m sorry, Mel, but I didn’t think it was a big deal,” said Kar. “We all throw around a lot of crap in the beginning. I guess I was a wardrobe lessie then, you know, still halfway stuck in my closet.”

Mel lay her hands firmly on Kar’s shoulders and looked her straight in the eye but said nothing.

“Enough of all this philosophizing bullshit,” said Jan impatiently, pulling off her sports bra. “O.K. if we take a plunge?”

“Sure, sure,” said Mel, strangely drawn to the sudden sight of Jan’s small, firm breasts.

Kar picked up on Jan’s cue and casually let her bra and short fall to the patio tile.

“Want to join us?” She smiled, thrusting out her breasts, a bit more fleshy than Mel had remembered from the locker room shower, as Jan dropped her shorts.

“Sure, sure in a minute,” said Mel. “Let me get the sandwiches.”

Mel stared from the kitchen at the living room mirror, which offered a view of the spa, transfixed as Jan turned to face Kar, pressing her breasts and hips deeply against Kar’s for one eternal moment before they climbed into the tub. For a second, Mel felt a surge down in her groin, not knowing whether what excited her was Jan’s moves, or these handsome women in all their nakedness, or her longing to be as close to Kar as Jan was to her now. For a moment she was tempted to take Kar up on her offer and join them.

“How do you get the water hotter?” Jan yelled over.

Mel hesitated to answer, then, taking a deep breath, yelled back, “There’s the dial on the right. Just turn it up.”

Mel waited quietly in the kitchen, staring into the open refrigerator for what must have been five, maybe ten minutes. When the tiny bulb in the frig flickered twice, the sounds of splashing stopped.

She closed the refrigerator door and glanced over, unwrapped her chicken sub with Russian dressing, and took a few bites.

Then she grabbed the wall phone and dialed 911.

It wasn’t until Mel had gotten back from the two funerals in New York that she was able to visit Mom.

“Honey, I am so, so sorry. What a terrible thing to have happen. But you gotta always remember, it wasn’t your fault. It was just an accident. You had no way of knowing…”

“I know,” said Mel unemotionally. “I’m surprised nothing happened to grandma.”

“Mel, you know your grandmother was such a bitch, I don’t think a power line would have made her flinch,” laughed Sally.

Mel walked over to the pen in the living room.

“Can – can I take him home – you know it’s kinda lonely in that house, especially now –“

“Sure Hon, Squeaky’s all ready. I even gave him a bath.”

Mel picked up the potato sack of a dog. They exchanged looks, then she gently carried him out and put him in the back seat on the pillow she had readied for him weeks ago.

Who needed people? Squeaky was enough.

A half hour later, she was breezing along at 80 miles an hour, not thinking about all that had happened, only what lay ahead. She was just about ready to toss the two halves of the friendship ring necklace she had given Kar out the window when she felt something soft under the brake pedal.

It was Squeaky.

He had crawled underneath the seat and lodged himself right under the pedal.

She wanted to swerve over to the shoulder somehow, but she was in the left lane and traffic was heavy. She couldn’t slow down without crushing the dog, so she instinctively yanked at the emergency brake, losing control and jumping over the concrete divider right into a mile long tractor trailer.

The friendship ring necklace was still clutched in Mel’s hand when they pulled what was left of her out of the mangled mess.

Squeaky, on the other hand, was just fine.

My Quartet of Horror Stories for Halloween Continues

29 Oct

My Quartet of Horror Stories for Halloween Continues

Here’s another twisted tale from my quartet of horror stories excerpted from my short story collection, “Basic Butch,” available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. It’s called “Best Buds.”

For more visit rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop or erotic-gay-fiction.com on your mobile device.

My main character had fucked around with this guy Jack a few times, but he thought spending the Labor Day weekend with him in Orlando might give him the chance to show him how he really felt. Instead, Jack became his own private nightmare.

It’s been a month now since I’ve taken a shower or left my apartment. There’s nothing left in the freezer and I’m down to only a handful of canned stuff. Not sure what I’ll do after that.

Here, I could have still been teaching my future Social Security checks in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, cavorting the catwalk of Christopher Street, and playing spin the bottle with some fellow Manhattan faggot. Instead, I’m stuck in this ground floor condo off Fort Lauderdale Beach with the vertical blinds drawn. It’s dangerous being on the ground floor, you know, but asking the landlord to change apartments would mean I’d have to leave this one.

And I can’t.

Not now.

You see, I’m waiting for Jack.

Waiting for Jack to find me.

I should start by telling you that I was pretty much of a loner as a kid. Dad worked 60 hours a week in the factory, and mom never let me play with other kids – she was always afraid I’d get hurt. I couldn’t even have a bike. So I grew up not equipped with the usual social skills which was O.K. by me until I was faced with student teaching in my junior year of college. Frankly, I was scared shit to stand up in front of some crazed, oversexed adolescents – you know, it was like that final scene in “Suddenly Last Summer.” I even consulted a shrink who said I was mildly paranoiac and agoraphobic and pushed the pills. But after I observed some of the other, more seasoned teachers in action in the faculty room and saw there were bigger shit-heads than me around, I got over my shyness on my own, thank you, very much.

Coming out a year later in the butch bars of the West Village, I realized the only way to rise above the masses of reasonably in-shape, decent looking guys was to go shirtless. I might not have been the tallest, hunkiest or prettiest guy in the place, and as the years went by, not the youngest either, but my hairy chest and muscular arms seemed to be enough to get people looking. Even if some queeny clothes horses giggled in ridicule, I had gotten them to look.

After all, wasn’t that all that counted?

After half a lifetime spent in cold and snow and a having new principal at my school who was one son-of-a-bitch, I woke up one bleak November Monday morning after almost twenty years of teaching the little bastards in New York City and decided that it was time for a change. I had nothing to hold me, no lover, no great pool of friends, just a small, well established coterie of fuck buddies all within walking distance of my upper West Side apartment and all of whom had gotten – well – boring. The one good thing was that I was a high school teacher – English – and that meant it would be easier for me to find a job elsewhere than most forty year olds. Plus my apartment with the leaky tub and drafty windows was being destabilized in a few months which meant the rent would be going through the roof.

