My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part I

My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part I

Like I said before, men of the Club Med countries like Italy, Greece and Spain are on the top of my hit parade, and when I think of all the hairy Italian hotties, str8, bi, or in-between, that I could have wooed on the web which was just getting hot in my final years living on Staten Island, the most Italian-American county in the U.S., I want to either go postal or on a masturbation marathon.

But I really didn’t get hooked on the hook-up sites til I got down to SoFlo and had more time on my hands where I played the sites, in between marking papers, like a day trader. These early years were fun for an exhibitionist like me who loved to have it all hang out in my profile pics and chuckled as my profile became some guys’ own private porn site. The adoration from men – hot or not – from Des Moines to Dubai fed my fragile ego like a drug.

Today, the web has morphed into safe haven for chatty Cathys who think if they small talk with a hottie somehow they’ve made him in their wet dreams, or for mindfuckers, game players, and pseudo-personas who dirty talk and edge you up but have no intentions of pressing the flesh. But as the bars went from cruisy to social and the baths aged into God’s waiting rooms, the web, and its children, the smartphone apps, became and remain, for all their fucked-up-ness, my main source for sex. Sex clubs like my local Slammers were OK for efficient, drive-by, 7-11 style sucking and fucking, but I always preferred a bed under me where, with the right guy, you could feel some affinity, even if it was for only 42 uncivilized minutes.

James was one of the first guys I connected with on the web in SoFlo though, if the true be told, I really considered him something of a hybrid pick-up. You see, we had eyed one another a number of times on Leather nights at the local bath house. But the evenings usually played out like the altar doors in the Russian Orthodox Church where my mother’s mother’s funeral mass was held, the priest donned in robes and a crown, entering one door then disappearing into another. Either I was “occupied” when James was roaming the halls, or vs. versa.

Then one afternoon, he hit up on Manhunt with a poetic line straight out of Shakespeare. That is, if Shakespeare had penned porn.

“Hey fuzzy, wanna fuck my furry butt?”

A half hour after James hit me up on Manhunt, I was at his place, a non-descript studio apartment hidden away on one of those dead end streets off the beach.

Now the best way to describe James – it was always James, never, never Jim – was to compare him to the bronze statue of Zeus that stands in the lobby of the U.N. He wasn’t super tall – maybe 5-10 at most – but, at 45, was well defined, built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something, tanned and furry all over, with short cropped hair and a thick beard, and a cut cock that hung half way down his solid thighs. He was masculine without being over the top, articulate without sounding nerdy, personable without being pushy.

The perfect butch fuck.

He met me at the door of his place clad in the same yellowed jockstrap and high laced boots I’d seen him at the baths. His bike, I learned later his only mode of transportation since he couldn’t afford a car, was leaning against his stove.

“So where did you get all that fur?” I asked, running my hands across his chest as I stripped off my running shorts, the only thing I had on besides my sneaks.

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

“And that bod? All man…”

“You should have seen me six months ago, I was wasting away.” He handed me a bottle of Poland Springs from the frig. “Then the clinic changed my meds, and started me on testosterone and HGH, human growth hormone – that made all the difference.”

It was then I realized I was playing with fire with my first openly poz guy.

Not that I hadn’t played before with men I knew were HIV-positive. I distinctly remember one while I was on vacation – alone as usual – who I had picked up in one of the bars in Houston’s Montrose gay ghetto, a tall, balding, non-descript looking guy with a hairy swimmers build bod and clipped mustache who was OK with oral sex. Maybe because he knew it would be easier to get. It was the mid 80’s, even ATZ wasn’t on the horizon yet, and after we played, Herb took a dozen eggs out of his frig, and separated the whites from the yolks  which he then chucked down with some OJ. He was insistent that this newest craze in self-medication for AIDS was helping him. I never met him again so I’ll never know.

And then there were guys, mostly at the baths, who wanted me to fuck them, some with condoms, some without. We’d exchange statuses quickly – of course neg/neg – but I hated the condoms; putting them on mid-stream was like some porn director yelling to the two hotties fucking away, “Hold it, we gotta change the camera angle.” The “go with the flow” spontaneity of man-to-man sex that made it lustful and wicked went out the window for me, often along with my hard-on. Plus the sensation for me just wasn’t there. Hell, a so-so blow job was a hundred times better.

