Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces

You Go Girl!

One of my neighbors here in Fort Lauderdale, a former Brit, is a  vigorous anti-monarchist, and I agree Great Britain maintains its royal history more out of tourism than tradition. But you have to give credit to Meghan Markle for her feisty streak of independence and pride in being the child of an interracial marriage which she apparently exhibited since childhood, her calm under pressure attitude on life, and the fact she’s been a working girl, no”princess” in her former existence. I would just love to know how these two people, obviously so much in love, who lived on different continents in lives that couldn’t be more dichotomous actually met – and clicked.

Sort of like me and my lover where the chemistry between us is unmistakable despite the fact he’s old enough to be my son.

Go figure.


Social  Media and School Shootings

Changing gun laws is only cosmetic dressing on a systematic problem rooted in mental illness treatment, always being viewed as a step child to “real medicine” when it comes to insurance coverage, that and the apparent lack of common sense by parents who must have blinders on when it comes to not seeing their children’s mental health issues and leaving supervision of firearms in their homes plain sloppy.  As far as I’m concerned they’re accessories after the fact or actually the perpetrators, with their child the vehicle for committing such horrific acts.

But I think also contributing to this relatively new nightmare on the American scene is the platform social media like Facebook gives these kids.  I think it’s more than coincidence that these shootings have  increased, or in fact started at all at a time when social media  began to dominate our national psyche. Where your most secret thoughts can be posted for the world to see and feed in some individuals’ deep seated need to be noticed.

And why, damn it, such as with the underhanded advertising by sinister Russian-backed organizations out to dismantle our democratic process, didn’t Facebook algorithms and human spotters identify troubling precursors left on the FB pages of the Texas and Florida shooters that should have been reported to authorities and taken down.

Not worry if the shadow of my penis can be seen through my shorts which cost me 30 days in FB prison.


Five Days in the Hospital Is Not “Minor”

I have no ill will for the woman but l couldn’t care less that Melania whose name her husband misspelled in his tweet about her  miraculous recovery spent five days in the hospital for a “minor” kidney issue. But I find that a bit strange. l was out in three days following my lower back surgery and the next day after my shoulder surgery. To have spent five days in the hospital today is implying that her problem is hardly “minor.”


I Can’t Make This One Up Folks

A buddy of mine who’s shot himself up with Tina for decades has decided to be a “good boy,” well maybe a “better boy” and smoke the shit instead, but had hesitated since “it might discolor my teeth.”

Holy shit!

Family Albums

Family Albums

I’ll just spit it out: why the fuck are guys running pics on their hook-up website profiles that are decades old? As if misrepresentation and deceit weren’t enough, some draw attention to the fact that years have gone by posting one pic when they were a hot 25 or 35 and then a pic as they are today, 10 or even 20 years later. Who gives a fuck what you looked like then?

When I questioned a guy on this (he posted one pic he himself captioned “2000,” another, gray haired and wrinkled, which he admitted was already three years old), he called me a “rude fuck.”

Or when all a guy’s got is a face shot wearing a cowboy hat or baseball cap and you ask for some shirtless body shots ( I don’t need to see your dick or ass), he pleads the fifth: “I don’t have any other pictures?” I took all my pics – which are a few months old at most and updated every month or so – with my smartphone which he has to be on in order to have hit you up to begin with.




A Reprise of One of My “Go Ask Daddy” Advice Columns

A Reprise of One of My “Go Ask Daddy” Advice Columns

Buddy: After being solo for years, I’ve found a guy who’s on my wave length emotionally, sexually, the whole package. One problem: he’s still with his current partner of fifteen years but tells me they’re breaking up, though he also says they’re giving counseling one last shot. Should I hang in there or move on?

Daddy: Current partners can mess up the love waters, can’t they? Remember, what counts is what guys do, not what they tell you they’re gonna do. If you feel this guy is “The One,” tread cautiously but don’t start searching for those matching diamond studded cockrings just yet.

It’s up to you, NOT HIM, whether you want to continue fucking him, which can be fun, or whether that will only put you on some emotional roller coaster ride. If you haven’t been there yet, let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. So if a fuck ain’t worth the potential heartbreak, quietly distance yourself and wait to see what happens. Who knows, they may have been talking break-up for the last ten years and you’re just the latest in a line of jilted hopefuls. Guys together for more than a few years frequently have a lot of shared experiences (health issues, family dying, pets) and excess baggage (shared real estate, drug rehab relapses) that may actually get in the way of them ever really breaking up.