I had vacationed in sun and fun Fort Lauderdale a few times and one day, for the pure hell of it, I combed Careerbuilders.com for a teaching job down there. There was a mid-year opening at a high school in Hollywood – some new-right-out-of-college teacher couldn’t deal with the kids throwing their desks at one another – and I grabbed it. After teaching so long in City schools, playing boot camp bastard had become second nature to me.

I got myself a nice little ground floor rental a few blocks from Fort Lauderdale Beach, and over the next year I blotted out my aloneness – I say aloneness because, again, I rarely felt truly lonely – with an ample dose of sex. But Lauderdale is a tourist town and fags in particular – me included – were always waiting for new meat – so I found it increasingly impossible to re-establish the little fuck buddy network that I had had back in New York.

One night in late July – I was off for the summer – I decided to hit Lenny’s Hideaway, a place where young guys hooked up with daddies. With its 3-for-1 drink specials, it was the only place in Lauderdale on a Thursday night guaranteed to have a crowd. Going against the grain when it came to acceptable Lenny’s attire – T, tank or polo – I walked in with an open shirt.

For awhile it seemed like it was going to be one of my typical nights at the place where I got stewed on the cheap alcohol and ignored by the endless cliques of chicken-shit young things and transplants from the neighboring bear bar when he saw me across the bar and smiled. A short guy like me – 5’8” at most – a well built, gymnast body evident under his tight white pullover. He had a shaved head, no facial hair, and oh, that smile.

I waited a few minutes, then walked past him. He had been talking to this guy old enough to be my father, but he turned away for a second from his conversation and looked my way. Close up, he looked real young – thirty at most. Maybe I was tired, or maybe not just buzzed up enough, or maybe I figured the old man was somebody to him, so I decided to leave that Kodak moment alone and call it a night.

As I walked to the parking lot, I heard someone yell out, “Wait a minute.”

I turned around. It was him. He introduced himself. Jack was his name.

“I just gotta tell you, Fuzzy, you got one beautiful chest,” and he slide his palm across my sweat.

Nice manly voice. Nice manly feel.

He brushed his hairless chin against my mustache as if to kiss me, then stopped.

“And you’re one good-looking guy,” I replied. Then I smiled and we went our separate ways, I to my car, he back to the bar and, I guess, his old man.

Two weeks later, I was at the baths, lying in my room, with my jockey shorts and work boots on, and who walks by but Jack. No body hair and one of those tight, no fat specimens of manhood that looked like he had been sculpted out of clay. He stopped.

“Just get here?” I asked, trying to stay cool.

“Yea, Fuzzy,” he replied. He sounded a bit buzzed. “But I’ll be back.”

Ten minutes later, he was.

“So I’m a top,” he announced matter-of-factly, shutting the door of my room. He ran his hand vigorously across my furry chest.

“So am I,” I replied, trying to keep the grin on my face but figuring, after all this cock teasing, I would lose him.

“So what do two tops do?” he asked.

We figured it out quickly enough. Standing there by the edge of the bed, my legs straddling the floor, Jack gently stroked both our dicks – I was slightly bigger at seven inches – until first he, then I came. I let him wipe up the mess with my towel, and then he left my room and I left the bathhouse not wanting to see whom he played around with next.

A month later, I ran into Jack at the new sex club. I never forget a dick and caught his six and half inch piece of meat hanging out of one of the glory holes. It wasn’t drooping for long, though, and I made sure to suck him dry before I let on it was me. He was surprised, but happy to see me. This time, I decided to take it to the next step.

“You interested in going to Orlando for Labor Day – you know, just as buddies cruising for ass – I never been –“

“Sure,” Jack replied, genuinely excited by the prospect. “That sounds great. Just as long as we don’t do Mickey Mouse. We can stay at the Marlboro Motel Resort. Never been either. I’m a low maintenance guy, Fuzzy. Give me your number.”

He went one step better and at the front desk, got paper and pen and took down my number and address, too.

Had I known what lie ahead, I would have given him the number of some cousin in Alaska.

Our initial plan for getting to Orlando was for Jack to do the driving. But in the end, I was the one who played chauffer and picked Jack up in front of his apartment off Sunrise Boulevard. And during the monotonous ride on the straight-as-a-pencil Florida Turnpike, I learned some more about this stranger whom I had invited to spend the weekend with me.

He told me he had come out late at 27. Before that, he was, as he termed it, “straight shooting,” even married for a short time. And no boutique clerk here. He said he had a business degree from Boston University (he had tried out for the Olympics in gymnastics – hence the great bod) and had moved down here about three years ago. With a little ingenuity and a lot of luck, he boasted he had snowballed a small inheritance from his grandmother into several million dollars worth of rental properties which he owned and managed in Jacksonville. I imagined a lot of the guys whom I saw on Sebastian Beach were the new wave of gay land barons that Florida’s exploding real estate market had created.

Now I had one sitting next to me.

He mentioned Boyd, a short, hairy, very in-shape guy with a huge cock that he had met at the Driveshaft, Lauderdale’s leather bar, a few weeks ago. Boyd and his 6 foot-2 partner, Jesse lived in North Lauderdale – they were both closer to Jack’s age than mine, thirty-somethings – and were actually planning a trip to the Marlboro that weekend, too. Sure enough, less than 20 minutes after we arrived, we ran into them in the parking lot.

Jack was right. Boyd was lightly muscular, hairy, and boyish with a crew and a sexy two days-growth worth of a beard. But the real attention getter was his pair of white, see- through gauze pants – no underwear. Jesse, a fart from being matinee handsome, smooth, and holding in his stomach, was the more conservative, wearing knee length swim trucks. But, later at the pool, I occasionally spied him nonchalantly stroking his crotch as he looked in my direction. Both Boyd and Jesse liked short guys – and they had already had Jack.