But now, living here in Fort Lauderdale, with one of the highest HIV rates in the country, standing here in James’ humble abode, I was facing one of the most manly furry butts in my gay career – the butt of a poz guy – that wanted my cock raw. He claimed the virus was almost “undetectable.” And, after all, he looked great.

Greater than great.

So I fucked him.

Raw.

First slow and deep, doggy style, then facing me, quick and hard, pounding his butt ever faster on my cock til we both shot almost simultaneously. I collapsed on top of him, our super hairy bodies bonded with a thick, warm layer of sweat.

More Friday…

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part IV

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part IV

The cosmetic procedures I described Friday at seven hundred dollars a pop were small potatoes when it came to burning a few holes in my Visa credit card compared to the megabucks – like five with three zeros after it – that I spent to rid myself of something that had bugged me since my twenties and haunt a lot of guys, even guys who do the gym beat and keep their weight down – those nasty love handles.

Up to just a few years ago the only way to get rid of them was liposuction about which I had heard and read a lot of horror stories like infection, disfigurement or just a long, painful post-surgical recovery period. No, if that were the only way, I was resigned to taking those ugly globs of fat to my grave.

Ah, then one day I was gleaning through one of our weekly gay rags which, after all the bar ads, ran promos for the local docs, including cosmetic surgeons and dermatologists. “Cool sculpting” was a non-invasive way to rid myself of those love handles forever and my M.D. who administered my testosterone therapy confirmed the procedure was worth pursuing and gave me the name of a Dr. Richardson who maintained a practice near the beach.

Well, if there was a gay dictionary and you looked up the word “twink,” Richardson’s pic would be there.  A multi-millionaire though he be, he was not just a twink but a twink’s twink even if he was balding and north of 40.  Pulling and prodding and squeezing the fat pockets around my hips and lower back, he proclaimed me a perfect candidate for this high tech elixir. Not only was it non-invasive, meaning no cutting, once the fat cells were gone, they were gone FOREVER! Plus there was no post-procedure recovery time. I could go to the gym, fuck like a bunny or go skydiving if I wanted to, straight out of his office.

Dr. Twink identified eight problem spots including my tummy (which stopped that hard earned six pack from showing), each of which would take an hour to treat, but he could block out the entire day if I’d liked which meant getting the whole damn thing done in one swoop.

By the time he got to the price – five thousand dollars – I was too hooked to even hesitate, let alone say no. Sure, vanity don’t come cheap but, after all, why have a twenty thousand dollar credit line if you don’t blow some of it?

That Thursday I showed up early at his office, stripped down to some hospital shorts, and after a “before” picture session with some “cub” photographer who I recognized from bear 411, I was whisked into the room where the cool sculpting machine whose arm resembled some alien extremity out of “War of the Worlds” awaited me. The principle behind cool sculpting was devilishly elemental. The tech, named Jan, a retired nurse who had overseen dozens of these procedures, would target an area by placing this suction-like device the size of a small loaf of bread over the fat pocket which it sucked up like a vacuum cleaner. During the hour I lay awkwardly there, barely breathing so not to disturb things, the machine was pooling all those naughty fat cells into one place and freeze-killing them. About the only truly painful part of the procedure was, when at the end of hour, Jan released the device and, for a minute or so, deep-massaged the pool of fat, resembling a bar of margarine, so that it dissipated and would eventually be excreted by the body.

This went on for eight long hours, uninterrupted except for a half hour lunch break where Jan brought me a sandwich and soda the front desk had ordered from a local deli. During most of the time, I watched some public television station on the big screen TV that faced my treatment cot where I was passively educated in the intricate arts of woodworking, quilting and canning fruits, not exactly hotoldermale.com material.

In between, when Jan would stop in to check how I was doing – a hospital-like call button was always right at my side just in case – the two of us would commiserate about the messy state of health care in the U.S., she the retired hospital OR nursing supervisor with the neurosurgeon hubby, and me the retired health care executive. But I think the two most exciting words she uttered, at least for me, were when at the end of each hour as she released the device’s hold on me and took a look at the lump of fat it had collected under my skin, she exclaimed with childish glee, “Looks great!”