And how well do you know your beau? Maybe the other guy has been trying to wean him off a drug or alcohol habit and your beau wants to continue his merry ways. Or the other guy may be your beau’s “Sugar Daddy.” When to comes to a choice between love and money, money usually wins.

So tell your beau you’ll be happy to stay in touch but (a) you’re not going to be the sounding board for every little twist and turn in his current relationship angst, and (b) when he’s really ready to consider you in a serious way, well, that’s why God created smartphones.

Just remember, once a guy is out of a long term link-up, he frequently wants to go back on the market and sow his proverbial oats for the fifteenth time, not instantly get locked into another “marriage.” Maybe he’ll wake up and realize what you mean to him, or maybe not.

In the meantime, don’t pine like some prom girl and wait for that fateful text. Indiscriminate sex is good for the soul, and, who knows, you just might run into somebody who’s as free as a bird as you are, and like you is tired of all that excess data usage bills for those cockteasing apps.

Medical Marijuana Anyone?

Medical Marijuana Anyone?

Like I said in my blog a few weeks ago about my shoulder surgery, my major skeletal problem is not my shoulder but my collapsing spine which has left me with chronic lower back and neck pain and means floating from bed to recliner to sofa through the night and spending my first waking hours lying on a heating pad or ice pack (cold often works quicker and more effectively for me than heat) and waiting for my Advils to kick in. (A friend of mine, a healthcare professional, tells me taking Advil and Tylenol together is the equivalent of taking opiates without the druggie side effects. and he’s right.)

This past week I had two appointments. The first was with an arthritis specialist, who was two heads shorter than me with horn rimmed glasses and looked like a sophomore in high school. He ruled out rheumatoid arthritis though he still ordered blood work to make sure, and since an earlier bone density test had ruled out osteoarthritis, all he had in his magic bag when I told him no more drugs that knock you out, made you fall over, or leave your dick limp, were – you got it – the over the counters.

The other appointment was with a clinical psychologist who picked up the phone when l called the number in an ad in our local bar rag that shouted, “Medical Marijuana Now!” There are only eight diagnoses that allow you to get a script for MM, most of them disease-oriented like glaucoma, Lou Gehrig’s Disease or HIV,  and the slot most people – including me – end up in was Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. (I’m crazy so it’s not too far off from the truth.)

With this letter in tow, I will be visiting another office later this month to register for my state medical marijuana card that I need to actually buy the stuff. Despite the fact Broward County, Florida, where Fort Lauderdale is located, is one of the fastest growing counties in the fastest growing state in the country, the only two dispensaries currently around are south in Miami and north in Palm Beach County. You supposedly can buy it in various forms, pill, oil, vapor, even eatables (“Want a grass cookie, little boy?”), but contrary to what I had been told by others, some of these DO contain THC, the ingredient that gives you the high. So to paraphrase that old Leslie Gore song:

“It’s my party, and I’ll get high if I want to, high if  want to, high if I want to….  you would  be too if you had pain too.”

I remember once when I played with my Pennsylvania buddy Vinnie who had been left paralyzed from the waist down by a virus, we smoked some of his medical marijuana which gave us the same high as meth without killing your erection. (Ironically his paralysis has left him with occasional painful cramps in his otherwise useless legs.) He told me at the time he could order some from his doc in – where else –  California – and have it mailed right to my house.

Just last week, with my back pain driving me to suicide, I tested the waters again when a buddy who used medical marijuana for pain relief  let me take some puffs off his vapor cigarette which contained a marijuana oil cartridge. First you have to get over burning your throat, but once I got the hang of it I did feel significant relief. Placebo effect maybe, but my giggly persona was for real.

Now meth, better known by its street name Tina, will relieve my pain but it’s got a shitload of side effects including being illegal and costly, so I don’t envision getting scripts for medicinal meth anytime soon. And when I asked the physician’s assistant who works for my shoulder surgeon about medical marijuana, she looked at me as if I wanted to find where nearest shooting den for heroin junkies was. Moralizing I don’t need, thank you.

Of course, I’ll let you know how I make out once I get my legal status as an official MM user. But I’d also like hear from you.

Have you used medical marijuana to relieve pain?

Did it work?

Good For The Fucks!

Good For the Fucks!

Four men who brutally attacked a gay couple at last month’s Miami Gay Pride Festival were charged this weekend with a hate crime which is a first degree felony and carries a possible thirty year prison sentence. Hope the fuck their young butts – they’re all in their early twenties – are handed from one cell to the next while they’re doing time. It’s going to be pretty hard to escape conviction when the prosecution has surveillance camera video showing them in the act.

I’ve always said anybody who is so homophobic that he has to lash out in such an ugly manner has a problem with his own sexiality.