Frankly, the Marlboro didn’t impress me. It was in a crapo neighborhood of downtown Orlando, littered with porn parlors and druggies, far from the Disney glitz. The place itself looked like it was stuck in some time warp from the ‘60’s, a three level structure shaped in an L. Below, surrounded by cracked and faded red asphalt, were several bars, a restaurant, and the pool. I was waiting for Jayne Mansfield to pop out at some point. Instead, a tall, lanky, fiftyish transexual with flowing blonde hair and boobs hanging like two eggplants, did. It looked like she was halfway through her surgery and trying to make money from some of the Latino men who wandered onto the property to pay for the “Final Solution.” Jack named her Transylvania. He hated drags and “transies.” So did I. It seemed like all of society’s sexual outsiders and misfits were dumped into the gay sandbox by default.

Our room was on the second floor and our neighbor was a tall, nondescript blonde-headed, forty-something guy named Sam from some god-forsaken little town on the east cost of Georgia. We got to talking at dinner and found out his thing was young Latins. But it was starting to get dark and Jack was in a rush to finish his lasagna. It was time to prowl.

And so we did, dressed in basic butch – jeans, boots, and open shirts – prowling first the little western bar and later the large dance bar on the premises, then strolling over to the Log Cabin, a leather/levis/bear bar just two blocks away.

The drinks were cheap, a buck for a beer, two bucks for a screwdriver, and Jack lulled me into his drinking style so that by midnight we were both staggering back to our room, totally wasted, just as the Marlboro bars were beginning to hop.

Jack had asked that I book double beds, but sometime in the middle of the night with the music from the dance bar still blasting below, he crawled in beside me. We were both naked and as I lay on my side, he snuggled up against me, his half hard cock sitting in the crack of my ass.

“Cuddle, cuddle, Fuzzy, sleep, sleep,” he murmured, his arms enveloping me. I could feel and hear his heart beating. I had been used to years of hit and run sex and this was the first time in a very, very long time that I actually lay with a guy in bed – no sex – just lay there next to this beautiful man, stroking his baby-smooth ass cheeks from behind, as he slowly rubbed his hard abs and chest against the hair on my back and buttocks.

I was about ready to ask him to fuck me – solid, unwavering “Top” me – but realized his long soft cock wouldn’t get much harder than a roll of manicotti without the sauce. All the liquor he had consumed that night had made sure of that. Soon I heard him snoring.

The next morning, with Jack still in la-la-land, I walked down to a small lake on the perimeter of the property where they had created a white sandy beach. I sat there alone, sipping my container of coffee that I had gotten from the restaurant and vowed that I would not let Jack get me drunk again that night.

A few hours later at the pool, with all of us, Sam, Boyd, Jesse and I sitting together, Jack was the first to start with the beers. I said nothing but gave Jack one long look. He knew why.

“It’s just I need a few to loosen up,” he explained casually. “Without a drink, Fuzzy, I’m as shy as a cloistered nun.” Then he added, “After all, there’s a lot worst shit than beer.”

I stuck with my cranberry juice.

A tall, hairy, somewhat flabby guy with tit rings and salt and pepper hair – 35 or 40 I’d say – kept looking my way. As he passed our lounge chairs, I leaned out and said, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Sean Connery – I mean when he was young?”

“No, no one ever did,” replied the guy making sure to catch my eye. “But thanks for the compliment.”

Later in the pool, he came up behind me and began thrusting his groin against my ass.

“Down boy,” I said firmly with a smile. “That’s not my scene.”

An hour later, he and Boyd were in the water, negotiating. A few minutes after that, the two of them drifted off together as Jesse, lying on his float, continued sipping on his rum and coke, a silly ass grin on his face.

There were a lot of couples there that weekend. Some, like newlyweds, hung all over one another. Then there were those who prowled apart or at least toyed with the idea like the couple from Rochester, New York, with whom Jack had struck up a conversation. They babbled on about their “solid” monogamous, two year relationship as they eyed Jack’s basket the whole afternoon, especially the older one with the tank that read “No Gag Reflex” over his chest. And then there were the Boyds and Jesses who did it right under one another’s noses.

It was a few minutes after Boyd and Sean Connery left for their little tete a tete when this middle-aged guy with a comb-over, whose skin resembled one of Hitler’s human lamp shades and whose ass was in Florida but stomach somewhere in Alabama, waltzed up to Jack.

“Jamie,” he bubbled like a ‘50’s queen. “Didn’t think I see you here. I’m in 145 in case you need car fare to get your sorry ass back to Jacksonville.” Then he sashayed daintily up to the pool and gingerly waltzed in so as not to spill his drink.

“What happened?” I asked jokingly. “Were you that bad a fuck? And who’s Jamie?”

Stonefaced, Jack said nothing, got up abruptly from his lounge and dove straight into the pool behind Mr. Wrong. I could see the coy look on the guy’s face as he was about to turn around and play hard to get, when Jack dove under the water and apparently grabbed the guy from beneath, pulling him down and keeping him there long enough to stir some commotion from the people nearby.

Suddenly, after what seemed forever to me, they both shot up from the water like two hot, hungry cocks. Mr. Wrong was coughing his lungs out, clinging to the edge of the pool.

“I think you just went over your credit line,” scolded Jack quietly.

I let it go. Now I realize I shouldn’t have.

I’d never been to the red light districts of Europe but I understand the whores there ply their wares by sitting lasciviously by large shop windows. By 2’oclock, the upper decks of the motel looked the same as guys sat or lay on their beds, their room drapes pulled open and doors ajar, and the parade of hungry faggots passed by, window shopping.

Every so often, usually after another $2 vodka cranberry, Jack or Sam would get up and announce they would be doing another “whore walk.” Boyd and Jesse felt their chances were better at the pool. Me? I was an old fashioned boy who believed in sex only after sundown.

