My Life Today

My Life Today

I intend this to be my last blog, for a while or maybe forever, who knows. I get the impression nobody reads my ramblings anyway, so what the fuck’s the point? I’ve said pretty much all I wanted to say, but being a born preacher type, from time to time if there’s something to say l’ll say it and fuck the world, right?

But here, I ‘ve decided to offer an honest assessment of my life today. One thing I never did in the eight years I’ve blogged is bullshit you, even when I was against the grain and counter to what our shitty little politically correct sub-culture called gay life professed as gospel. Despite all our advances, or maybe because of them, it’s going to the dogs and becoming more femmy by the day, in part perpetuated and enhanced by our own media or by some RuPaul-inspired twenty something who thinks he knows gay life.

Oh, I can hear you guys now. “Stop sounding like a bitter old queen and be inclusive.”

Fuck inclusive. I’m a guy who wants a guy – in bed and in my life – and all this retro-fem shit, a throwback to the pre-Gay Liberation days of the 50’s, when if you were gay you had to act gay, only gives str8 society more fuel to hate us. Christ, I’m happy I got one foot on the banana peel. If this is the future of gay life, you can keep it.

Now back to my topic – my shitty little life.

At 70 l’m okay, in fact l would say l’m better than most.  l’ve had two successful professional careers, am financially comfortable, am a published author of five works of erotic gay fiction, though few of you read my shit and my publicist – ex-publicist – tells me is too raw for the female audience who are the primary readers of male erotic fiction (what does this say about the American female psyche, huh?).

Writing fiction was something I always wanted to do and, fuck, I did it.

As a lover, l have two incredibly handsome men currently in my life, both decades younger than me, one old enough to be my son, who have feelings for me  – love is often too big a word  – though one is married to a man and the other, burnt by two other relationships, is hesitant to enter another. Plus a third beauty, an infatuation, who I call my Latin stallion and who at 36 is half my age, so when he calls me Daddy he means it..

Fuck yea!

And I’m not shittin’ you when I telll you all three have natural male bodies only Michaelangelo could improve on. Furry, masculine… and romantic in a manly way.

Plus l have my trysts, still sexually desirable at an age when most gay men resort to porn and paid sex.

At 70, I call that bonus time.

Yes, I’ve been blessed.

In the negative column of my life is my obstinate ex-partner, ten years older than me,who l will never desert but frankly has become an albatross. ln these last years l have always been there for him in his health crises, sometimes traveling the fifteen hundred miles that separate us, he at our home in rural PA, me here at my house in Fort Lauderdale. (Two masculine guys with conservative views on the glitz of gay life, we gradually grew apart as he lost interest in me and my need for love which I often replaced with sex was something he was unwilling to give me.) But when it came to my back surgery two years ago, l was on my own, and now l face major surgery on both my shoulders  – my rotator cuffs are gone, baby, gone  – and will have to face them alone with the help, as best they can, to the few people l can count on in my life, my men, and my neighbor who l’ve christened the first girl friend in this man’s gay life.

And of course, there are my three doggies, my two doxies and my adorable chihuahua terrier mix who l sometimes think is channeling some long dead gay relative. But with my girls turning fifteen this year and my little boy eleven l know the day is not far off when God will take them. My ex and l had ten dogs and one cat over the decades but losing a pet never gets easier.

And yes, l have to confess, while l never had any hang-ups about being gay, and would not switch my life for that of a suburban str8 hubbie and dad, gay life has, nonetheless, been a profound disappointment for me. I chose the wrong person for a long term relationship, though understanding we had more in common than we were different, staying in it out of habit (let’s face it guys, when you co-own property, you’re married), realizing too late l had denied myself a chance to meet perhaps someone more on my wavelength. But perhaps is big word. I was never the gregarious type but envied the guys with oodles of buddies. But in the end the sociologists say a person only has one or two true friends in their lives, so maybe I’m not as atypical as l think. Fair weather friends, or guys who cling to use you l can do without. And baby, I’ve definitely had my share of those. In the end l’d rather be alone.

All the best to you in 2018. And one final plug for my new book, “For The Love of Samuel”: an audio version should be out next month. Narrated by – who else – but egotistical me.

What’s Gauche in Straight Land is Hot in Gaydom

What’s Gauche in Straight Land is Hot in Gaydom

Unless you’re being kept (lucky bastard!), you have your work-a-day world and your “out-to-score” life. Same person, two personas. And isn’t it funny how things that are considered totally gauche in straight circles are prized in gaydom? And how we shift gears to accommodate both?