Now, remember, I was lying there all day shirtless with only those flimsy hospital shorts between me and total nakedness, and here was this still very attractive and in-shape older woman grabbing me in all sorts of private places. But I think the one that created the most sexual innuendos was the last one, my belly, when she had to place the device an inch from my pubes. She kept insisting, jokingly, that she wasn’t getting fresh, but all I was hoping at that moment as I exchanged flirtatious banter with her was that Mr. Peter wouldn’t wake up. Like my femmy Jackie Gleason look-alike department store boss from my Jersey college days once said, “Even a cow can get you aroused if he touches you in the right place.”

We were there til 5:30 that afternoon, Jan, me and the machine. By then just about everybody, including Dr. Twink, was gone. Again I could do anything I liked and I was lucky I had not even suffered some minor bruising which is only natural when your flesh is being held in a vise for an hour. Jan explained numbness in the treated areas was to be expected for a few weeks, and she also cautioned me not to take anything for pain except Tylenol, since inflammation, which was something most other analgesics treated, was a desired side effect of the treatment. It was the inflammation that was the agent that was responsible for the disappearance within two to three months of all those fat pockets. True, no instantaneous results but also no down time and no knife either.

Just six weeks later, I was already seeing some pleasant changes in my body’s contours and finding my tight jeans getting looser, even though I hadn’t lost any significant weight. Interestingly, all that stubborn fat actually adds very little to your overall body mass – and you need to watch your weight from here on in or you might end up with fat sprouting up in the strangest places – like your shoulder!

Meanwhile, a friend of mine is saving his pennies to fly to Costa Rica or Brazil where you can get a complete facelift for a fraction of what it costs here in the states, all while “vacationing” at some resort while you recover.

All I want to know is have they got some Latin hotties on payroll to take care of clients while we’re all bandaged up?

James, the stereotypical South Florida gay boy who had nothing to offer but his beautiful body.

 

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part III

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part III

I was blessed with good genes and a perpetually boyish face that belied by true calendar years. But falling again to the Florida faggotization spell, I decided why settle for looking five or ten years younger when there were tricks out there that could do even more?

I had tried collagen years before while still working in New York but was not impressed by the results, but now decided to give cosmetic surgery another try and get my face in sync with my new, hard earned body. Plus the local center was running a blue light special: “second vial of Botox half off.” I had some extra interest income I could use to pay off one of my credit cards or shoot up my face. I decided on the latter. And just to dispel the notion that this is mostly a gay boy thing, one out of five cosmetic procedures are now being done on men, many of whom need to look good to compete in a work-a-day world where more and more fifty- plus guys are being thrown on the garbage heap.

The offices were just off the beach in one of those sleek, all glass professional buildings. My “consultant,” no spring chicken and proud of all the work she had had done on herself, stared at my face intently as I rattled off for her all my petty, childish “needs.” Ah, we’re so honest with people we’ll never meet again. The fine lines around the eyes, the deepening crevices on the forehead, the sagging skin under my eyes. I told her I didn’t want to go under the knife. Could any of these new injectables I kept hearing about, “juva” this and “refresha” that, do the trick?

She was equally honest with a smile. She explained that Botox was still the gold standard and would do wonders for the fine lines and the brow. (Ironic, huh, how something that could kill you could also make you look young.) But there wasn’t much they could do for the bags (which are fat pockets) under the eyes without surgery, though the filler, Juvaderm, could lift everything up and, at least, lessen the sag. All for $1500 after the discount. The price was right (even if the shit only lasts 6 months to a year), and I was pleasantly surprised to hear there was at least something they could do for those bags. So I scheduled my appointment for the following Thursday.

I didn’t think much about my upcoming encounter with Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth until the day before my appointment for my procedure when, suddenly, visions of all those B horror movies from the thirties rushed into my brain. What if something went wrong and I ended up worse than I started? Shouldn’t I thank my lucky stars I looked younger than my years and not tempt fate? No matter what they did, I’d never look 25 again. Nor did I want to.

I was ready to whip out my cell phone and cancel the appointment driving that morning to my “touch-up” with my plastic surgeon but walked into my role as if it were all happening to someone else. I actually waited in the private room longer than it took to do the whole procedure which, unlike my collagen episode, was performed by a real live doctor. He was a pleasant sort of a guy, very patient and understanding, explaining every step of the way as he poked at my face. How with men, killing too much brow line looks ridiculous, so only half strength Botox was used there. After that, he moved on with the Juvaderm for those sags. Just a few more pinches and it was over.