Judging by the parade of men in and out of her room, I think the only person who was consistently successful that day was Transylvania, who had been down at the pool earlier that afternoon showing off her surgeon’s talents in a two piece lime bikini.

We both took naps which allowed Jack to recover from his early afternoon buzz.

“Fuck this place tonight,” he decreed as we were taking our showers. “Let’s grab a cab, Fuz, and check out Roy’s.”

Roy’s was an out-of-the-way, neighborhood hole-in-the-wall bar that urban legend claimed had some back room action. Even though we had the car, Jack thought it smarter to cab it – that way we could get tanked without worrying about the DWI patrol.

I thought neighborhoods in Orlando couldn’t get much worse than where the Marlboro was. Arriving at Roy’s – a ten buck cab fare – I realized I was wrong. Plus, even though it was after 11, the place had maybe ten or fifteen guys at most, a few cute young rebel types I admit, but mostly just fat, good old boys playing pool or darts or munching on peanuts.

The back room was actually an outside, fenced-in patio which mimicked a mini-version of the Rambles of Central Park. But the two cute ones Jack and I had our eyes on ventured out only briefly, leaving as the main event some fat fuck on his knees blowing another fat fuck behind some trees.

Then everything changed for the better when one of the rebel boys – tall and thin, grizzly beard with a red cap and south of 25 – stationed himself a few feet from the Fattie who was on his knees. A few minutes later, Rebel Boy had yanked his nice long piece from out of his jeans and Fattie quickly shifted gears and moved in for the kill.

Jack gave me a nod to follow him. He stood beside Rebel Boy, unbuttoned the guy’s shirt and began stroking his smooth chest while Fattie continued to blow below. When Jack moved and began deep kissing the guy, I knelt down and began licking whatever Fattie didn’t have in his mouth. Rebel Boy instinctively turned closer in my direction, leaving me with the whole prize as Jack, still kissing him, stuck his hands down the guy’s pants and felt his ass. Before long, Rebel Boy was bent over and bare assed, Jack’s firm dick sliding in and out of the guy’s pre-lubed asshole as I, back on my feet, let Fattie finish me off. Jack and I came at about the same time.

By the time we returned to the Log Cabin, Jack’s alcohol buzz was in high gear. I was trying to space my drinks with Cokes but it was hard to resist when Jack kept buying.

He was only half way through one screwdriver when he ordered another for himself and one for me. I guess the bartender had a Ph.D. in mumblers-deciphering and slid the new drinks next to our old ones. With that, Jack took his first drink and poured it into the new one, the overflow flooding the top of the bar where we stood. Not missing a beat, the bartender grabbed some napkins and quickly sopped the mess up.

“He ain’t potty trained yet,” I explained to the curious guy next to me who was watching us.

Huddled away in the corner, a couple of older guys in Bermuda shorts and flannel shirts had been observing Jack since we first came in. Their looks weren’t cruises, but more like probing stares, as if they were trying to place where they had seen him before.

Suddenly, Jack grabbed me from behind and gave me a long and heavy tongue kiss. I knew it wasn’t love, but at first I thought it was the liquor, then realized Jack was playing diversional tactics with these guys.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he slurred. “315. We gotta check out 315.” Three fifteen was Boyd and Jesse’s room.

Boyd was alone, naked, standing by the window, his Prince Albert glistening in the parking lot light. It was as if he had been expecting us. He opened the door and gestured for me to pull down my jeans to which I complied – I had wanted that fuck from the moment I saw him that first day. Jack settled with unzipping his own fly and pulling out his limp dick, but after several attempts to get hard while Boyd worked my stiff rod over with his tongue, Jack gave up, zipped up his fly and stumbled out of the room.

Boyd didn’t seem to care. He had gotten what he wanted, and so, too, had I.

“Aren’t you going to pull the drapes?” I asked.

“Why?” replied Boyd as he reached for the lube and began fingering my asshole.

“I don’t get fucked,” I said with a smile.

“You will tonight,” he said, determined.

If anybody was going to fuck my virgin hole that weekend it would be Jack – or forget it.

Just then, the door opened. It was Jesse with his own trick – Sam. I used the opportunity to get off the bed, pull up my jeans and, still smiling, make my exit.

Jack hadn’t returned when I got back to our room and I used the opportunity to get some sleep. Jack was still gone when I awoke the next morning.

I went to have breakfast. Boyd and Jesse walked into the restaurant and joined me. We small-talked but it was as if last night had never happened. Finally I brought up what was really on my mind.

“You guys haven’t seen Jack, have you? He didn’t come back to the room last night, and as of this morning, he was still MIA.”

“Well,” said Boyd, “I can give you 67 guesses where he might be.”

I looked at him.

“That’s the number of rooms in this dump,” explained Jesse as if I were a moron.

I didn’t touch a drop of liquor the rest of the day and as the afternoon progressed into night, I got increasingly worried about Jack though I tried not to show it. But it seemed like I was the only one who gave a shit. In fact, Boyd and Jesse connected with a dynamic duo from Philly and never did catch up on their suntan and Sam ping-ponged from one chaise lounge to another, pining after some young Latin cutie.

I tried Jack’s cell phone at least a dozen times that afternoon and evening, always getting voice mail, then realized he had left it – and his wallet and apartment keys – in my locked car all this time. I wandered around the property and up to the Log Cabin, retracing our tracks, aimlessly hoping I might find some sign of him. I even went up to the front desk and asked for the number of the nearest hospital and called over there, pretending I was a family member, to see if someone fitting Jack’s description might have been brought in the night before. But I got nowhere. I thought of calling the police, but Boyd had put on a rare queen’s face when I had floated the idea that morning at breakfast. “Honey, you ain’t your brother’s keeper.” So I didn’t.

Was Jack lying in some hunk’s bed or in some alleyway? Had some Religious Right gay basher or one of the neighborhood druggies gotten him? Had he grabbed a cab that night again for Roy’s and been abducted by aliens in the patio? Had some trick gone sour?