In straight life, you’ve got that three piece suit and fuckin’ tie (that never fits right), or if you’re fortunate to work in a more casual environment, a polo shirt that you open only part way not to show too much skin or chest hair.

In gay life, you can’t wait to tear the shirt off and show as much skin as the law will allow, ass crack and all. And then some.

In straight life, you make sure to shake your dick real good after you take a whiz, so, heavens, you don’t stain your pants. You want to be the center of attention at a board meeting for professional reasons, not your crotch (that is, unless a member of the board likes what he sees and can help you get ahead).

Fast forward to Friday night. Out on to the town, who wears underwear? And the bigger the wet spot bulls-eye, the hotter you look. Ditto with that semi-hard-on.

A close shave for that 9 a.m. Monday morning meeting is a given. A two day growth on a Saturday night and, man, do you look rough and ready to fuck.

And deodorant? Well, you’ll get a dirty look on the subway on a July rush hour if you aren’t wearing any, but come the bar or bath house, deo is a definite no-no.

After all, he wants to sniff and lick your armpits for the sweat, not the Calvin Klein, stupid.

My Life Today

My Life Today

I intend this to be my last blog, for a while or maybe forever, who knows, though from time to time if there’s something to say l’ll say it. But l think as l have always been, this is an honest assessment of my life today

At 70 l’m okay, in fact l would say l’m better than most.  l’ve had two successful professional careers, am financially comfortable, am a published author of five works of erotic gay fiction, plus my memoirs and a compilation of my blogs, something I always wanted to do. As a lover, l have two incredibly handsome men currently in my life, both decades younger than me, one old enough to be my son, who have feelings for me  – love is often too big a word  – though one is married to a man and the other, burnt by two other relationships, is hesitant to enter another. So be it. At my age it’s bonus time. And l have my trysts, still sexually desirable at an age when most gay men resort to porn and paid sex, though I must confess sleeping around has grown boring. If one of my men could be in my life long term I’d take down all my hook-up profiles. Of the two, I love my married man because he has shared his love, without hesitation, with me. But…

In the negative column of my life is my ex-partner, ten years older than me who l will never desert but frankly has become an albatross. ln these last years l have always been there for him in his health crises, sometimes traveling the fifteen hundred miles that separate us, he at our home in rural PA, me here at my house in Fort Lauderdale. (Two masculine guys with conservative views on the glitz of gay life, we gradually grew apart as my needs for sex and attention were much greater than his and he lost interest in me.) But when it came to my back surgery two years ago, l was on my own, and now l face major surgery on both my shoulders  – my rotator cuffs are gone, baby, gone  – and will have to face them alone with the help, as best they can, to the few people l can count on in my life, my two men, my friends with benefits as I call them, and my neighbor who l’ve christened the first girl friend in this man’s gay life.

And of course, there are my three doggies, my two doxies and my adorable chihuahua terrier mix who l sometimes think is channeling some long dead gay relative. But with my girls turning fifteen this year and my little boy eleven l know the day is not far off when God will take them. My ex and l had ten dogs and one cat over the decades but losing a pet never gets easier.

And yes, l have to confess, while l never had any hang-ups about being gay, and would not switch my life for that of a suburban str8 hubbie and dad, gay life has, nonetheless, been a profound disappointment for me. I chose the wrong person for a long term relationship, though understanding we had more in common than we were different, staying in it out of habit (let’s face it guys, when you co-own property, you’re married), realizing too late l had denied myself a chance to meet perhaps someone more on my wavelength. But perhaps is big word. I was never the gregarious type but envied the guys with oodles of buddies. But in the end the sociologists say a person only has one or two true friends in their lives, so maybe I’m not as atypical as l think. Fair weather friends, or guys who cling to use you l can do without. And baby, I’ve definitely had my share of those. In the end l’d rather be alone.

All the best to you in 2018. And one final plug for my new book, “For The Love of Samuel”: an audio version should be out next month. Narrated by – who else – but egotistical me.

A Beautiful Man

A Beautiful Man

In this looks obsessed sub-culture of ours, garnering a handsome man as a trick or a fuck buddy or a lover is sadly the goal of many guys. But if you’ve been been immersed in gay life as long as l have, you’ve learned many ordinary, even homely guys would make great partners, and some of most handsome guys of our tribe are vapid shitheads with nothing behind the glitz Hollywood set but their own petty needs.

And then there are the few who have the looks and the bod and the personality who, no matter what your personal type, are beyond handsome. They’re what some would call beautiful.

I think the first man l ever labeled beautiful was young Warren Beatty when l saw him as a young man myself in “Splendor In The Grass.” It was said when he took some starlet out on a date for publicity, it was he, not she, the photographers went ga-ga over.