Both my consultant and the doctor explained that the Botox would take a week or so to show its full effect, but that the results of the Juvaderm were immediate. So was the slight bruising and swelling on my face from all that prodding which took a few days to disappear. (Thank God for large framed glasses.) But I have to admit, I was pleased with the results the moment I walked into the bathroom at home and stared at myself coldly for the first time since leaving the surgeon. I had fought off looking into my car’s rear view mirror the whole way. Those fine lines were almost gone and my eyes definitely looked refreshed and without all that “Sudden Change” topical collagen I had been using by the quart the last few years.

Since I didn’t know many people in Lauderdale well, there was no one to give me some indication that all this had been worth it. Nor was I snaring any better quality tricks than I had had before my little procedure. No, the validation of sorts came a few months later when I flew back to New York for my nephew’s wedding, and my sister, five years my junior, upon seeing me for the first time in almost a year, exclaimed, “Shit, you don’t look a day over 50!”

Since my first baptism of fire, I’ve gone back for more, not just for a “touch-up” of botox shots or its competitor, dysport, but also for some more Radiesse to at least forestall the inevitable sags of Mother Gravity. While my consultant promised a shelf life of 16 to 18 months for the Radiesse and about six months for the botox or dysport, I found both shelf-lives to be half that.

Part IV Monday …

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part II

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part II

Now, I’m sure I wasn’t the first or five hundredth fag to visit the Life Enhancement Center and I know Josh, my “consultant,” a handsome, humpy, thirty something, breezy, fast talking surfer type who was a Center client himself, knew exactly why I wanted the stuff  – to beef up. But that wasn’t a legitimate enough medical reason for the Center docs to write a script.

So, first came the survey for which Josh practically set up the answers. Not sleeping well? Yep. Lacking energy? Sure. Libido weak? You betcha. Next I paid three hundred bucks for blood work at a nearby lab which the Center either owned or got a kick-back from. It confirmed what I knew from the last physical with my gay M.D. in Lauderdale: I was as healthy as a horse (no cholesterol, sugar, blood pressure issues, negative for HIV, etc., etc.). But, surprise, surprise, my testosterone levels were in the sewer. Thank you, Gay God! I think.

The stuff was a topical that came in a pump dispenser like skin cream ($90 bought you a two month supply) and once a day, after you showered, since it took 3 to 5 hours for the shit to enter your bloodstream, you were supposed to squirt a dose on the back of your forearm and rub your forearms together til it was gone. Again, since Josh read my real agenda – wanting to look hot for whatever sexual animal I wanted to snare – he also got the Center doc to prescribe a kosher dose of Stanozolol, (a steroid, by God!) you took just before working out to give you more stamina and endurance and which the guys at the gym told me would give me that wet dream “cut” look. At five bucks a dose, it was the most expensive sugar cubes I’d ever sucked on – but hey, what’s money? As long as my Visa card didn’t self-implode.

As I was ready to head back onto I-95, my wonder drugs tucked away in a paper bag like a McDonald’s burger, Josh pronounced his final two caveats:

The stuff needs time to kick in, and I wouldn’t see any visible changes in my physique or demeanor for a good month; and because of the higher doses of Mr. T and especially Mr. S, I needed to take hefty daily handfuls of fish oil, calcium and zinc supplements, along with a good multi-vitamin so my kidneys or liver didn’t turn to mush.

Three months after I started my testosterone therapy plus, I definitely saw a difference in how much I was pressing at the gym (I was able to up the ante every time I went) and, most importantly, in my bathroom mirror. I had always had a good build but now I saw broader shoulders, bigger arms, a bigger neck, broader back and – shit – for the very first time in my life as a 5 foot six kinda of stocky guy, a six pack! Mr. T also helped with weight control, and while I certainly didn’t need it, I think my hairy body was even getting, well, hairier.

On the negative side, I really felt no dramatic change in my energy level (except when I was at the gym and had just popped one of my five buck sugar cubes), and my libido was about the same. (I mean how horny can one horny guy get?)