It was after eight when I found Boyd and Jesse in the bar. Initially I felt relieved – maybe they would have some new ideas of what to do – but they were too interested in having a second round with their new found friends from the City of Brotherly Love to pay attention to my ramblings.

Sunday’s T-Dance at the Marlboro was the gay event of the week for Orlando, and as I watched from the walkway outside our room the crowds below become ever bigger and noisier, an icy reality gripped me.

I was alone in all this.

Totally alone.

I went to bed early but I couldn’t sleep. So around 10, I wandered through the growing crowd in the courtyard to the Log Cabin. My heart raced when I thought I glimpsed Jack making out with a saddle worn, pseudo-cowboy type outside the Last Round-Up, the motel’s shitty little western bar. The guy wasn’t much taller than us which made his oversize cowboy hat look even more ridiculous. But as I approached them, I realized I was wrong.

It was my last night in Orlando – I definitely had no plans of ever returning – and so I didn’t give a shit what people thought of me. I went shirtless. Though not billowing like the numbers flocking to the Marlboro, the men at The Log Cabin were a livelier group than I had encountered the two previous nights. Maybe it was because I was totally sober.

No one – me included – could ignore the young guy who pranced in around 11, donned in sexy faded jeans and a black T that read ‘High Voltage – Heavy Metal.” Tall, body builder-built, with a hairless, baby face and buzz cut, he was one of those rare sightings you just couldn’t keep your eyes off of. As I sipped my drink, I saw that he was looking my way.

I was standing by the bathroom waiting in line to take a piss when he gave me another stare – this time a long one, from around the corner. I was liquor-free, but I needed to get Jack off my mind for a lousy five minutes. I walked straight up to him and smiled.

“So how’s it goin’?” I asked.

A broad grin came on his face.

“You know, you’re the top man in this place tonight,” I continued.

He grinned again, looking a bit embarrassed by my comment.

“In fact, you should be able to go up to anybody in this dump and say ‘you’ and save all that beer money.”

“It isn’t that easy,” he replied, a response I found bizarre coming from him. “But then, tonight, I didn’t have to. You came to me.”

I asked him his age. Twenty-nine. Jack’s age.

A minute later, he was stroking my chest. Just as he was bending down to kiss me, Boyd and Jesse entered the place. I know they saw us because I could see Jesse wink at me from the corner of my eye.

Brian lived just a few blocks away in some apartment complex off Orange Blossom Trail. I thought this 6’4” boy-man would be a God-sent distraction, sucking my dick, eating out my pits, rimming by furry butt hole, and matting my chest hair down with his sweat. But I couldn’t get hard, blamed it on what little alcohol I had had that night, and went back to the motel.

The real reason was Jack.

The next morning, no goodbyes from the gang. It was as if they were intentionally ignoring me. After all, who wanted to be bothered with someone else’s problem? I waited by the pool after checking out, waited as long as I could, hoping against hope that I would see Jack reappear from some corner. But at about 1 when the dark, heavy clouds started rolling in, I decided I couldn’t hang around anymore. Jack would have to find me – back in Lauderdale. I left my number at the desk in case he surfaced and left.

It thunder-stormed for most of the eternal ride back. I was freezing in the car since the only way I could keep the windows from fogging up was to have the ac up full blast. Sometimes the visibility was as non-existent like being in a snowstorm back home in New York in February. One good thing – it kept my mind off Jack’s stuff – cell phone, wallet, keys – that was strewn across the passenger seat next to me like relics.

Somehow I made it back in one piece and fell into bed with my clothes on, exhausted.

The next day, between classes, I rechecked the address on Jack’s driver’s license. My game plan was to go to his apartment off Sunrise after school, drop off his keys and wallet and overnighter and, most importantly, see if he had shown up. That’s when I noticed it – there was Jack’s mug on his license but the name was different – Alan W. Lacey. Where the hell had “Jack” come from?

The first thing that struck me walking into his place was that the furnishings were lean and mean like he had either just moved in, or was just moving out. Funny for someone who bragged about being a millionaire. There was no sign anyone had been in the place for days. In fact, a half eaten, hard-as-a-rock tuna fish sandwich was still lying on the kitchen counter.

That’s when I noticed it, stuck to the front of the refrigerator. The front page of an issue of the SoFlo Gay News going back to July. Circled in red ink was a story about some old faggot in Jacksonville who had taken a guy home who then robbed and budgeoned him to death with a hammer. According to the story, two of the old man’s friends had seen them together that night at Hennessey’s, Jacksonville’s version of Lenny’s Hideaway.

The guy called himself Jamie, the same name that fat fuck at the Marlboro who Jack nearly drown had called him. The story included a police sketch.

The guy in the sketch was a dead ringer for Jack.

I know it sounds paranoid, but from that moment on I made sure not to leave my fingerprints on anything and wiped down his keys and wallet and the straps on the overnighter that I left on the dining room floor before I exited.

Maybe I should have called the cops right then. But, soon, I realized it was too late.

That’s when my shadows – and the endless hang-up calls to my apartment – overtook me.

Why I don’t know, but I was afraid I’d run into Boyd or Jesse at the Driveshaft, or someone else who might have seen me in Orlando, so I decided not to go out. Skipping the gym came next. I had told too many people there about my Labor Day weekend plans – they’d be nosey. But why did that matter I kept asking myself.

Because I was afraid Jack knew I knew?

I couldn’t concentrate at work, lost control of my classes – it was my junior year in college all over again – and after awhile I stopped going in all together, spending the day mostly in bed. Finally I left my resignation on the principal’s voice mail after hours – “family issues” – and just ignored his calls after that until they stopped coming.

I couldn’t drive because the man behind me looked like Jack. Coming back for me. After all, our original plan for Orlando was for him to do the driving and pick me up. He had my address. He knew where I lived.