But that’s not the beautiful l’m talking about today.

I have a buddy who’s a friend with benefits and who l think anyone would consider handsome. Square cut features, lightly muscular body, and a hairy chest and abs that belong in the Hirsute Hall of Fame, he’s intelligent, personable, with a good professional job and a typical suburban lifestyle, complete with four dogs. But that’s not what makes this guy, still a hottie at fifty six, beautiful to me.

The other night when a cold spell was even gripping normally warm Fort Lauderdale, he texted me if l had any old blankets or clothing l didn’t need. He was collecting stuff to distribute to the homeless, camped out downtown. I did and after making a few other stops, his Ford truck loaded with blankets, jackets, pillows and sweats, he picked me up and the two of us went down to the forty degrees open air under-the-bus station “amphitheater” a hundred or so homeless called home.

It didn’t take long for those needy human beings – whatever the reason they were there without shelter – to converge on my buddy’s truck for our bounty which was gone in twenty minutes. All except two blankets which, walking into the fray, l held up and offered like an auctioneer. Scanning the sea of humanity huddled under tarps, l almost broke down right there.

My buddy was impressed by my boldness, but it was he who impressed me, especially when between his work with a local dog rescue group and his volunteering at a soup kitchen, he also offered acts of kindness like l had just witnessed.

On a regular basis.

In a world saturated with meism, he is a beautiful man.

It May Have Been Six Below Everywhere Else but in Lauderdale’s Ramrod Leather Bar, Saturday Night Was Smokin’!

It May Have Been Six Below Everywhere Else but in Lauderdale’s Ramrod Leather Bar, Saturday Night Was Smokin’!

Temps below 60 that caused some spoiled south Floridians to put on winter jackets and gloves didn’t bother most of the leathermen, both locals and tourists from around the world, who frequented Lauderdale’s leather bar, the Ramrod, at its monthly Saturday nite Pig Dance.

Sure, there were a few guys who sported leather jackets and chaps  (decent and indecent)  who were, or had been members of the rough and ready crowd in places like New York, Chicago, San Francisco, London or Berlin, where leather was part of those cities’ gritty urban tapestry.

But for the large majority of men who flooded the tight bar, its outside front gallery and back patio, no shirt, jeans and boots were considered overdressed. Hey, who even needed the heat lamps strategically located outside and on the patio when you had all that man-to-man heat.

Yes, there were luscious specimens of manhood and a few who apparently have funhouse mirrors at home who peacocked around in bikini underwear or jock straps and harnesses that left little happily to the imagination. Throw in some hot guttural techno sounds,  wall to wall men, a light show on the dance floor, and the atmosphere was electric.

Spelled S-E-X.

If it wasn’t for Health Department undercover spotters who could close the place at the sight of some naked erect penises in two obvious orifices,  it looked like the bar could turn into one daisy chain orgy.

Me? I initially came in with an open camouflage leather vest and jeans. But when l realized l was at a convention of fellow exhibionists, despite the unusually cool SoFlo weather, l  walked back to my car two blocks away and ditched the vest.

As l left for my car, my vest already off and hanging from my arm, a security guard, playfully twisting one of my hairy tits, cautioned me to watch l didn’t catch cold. He didn’t know he was addressing an ex NYC West Village leatherman who during its heydays of the eighties and nineties would often walk down to West  Street, one of the sleaziest gay strips in the world at the time – now tall white skyscraper condominiums – in ten degree February weather with nothing between my leather jacket and my bare chest but some fur.

I think the reason why the Ramrod is alive and well when most leather watering holes are history as the leather scene continues to age is its popularity with the over forty-five crowd that likes to reminisce, and the under thirty crowd who think they’re recreating a time when leather was a life statement not a fashion statement.

Even if  some of their outfits  – harness, bermuda shorts and sneaks – would get them castrated on my old West Street.

HomoHeaven

HomoHeaven

ho/mo/hea/ven: a state of absolute euphoric sensual containment  between two gay men, such that no one or nothing else exists.

It can happen for just a moment, a night, or a lifetime.

It can happen with a one night stand you never see again, a guy who’s a fuck buddy you’ve played with every week for years, or a partner who thinks you and he have worn one another thin…

But then…

It can be the way your bodies feel pressed together, your tools locked in pleasure, the way he stares at you or you caress him…

You can be cold sober, stoned or high than a jetliner, but while drugs may heighten your level of sensuality, all homoheaven really needs is just  the two of you, alone, naked, silent and totally consumed.

By one another.

For one another.

For at that moment you are beyond sexual pleasure or emotional ecstasy.