I also found that my Russian temper, that I definitely inherited from my mother’s side, and which I was able to control most of the time, now tripped into overdrive at the slightest provocation. Like the time, just after the earthquake in Haiti, I was strolling out of a local Walgreens, and sitting at the exit was a table of gussy-upped Haitian women looking for a donation. My response was to yell on the top of my lungs, “How about practicing some birth control down there first, huh?”

Or the time I nearly got into a fist fight with some old fuck (I know, look who’s talking) who was ahead of me in the 20 items or less aisle at Wal-Mart because he had 21 items – yep I started counting them as he took them out of his basket. .

At about this time I was shopping around for new health insurance to bring my deductible down and saw Blue Cross would sell me a policy at almost half of what my Aetna coverage was costing me. As part of its app process, I needed to undergo more lab work which happened just a few weeks after my blood work at Life Enhancement. I thought I’d pass with no problem and so was shocked that Blue Cross rejected my app because my good cholesterol was below standards. Out of curiosity, I called Life Enhancement and Josh confirmed that can happen when you’re taking Mr. T and Mr. S. If I wanted to stop the stuff and OD on pistachios and niacin – the no flush variety – for a few weeks, I could maybe reapply. But, hell, what was more important, looking buffed or getting a break on my insurance?

Eventually I switched to a local doc and testosterone pellets that are inserted just beneath the skin above one of the cheeks of your butt. Unlike the cream which you need to administer daily and must be absorbed into the skin, the pellets last about six months and give you a continuous feed of the hormone right into the bloodstream. All without thinking about it.

Part III, Friday

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part I

My Life as a Gay Man: My Florida Faggotization, Part I

It was 2002. Finding international travel more exhausting than fun, particularly after 9/11, I had been snowbirding down in Fort Lauderdale since the mid 90’s, and even bought a one bedroom condo in the up and coming gay ghetto Wilton Manors for all of twenty thousand dollars. Maybe it was because I felt comfortable there, a gay man who had seen his fiftieth birthday come and go but who still had his shit together.

The baton had passed from gay mecca Key West years ago when, so the urban legend goes, the cruise ships coming in asked the town fathers to defag the place. Hell, as early as 1992, the first time I visited Key West, I was the token fag in a guesthouse that back in the New York City gay rags had sold itself as a homo haven; instead, the place was populated by str8 couples, American and European. I had to sneak out at night in eighty degree weather with my no-shirt leather harness outfit hidden under a heavy plaid button down shirt. Today, the gay guesthouses have been segregated to Fleming Street, the handful of bars to Bourbon and Duval, like the Polish Jews were crowded into the Warsaw ghetto during World War II.

About that same time, the early-mid ‘90’s, South Beach was getting super-hot as enterprising and moneyed gay men saved the art deco hotels from destruction, but by the early 2000’s South Beach, like San Francisco, had gone mainstream. Rents spiked, and there was some gay bashing that was kept hush-hush even in the gay media.

Enter Fort Lauderdale, a sleepy little town that always had a gay scene, and suddenly was discovered by East Coast and Snow Belt boys as the place to party – and live – a town that welcomed older gay men, not ostracize them as South Beach with its pretty toy boys had done. I still believe the crazy real estate bubble in South Florida of the early-mid 2000’s was the result of gay men – those still working as well as those retiring – who all suddenly wanted their own piece of paradise.

I fortunately, bought my house, a three bed, two bath on a canal with screened-in pool, before the bubble, almost on a whim, during a snowbird vacation in 2001, knowing in back of my mind that my days in cold NYC were numbered. I had survived the merger of my St. Vincent’s on Staten Island with the motherhouse, St. Vincent’s, Manhattan, but my new boss, a woman who knew one tenth what I knew about health care marketing, and held the job I should have gotten, was continually picking my brain – and gradually divesting my job of responsibilities. It was only a matter of time when I would be discarded like a used handiwipe. After 30 years at the same shop, I wanted to go out my way, and decided to take a teaching job down in Ft Lauderdale as the one man English Department for a small private Jewish boy’s high school. Yes, a goy teaching nice Jewish boys.