There was a time when I jerked off thinking of Jack and that big dick of his in my mouth. But now all there were were nightmares, Jack, naked and bloody, sneaking into my apartment through my screened terrace, coming up to my bed and forcing a plastic bag over my head until I couldn’t breathe, while he took a utility knife and very neatly sliced off my dick at the root. So I locked the terrace door, drew the blinds closed and began sleeping on the sofa in the living room so any windows or doors would be in my eyesight.

But the nightmares kept coming.

I was afraid to take a shower – there was always that dark, muddled figure through the glass – so I stopped.

Those dead calls continued for weeks. Dozens of them, all hours of the day and night. Hang-up after hang-up. As if someone were checking to see if I were here.

That is until last Thursday. The caller finally left a message.

“Fuzzy, I think it’s time we talked.”

Now I spend my days and nights aimlessly wandering around my apartment, taking catnaps when I can, and waiting.

Waiting for Jack.

Waiting for Jack to find me.

It’s Halloween Week …

27 Oct

It’s Halloween Week …

… what better time than to share with you a few of the more twisted tales from my short story collection, “Basic Butch,” available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble. A lot of the horror we hear about this time of year is pure fantasy, but all my stories are based in reality. They could happen, and, hell, maybe they have.

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

So let’s start off with “Hooked.”

Handsome but tormented Simon was determined once and for all to find out the identity of the mysterious, well-built man with the hairy chest but no face shot who had been stalking him for weeks on the gay sex websites. What Simon was not ready for that rainy Halloween night was finding the guy hot, hard, and ready, at his doorstep…

Simon made sure he had enough provisions for the weekend. He had even brought the commode his old man had used only once before he died closer to his desk so he wouldn’t have to go all the way upstairs to take a piss. He pulled the drapes in his room so there would be no distractions and left the lights off in the front of the house so any trick-or-treaters would think no one was home. He turned his smartphone off and left the answering machine on his landline phone off. He was determined to get to the bottom of his mystery web buddy if it took him all weekend.

Just then, he heard the rain they had been threatening all day suddenly hit the flat roof of the garage. Good. That would keep the little Halloween bastards home tonight for sure.

Simon had been surfing the web and the phone apps for sex for a while now, ever since Geo died and he no longer went to the bars or visit the baths. Along the way he had met a few hot numbers, Jersey boys like himself or an occasional out-of-towner, since most Manhattan gay guys didn’t have cars. It didn’t take much to convince them to make the trip to Paramus—one came as far as Cherry Hill; after all, his nine inch uncut dick that he displayed proudly in his private photo files was worth the gas and the tolls on the Garden State or Turnpike, and his suitors were too impressed by his man-pole to question why he plowed them with all his clothes on. Fucking away in the bed where he was made 27 years ago, before mom split for another guy, and dad, a constructor worker, got slammed by a crane.

Then, two weeks ago, it started happening. Whether he was on BuddyBear.com, SlickDick.com, Jockstrap.com or Leatherman.com, suddenly this guy—“Tom”—appeared in all four of his message boxes. All with the same pic—hot hairy chest and abs and a tease of a dick shot but no face and the same message, “Could show you a good time. A real good time.” Nothing else.

When he searched for the guy’s profile, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if someone had hacked the sites, had hacked his messages. And when he responded, asking for stats, like height, weight, age, dick size, and a face shot, he just got the same response. Faceless pic and the message. He tried deleting the guy’s e’s, but they reappeared. He contacted each site’s webmaster but they claimed nothing was wrong with the site and the guy wasn’t even registered.

Now yesterday, “Tom” was coming up as pop-ups every time he opened any one of the sites and no amount of pop-up blockers or deletes got rid of them.

Tonight, though, as he started making his endless rounds of the sites—some nights he’d visit them ten or twelve times between TV repeats and cold chicken from the frig—“Tom” didn’t show. In fact, his first e-guest for the evening was an old regular on SlickDick.com, that is if Mack, a 20 year old hairless bottom from Totowa, could be classified as “old.”

“Sure you don’t want to plow that ass of mine for Halloween?” he messaged with a new shot of those baby smooth melons, his muscular legs spread apart enough to show a dong that practically touched the floor. Funny how the guys with the biggest dicks wanted to get fucked the most.

Simon kept his fly unzipped and dick handy and gave it a couple of strokes but Mack was starting to get boring and his worked-up hard-on quickly faded.

On BuddyBear.com, he had his typical share of “woofs” and “you’re a hot fuck!” from hungry guys anywhere and everywhere, places he’d never visit, tonight from Wheeling, West Virginia, Johnstown, PA, Palm Springs, and even one from Berlin, his fifth international fan to date. After all, that chest of his had actually once deserved it even if the pics he posted were two years old. Thankfully, his buzz cut didn’t date them. Simon used to respond with a “thanx—much appreciated” but now he just deleted them. He had gotten his ego kick.

The rain had picked up and was hitting the window outside his desk hard like his stiff dick against his hand just before he stuck it up a guy’s hole.

He was surprised to have a message waiting for him on Jockstrap.com. Usually those conceited gym bunnies only looked. He knew that from the number of “admirers” who, according to the webmaster, had viewed his profile.

“Hey, bud, you got some hot pics there—and we’re practically neighbors,” read the message from Bobbie, a rusty bearded rebel boy type from Garfield. Slim with just a bit of chest and belly fuzz, a few pube hairs sticking out from his boxer shorts, and that handsome Black Irish face and smile that didn’t quit. He wore a cap that read “Montana Mountain Man” but Simon didn’t think it was hiding any receding hairline.

“So just how neighborly would you like to get?” messaged Simon back with a butchy grin. He could feel his dick pressing against his half open fly.

“Well, you up to trickin’ AND treatin’ tonite?”

“As long as you don’t mind getting wet. Rainin’ like hell outside”

Pause.

“Got any butt shots to share?” messaged Simon.

“Sure—give me ten—I’ll send them over for your very private inspection, sir.” He could almost see him standing at attention at his pc.