You are in your own private time zone.

Reality is for other people.

You are one.

Like this love scene from my most recent work of erotica, “For The Love of Samuel,” where my two protagonists, Dare and Billy, who have literally just met, bed down for the first time…

“Open your mouth just slightly,” whispers Dare. I comply, as he begins to kiss me, so softly, so delicately as only a lover would. He looks at me. I look at him. I can see he is crying. So am l.

“I’m sorry, he says, “men don’t cry.”

“They do when they’re sad or when they’re happy. Which is it with us?”

“Shut up,” Dare replies, “I’ve rehearsed this moment in my head for a long time. Don’t fuck with my fantasy.”

We continue to kiss the Dare way, who knows how long. Now I’ve kissed many a guy, Jim when we were high, and Gus while he fucked me, and so many, so many others, the phony kiss, the tongues down the throat kiss, the let’s get this over with so we can fuck kiss. But Dare is different. Dare kisses me like no guy ever has or probably ever will. It’s a soft kiss, yet it comes from a man, no pseudo-man but a guy you’d play football with and happily lose to. Yet where our tongues are petals on a flower, not ravenous snakes.

And as we kiss, our bodies first touch, then press together like two pieces of clay becoming one.  Now remember, I’m supposed to be the teacher, but maybe it’s his inexperience though I doubt that, or his boyish innocence – this is Billy The Elder talking now – or just his lustful desire to please me that Dare begins his own private Marco Polo adventure of exploration, kissing my body as he softly strokes my chest fur, wet and dark like the Amazon rain forest, and as he gets to my nips and presses them with his lips he’s better than Gus’s teeth ever were.

I join in, starting my own voyage of discovery, tonguing the hairs on his chest that lie there in abundance like flora in the ancient Hanging Gardens of Babylon. I may win the hirsute contest but the mane on his chest is more than enough to make me delirious. My tongue travels, then settles on his right nip which is getting – erect.

“Yea, yea,” he whispers, “that’s great,” his iron hard pole wedged against mine, both wet and throbbing, painful in their pleasure.

Now most guys would get to the family jewels in a flash but we take our time like time was an inconvenience made for other people. After all, for each of us, the other man’s body is a continent yet uncharted. And when we get to our temples of masculinity, we mutually search out with our tongues and fingers, like some insatiable hunters, for the sweet spots on one another’s penises, knowing we have reached the secret treasures by the precum that oozes out from the tips of our mushrooms. No sounds, no moans, just endless exploration.

I find Dare’s sweet spot just under the edge of his corona and I go after it relentlessly like a fanatical Nazi, the veins of his shaft pulsating like the roots of a giant tree sucking up sustenance. Dare returns the favor, drilling with the tip of his tongue the spot just behind my head.

But now I take my favorite position, both of us lying on the bed, me between his fuzzy muscular legs. I work my mouth down to his sac almost twice as heavy and big as mine, fondling each egg with religious reverence. As they pull up I know he’s getting close, and when he puts his hand on his trunk of forever giving life, I pull it away and swallow his dick like I did that first time with Gus. But unlike Gus, there are no hysterical yelps, but a series of a quick cleansing breaths, then one long deep exhale as if he was enjoying the last gasp of oxygen on earth.  We have just exchanged our silent oath to one another, sealing it with spit and cum. 

He first rises, then lowers himself on me, rubbing his still erect organ against mine, the electricity between our penises the positive and negative poles on a car battery.

“Kiss me, fucker, kiss me,” I mutter quietly but forcefully.

“Keep your eyes open this time,” he whispers back.

And I do, both of us now caught in some kind of cyclonic trance, as pupil meets pupil. He lays his lips ever so lightly, ever so softly on mine, the tips of our tongues teasing each other as I finally, irrevocably spurt my juice of life, sanctifying his abs and chest as he grinds his body into mine.

There is an eternity when neither of us say anything, he lying on top of me in our mutual naturally musky exhilarance.

Don’t we wish all our man to man encounters were like this?

Answers to Yesterday’s Quiz, “As Long as There’s a NYC, There’ll Always Be Yiddish”

Answers to Yesterday’s Quiz, “As Long As There’s a NYC, There’ll Always Be Yiddish”

Chutzpah (pronounced hutzpa): nerve or “balls”

Klutz: a jerk

Glitch: a problem or unintended mistake

Nosh: eat like you were grazing cattle

Schmooze: patronize someone to get what you want

Shlep: move or carry stuff around like a mule

Kvetch: constantly complain (meet my ex)

Schlock: cheap, junk

Kibitz: carry on an extended conversation