Now George, almost ten years my senior, had already planned to retire about the same time but was pissed I had bought a house in paradise – on my dime not his – without his pontifical blessing. The game plan was he’d be down in the winter, and I’d come go up in the summer to our PA home where he’d live, leaving us some “quality time” in between on our own. But he always felt I had forced the sale of the Staten Island home, as if he hadn’t reaped a hundred thousand dollar profit like me. But no way, George or no George, was I going to freeze my cute, furry butt back East when I no longer made my money there and owned a home in the warmest place in the continental U.S. in the winter. There, when Big Daddy wasn’t looking over my shoulder, I could lead the life of an unbridled sex pig.

My move was not without its wrinkles. The boys’ school job, while well- paying with benefits, was almost as stressful as working back in the hospital at one third the salary. The school was run by a very strict Jewish sect, and the boys, quiet and respectful with the rabbis, were anything but with us lay teachers. After a year, I left and luckily transitioned over to college work. The eye candy alone of the handsome young nineteen year old jocks in my classes was worth the cut in pay. I managed.

By then the Florida faggotization of this New York gay man was also in high gear. While I had worked out in my basement each morning before going to work on Staten Island, my routine barely kept pace with the jelly donuts at the office coffee machine, and when you’re working stress-filled 60 hour work weeks in PR, who has time for the gym. Now, however, with my workload drastically reduced and the biggest decision of my day was whether to hit Sebastian Beach, Lauderdale’s gay sandbox, or the local very gay gym first, Main Street Gym became my second home. Like my very str8 Florida neighbor, a former Midwestern, once quipped to me, “Down here, my basic wardrobe’s my bikini.” And when you’re gay, scoring was all about looking hot.

But even hitting those machines of self-torture faithfully three or four times a week, in between using my new Bowflex at home wasn’t enough, and I started getting frustrated busting my hump while watching some built-like-a-brick shithouse guy, often a poz boy who you knew was juicing so he didn’t look like Auschwitz, sit down on the same machine, lower the weight to half what you just pressed, do twenty wimpy reps and move on, muscles bulging like some gay God.

Yea, I thought of taking steroids myself, which either one of the personal trainers at the gym or my new body builder/financial planner could sell me, but I just couldn’t stomach sticking a needle in my butt every day. So, after skipping those ads in the weekly bar rags for rejuvenation centers (not legal in most places except for the Wild Wild East known as South Florida), I decided to give them a second look. It sounded like testosterone, Mr. T, was the fountain of youth that would max my results in the gym and give me the lean mean look I coveted. Among other benefits. My financial guy confirmed that most guys’ T levels drop after 30, obviously a major problem in America, eclipsed only by the federal deficit; thus the need to find it elsewhere. So I figured it was time to trot my ass up to the northern fringes of Palm Beach County to see what all the voodoo was about.

Part II, Wednesday.

My Life As a Gay Man: 9/11 and Sam – Part II

My Life As A Gay Man: 9/11 and Sam – Part II

The streets were strangely empty. Everyone who was in the City and could get out had. Along the way, a cop here, a fireman there, was crouched beside the curb or next to a lamp post, numb, exhausted, or crying.  Then, as I approached the block where the guest house was, out of nowhere a lone, shirtless jogger flashed by.

The guesthouse had plenty of rooms – most of last week’s guests had left Sunday and this week’s couldn’t get into town since the airports were all fucked. As I waited for the flustered little queen at the reception desk to run my card, I felt the stare of somebody behind me. I turned around. Sitting on a chair in the corner of the tiny lobby, his legs sprawled over a nearby coffee table, was this cowboy with a thick red beard, the only other guy in the place besides me.

I called him that because he was wearing a white cowboy hat, sleeveless blue flannel shirt partly unbuttoned to show off some heavy chest hair, and a pair of worn blue levis that accented his bulge. There he sat, sipping a Bud and cruising me like I was the last man on earth.

Maybe ‘cause I was.

I gave him one last heavy cruise back, then started up the stairs to my room. I could hear him get up.

“Wanna beer?” he asked with a sexy smile and straight guy’s attitude as I fumbled with one of those god damn electronic cards that never opened your door on the first try.

I turned around and smiled back. He was a tall motherfucker.

“My room’s down the hall. And my door’s wide open.”

His name was Sam and he was in from New Orleans on vacation though he grew up in Georgia.