Simon was dripping. This would probably end up like so many other encounters, a lot of dirty talk and dirty pics but no cigar. But what the fuck. He was half way there already.

Just then, what sounded like an army began banging on the door and ringing the bell non-stop. He waited a few minutes, hoping they would give up. But they didn’t.

“Better make it quick before my man meat explodes,” Simon messaged back, then got up to get the door.

He looked at the three teenagers, all males, seventeen, eighteen he guessed, dressed in jeans and pullovers whose only costumes were some cheap drugstore masks around their necks. They looked more like potential hold-up boys than candy grabbers. The rain had let up.

“Aren’t you a little too old to be trick or treating?” said Simon with a pissed off, what-the-fuck-are-you-bothering-me-for look.

“Man, just give us some stuff and mind your own business,” grunted the shortest of the three who was still a good six foot.

“Why don’t you just go back and fuck your girlfriends,” said Simon, reaching from behind for the doorknob. Suddenly the tallest one grabbed his wrist. Simon pushed him off, then, with a haughty air of self-confidence on his face, lifted up his T-shirt clear to his throat and faced the trio head-on. They all looked dazed like deers in front of the headlights. The middle one turned around and began throwing up in the bushes on the side of the house.

“Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” said the shorter one, unable to turn away.

“The same thing that’ll happen to you if you don’t get the fuck out of here—NOW!”

And with that Simon slammed the door, breathed deeply, and double locked it.

When he got back to his laptop, He was there. Tom. Same cockteasy pic with no face. Only there was something different.

His message had changed.

“Ready for me to show you a good time?”

Simon sat down quickly and messaged him back, still pissed-off by the boys.

“Who the fuck are you?’

“Someone you’d like to know.”

“Don’t give me any shit. Why are you bugging me?”

“Because I know everything about you even if you don’t know shit about me.”

“Like what, fucker?”

“Like why you never take your shirt off in public anymore and all those hot pics you got on your profile are horseshit.”

Simon began to sweat. He tried to hold his hand from shaking as he key-stroked.

“And why don’t you have any face shots, fucker, huh?”

“We have a lot in common, you and me. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Look, if you want me to fuck you, come over and let’s get it over with. Otherwise, fuck-off.”

Simon pulled the plug from behind his laptop and popped out the battery, then popped it back in so everything shut down instantly.

He sat there, limp-dicked, his face as blank as the screen, for what must have been a half hour. He felt paralyzed, to a point that he took advantage of the commode, and took a piss.

Then he remembered about Bobbie and his promise to send some more pics. He booted up.

Bobbie’s pics got him hot again. Nice, real nice shots of a hairy butt, furry low hangers swaying in the breeze. He clicked on “Reply.”

“So how soon can you come over?” messaged Simon, thinking quickly whether he had enough lube in the house.

“Give me a half hour. What’s the address? I got GPS.”

“You read my profile, didn’t you—I’m a top,” Simon typed with a cautious stare.

“I sure fucken hope so. My boy butthole needs some Daddy dick lovin’”

Simon sniffed his armpits, then his crouch and debated about taking a shower. But his first priority was finding that lube. He was about to get into the shower, hard-on and all, when he heard a loud knock on the door. It couldn’t be rebel boy. Not that quick. Well, if it were another bunch of trick-or-treaters, he’d just answer the door butt naked and this time let them get a gander of all of him.

He swung open the door, his hard-on bobbing in the rain.

It wasn’t rebel boy, greased up for action.

It wasn’t kids looking for candy.

The guy—he was about five foot nine, maybe five foot ten—wore a light blue fisherman slicker, a rain cap pulled over his face, and dark sunglasses. A heavy salt and pepper beard covered the lower half of his face that was barely visible in the street light.

“I’m here to show you a good time,” said the guy in a deep, masculine voice, low and monotoned. “A real good time.”

Simon’s dick instantly shrunk. He turned around, trying to hide his schizophrenic reaction of shock and delight at finally meeting his web stalker. The man followed him in and shut the door.

“So, you say you know everything about me,” said Simon, slumping into an armchair, with a cool, Okay-what’s-next stare.

“And now you’ll know everything about me,” said the man.

And with that, he opened his slicker wide to reveal a dark, matted chest and belly that Simon was acutely familiar with, having seen it dozens of times on his laptop screen. Then, walking out of the shadows, the man took off the jacket, his rain cap and glasses, and flung them on a nearby end table.

Simon couldn’t stop staring at his half naked stranger. He could tell he had been handsome once. But all he saw now were deep, creviced scars like someone had played tic-tac-toe on his face with a knife. One of the gashes went right across his left eye that seemed permanently sealed.

Simon felt his dick coming alive.

“Halloween is about the only time of the year I can go out without a baseball cap and glasses,” said the man with a shrug and self-effacing grin. “Kids think it’s a cool disguise and want to know where I got it done.”

“Some alley I guess,” said Simon, still trying to look non-committal when his crotch told him differently.

“I used to teach at Rutgers before my little incident,” said the guy, lighting up a cigarette. “But afterwards, they were good about it and gave me on-line.”

“On-line?”

“Teaching on-line. That way I never have to see my students and they never have to see me.” He sat down on the sofa across from Simon.

“No it wasn’t a gay bash,” continued the guy, still trying to make light of the whole messy memory. “Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time when a bunch of fucks came in to rob the 7-11 I was buying a pack of these in.” He gestured to his cigarette. “Hell, I was lucky. The guy behind the counter got so macheted up, he died.”

By now, Simon couldn’t take his eyes off him. Nor could he hide the growing lust on his face.

“Tom, it’s Tom, Simon,” said the guy anticipating Simon’s next question.

“So you know my name, too.”

“I used to come into the Carlstadt branch of Bank America all the time.” He smiled like he had gotten away with robbing the bank.

“I’m still there,” said Simon.

“You know,” Tom said slowly, almost in a whisper, “I think I wanted to screw you the first time you handed me back my deposit slip.”