“It would be my friggen luck to be in New York when the A-rabs decided to bomb it,” he quipped, throwing himself on the bed, as he flipped his hat on the floor. He had a thick head of reddish gray hair. I was a bit jealous. While I still had most of my hair, I was beginning to develop a bald spot on the back of my head, though I was thankful I probably had inherited Mom’s genes, not Dad’s for this. You see, Dad was a cue ball by the time he was 30.

“I was supposed to fly back home this morning,” Sam went on, “but with everything going nowhere, I just stayed on. But I guess now there’s not even any action at the baths.”

He was waiting for me to pick up on his cue. I just sipped my beer.

Then, all bashful like, he glanced away. “You wanna play?”

I have to admit he was almost as hairy as Mafiaman Peter – reddish gray – and beefy, with a bit of a belly that made him even sexier. And besides being the first red head I ever made, he was also the first guy I ever fucked.

Up to now, I had been an oral guy, sucking dick, eating pits, rimming ass. Sure, there had been guys, hot guys and not so hot, who had wanted me to fuck them, or, more often, because of my cute hairy butt, fuck me. But thoughts of 9 inch L.A.’s Jordan would always painfully cross my mind and I would have to either politely decline their offer or push them off. And when the aggressive ones replied, “Why not?” and I replied, “Do YOU wanna get fucked?,” they’d get all indignant.

But just as today was the beginning of a new chapter in our country, tonight would prove a new chapter in my life as a career faggot – my debut as a top.

We had been sixty-nining when Sam, who for a big guy had a small dick, looked at my stiff tool and asked, “You negative?”

“Yep,” I lied. I had never been tested. Felt I didn’t need to be.

“Well, I am too, and I want that stiff tool up my butt raw. Think you can deliver?”

Thankfully his butt hole, actually not as furry as the rest of him, welcomed my cock with only some spit as lube, and taking cues from all the fuck porn I had watched waiting for some trick to love me in the bath house, I fell into just the right rhythm for both of us.

”Yea, gimme that hard, thick cock, fucker, stretch that hole,” he growled.

We went at it in all different positions, and finally, with those massive furry legs of his up on my shoulders, his butt half off the bed, and my cock way up there, Sam shot his load so high it hit my chin. It took me only two minutes to shoot myself, all over his furry belly.

“Shit, where did you learn how to fuck like that? Fucken A, buddy, fucken A.”

I always prided myself in being a quick study. And little did I know tonight would serve as a proving ground for my soon-to-be future as a South Florida gay man. In fact, we fucked twice more that night, all while the rest of the world was falling apart outside our hotel window.

The next morning, still unsure about the ferry and with my car sitting in Bayonne, New Jersey, I grabbed a bus back to Staten Island, and took the above ground train which left me off about a fifteen minute walk from my house.

George wasn’t around, but had left a note to walk the dogs when I came in and to call him at the hospital where I guess everybody was doing double duty.

So, before I called my office, I called him.

Now George was one of those guys who was committed to using the word “fuck” or a variation thereof at least half a dozen times in a sentence, and I honestly attribute the filthy mouth I, a former Lutheran Sunday school teacher,  cultivated in my later years to living with him.

“What the fuck is happening to this fucken country?” he blurted out. “What a terrible day, what a fucken terrible fucken day.”

Not for everybody, buddy.

It’s Over

It’s Over

It was over with 9/11 though most of us didn’t want to believe it.

Now sixteen years, dozens of incidents and thousands of lives blown away in an instant later, the complacent life many of us grew up with is gone.

Forever.

Gun control?

Too late, way too late.

If we did away with the First Amendment, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

If a nut wants to get a gun – or 49 as the Vegas shooter had up in his hotel room – and transport them up there with not one person picking up on it,  he’ll find a way.

Metal detectors at the entrance of every public venue, every supermarket and theater and motel?

Computerized tracking of gun sales so it’s impossible to buy 49 guns and zillions of rounds of ammunition?

Again, would it matter when there’s always a black market and money? And people who don’t care about their own lives let alone others?

No, as l texted my neighbor when she broke the news to me, stop taking vacations or going to the movies or concerts or dining out or hitting the mall, have your food delivered to your house, and turn your windowless walk-in closet into an entertainment center.

Or like l’ve said before, live for the moment.

Cuz that’s all we got.