Simon said nothing.

“I know all about your little accident,” he continued, a tiny pompous grin coming to his mouth. “I’ve been hacking computers since I was 17 and when I came into the bank one day and heard you were in the hospital, I hacked Beverly Memorial’s system and got enough to piece together what happened to you.”

“You mean, when Geo and I were free-basing one night and the fucken thing blew up and spit all over us?”

“Geo your lover?”

“No, we were just fuck buddies. Went out and got high a lot together and screwed whatever we could pick up, or one another when we had a slow night. Funny how the shit hit me on the chest and belly and arms but missed my face and my dick.”

“And Geo?”

“He didn’t really get hit much at all, just one bad burn on his hand.” Simon stood up and moved closer to the sofa, his eyes locked on Tom’s “Then six months later Geo goes and OD’s—all by his lonesome self. Funny, ain’t it?”

“And after that—this was before my little 7-11 run-in,” continued Tom, “I saw you never wore those tight short sleeve shirts again at the bank. The ones that showed off your biceps.”

“So you noticed.”

“I’ve noticed everything about you. Everything.” Tom leaned over, grabbed Simon by the cheeks of his ass and pulled him close. Then he began to stick the tip of his tongue into each of the scars that dotted Simon’s belly like moon craters.

“Why, why did you choose me?” asked Simon. His lust and anger had now turned to self-pity and pity for this stranger but he was determined not to cry.

“Because we’re brothers in pain.”

As Tom worked his way up to Simon’s chest, most of the heavy carpet of hair that once covered it now reduced to a few wisps, Simon gently glided his fingertips into the deep, rocky crevices that lined Tom’s face. Each time he did, his dick twitched.

Suddenly there was a loud bang on the door.

“Shit,” said Simon, “I forgot about Bobbie.”

“Bobbie?”

“Yea, a kid I just connected with on Jockstrap. I invited him over.”

“So?”

“Just let him keep banging. He’ll give up eventually.”

“And spoil his Halloween?” said Tom, laughing. He grabbed Simon’s hand and led him to the door.

Rebel boy stood there, the rain dripping from his Mets cap, and looked at the two of them. Simon stark naked and Tom, wearing jeans, boots and a heavenly hard-on. A confused but tempted look came to Bobbie’s face like the time he caught a gander of some apparent straight guy in a suit pulling his dick out in the park at lunchtime just for Bobbie’s private admiration.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he said stumbling on his words but not looking away. “I must have the wrong address.”

“Bobbie, isn’t it,” said Simon, the pompous glare of a priest delivering mass on his face.

“Simon? Are you Simon?”

“Come on in,” said Tom, grabbing the kid’s hand, “before some Dracula out there decides to rape you.”

“I don’t understand, your pictures—”

“So you wanna stay or don’t you?” said Simon with a defensive look.

“Sure, sure, I’ll stay,” said Bobbie with conviction and a smile, throwing the duffel bag on his shoulder to the floor.

“And what’s in there?” said Simon, that pissed-off expression returning to his face. “I hope it’s not dildos. If that’s the story, you don’t need me—I mean—us. And if you’re one of those circuit boys trying to look butch who likes to party and wants me to mainline some Tina, just fucken forget it …”

“No, no it’s nothing like that,” the kid said almost apologetically. “I was going to ask you while we were chatting, but you logged off so quick.”

“Ask me what?”

“If I could video our little session, you know, as a souvenir.”

“Got a wide enough lens to get us all in?” said Tom with a smirk.

Bobbie stared first at Tom, then Simon. “No, I just wanna watch this time. I mean, I’m not usually into spectator sex, but this time—”

“Does all this make your dick go soft?” asked Simon, stroking his checkered chest.

“No, no way, man,” said Bobbie, his stare now as solid as a gold brick. “In fact, you fucken guys are giving me the best god-damn fucken hard-on I’ve had in months.” He unzipped his fly and whipped out a nice, cut, thick seven incher that made Tom and Simon’s tools twitch in unison. “This one I want to enjoy.”

It didn’t take the kid long to set up his tripod and camera, as Simon undressed him, giving Bobbie’s blazing hard-on a few strokes. Tom got naked. About ten minutes later, as Simon and Tom were deep into it on the living room rug, Bobbie got up from the arm chair and instinctively sandwiched himself between them.

“I—I want to feel your pain,” he said glancing back and forth at the two of them and took a heavy drag of Jungle Juice.

“Poetic, ain’t he?” said Tom to Simon as he leaned over and grabbed his jeans that he had flung on the floor a few minutes before, unlacing its leather belt from the loops. Then, with his dick in front of the kid’s face, Tom slowly wound the belt around Bobbie’s throat, tightening it ever so slowly with every turn as Simon fucked Bobbie slow and deep doggie-style. A few minutes later, the kid shot his load and appeared to pass out. Tom leaned over and gently licked the warm juice off the living room floor. Then, pulling out of Bobbie and laying the kid gently down, Simon aimed his stiff tool at Tom’s face and shot, his cum dripping down the crevices of his scars like snow melting down a mountain.

It was about 6 a.m. when the kid woke up. He got up from the sofa where he guessed they had stowed him and looked around. Seeing no one, he decided to go up the stairs. There in the master bedroom, Tom and Simon were sprawled on the bed, sleeping on their stomachs. He went over and, without disturbing them, slowly stroked their hairy butts, then went back downstairs, packed up his camera, got dressed and left. Thinking about the tape he had made, Bobbie felt his hard-on halfway there as he stumbled down the front stairs to his car.

Tom awoke a half hour later, got out of bed and pulled the drapes apart to let in the morning light. Then he turned around and lightly smiled at Simon, who threw off the blanket that had enveloped them.

“Think Bobbie enjoyed his fifteen seconds of pain?” asked Tom.

Shrugging his shoulders, Simon tapped on the mattress for Tom to come back to bed as his dick, unassisted except by Tom’s smile, rose in anticipation.

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.

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