So boys, now you’ll have a chance at a some gay sex by default. Try it – who knows,  you just might like it!

Mindfuckers Supremo


There should be a special place in Gay Hell, where you’re surrounded by Bible Belt Conservative Trumpees spouting Leviticus and Sir Donald tweets unto eternity, for the Website Mindfuckers Supremo. Those that show up on schedule for your destined web-arranged rendezvous, then feign disinterest.

Like the one nerd who promised me the blow job of my life. It was a Tuesday night so, what the fuck, why not. The red flag should have gone up in my head when he asked to meet him in the parking lot of a local mall. But I was horny by now. Even as I drove over, I had visions he’d pull away just as pulled up. But no, I got out of my SUV, he got of his, and we walked in one another’s direction. He was nerdier than his pic, but a mouth is a mouth, and after all, it WAS a Tuesday. I outstretched my hand to shake his and introduce myself when he said, “Gee, I’m sorry. I don’t think this is going to work out.”


Now, my pics are pretty explicit. And while I may not be God’s gift to Gaydom and officially a senior citizen, (70 is the new 50 just like my 43 year old “boy” is the new 20) I still turn some heads. Woody Allen’s younger brother I ain’t. If he wasn’t interested, shouldn’t my pics have been enough to make a judgment call long before this?

There were some elderly shoppers nearby wheeling their cart of food to their car but I didn’t give a shit. I still went off like a lunatic.

“You hauled me over here and now you’re the one not interested, you nerdy little queen?”

With that, he ran into his car, locked the door, and swept away. Lucky for me, since in another millisecond I would have bashed his head against the door, then regretted it. And by the time I got home, he had blocked me so I couldn’t even tirade into cyberspace.

Then there was the gym-bod hottie who set up a time, called to say he was on his way, and an hour later was still online where I left him. My knee jerk reaction was to block him, but I didn’t and, believe it or not, a week later, the same fuck E’s me. “Got some time later today?” (Yes, this is all true folks!) He had to be methed up, had to be.

Ah, bestowed with one of those golden opportunities you often don’t get in life, I seized the moment.

“Listen, last week when you said you were on your way, then never showed, I found you were still online when you were supposed to be at my place. So, after giving you an extra half hour, I left for the local sex club where I met a hot, humpy couple from Toronto, and we fucked the night away. (I actually did meet such a dynamic duo, only not that night.)  So, I guess I have you to thank for that. But please, I don’t need people who waste my time. Your credibility with me is in the sewer. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s even your pic or are you really some 4’6” horn-rimmed glasses geek.”

His response to me was just two words. I’m sure you can guess what they were; but those two words spoke volumes. I had caught him at his own game, Then, I blocked the fuck.

The bigger question is what motivates people to play these games. Are they insecure with their own sexuality? Or are they so shit on in their real lives and no-nothing jobs (I can see that buxom boss towering over them at the jewelry counter at Macy’s), that this is their only way to exert power over others?  Or are they just perpetually stoned?

Well, playing amateur psychiatrist ain’t going to help my sex life. From now on, if someone says they’re on their way, they’re not getting my exact street address until I see their car parked in front of my neighbor’s house. Then let ’em call me on their cell and I’ll give ’em the right address.

After all, 50 mg. of Viagra is a terrible thing to waste.



flicker (noun): a gay man residing in one of America’s major gay urban ghettos who’s seemingly got it all, the looks, the bod, the persona, the stable of friends and roving lovers, who projects a visage of contentment but, in reality, just isn’t quite happy where he’s at, and thinks by moving to some other gay urban hotbed, – hence the phrase, to flick around – his life would be so much better.

Recently a handsome muscle bear from L.A. hit me up on one of the hook-up websites. “You’re my type to a T,” he glowed. We traded a bit of E chitchat and I found out that he had lived in Lauderdale about the same time I’ve been here and left a year ago because he wanted a LTR and was tired of “guys not willing to commit.” But he conceded he was getting a bit bored with L.A. (he had lived there before) and was now considering another move to Palm Springs.

Then it hit me. As I dwelled on his handsome face and bod I realized I had seen him many times in one of the local bear bars. He had always been surrounded by his little coterie of fellow steroid clones, but never once in all those Friday nights had he ever even given me the eye or said, “Hey.” Ah, but moving to L.A., that would change everything. If not, there’s always ….

Then, there is a sometime fuck buddy of mine who says he’s had it with Lauderdale and wants to return to the romance of his youth by moving back to either NYC where he came out and still has plenty of gay friends, or San Francisco where he blossomed as a muscleman bartender when Castro was just coming into its own. Now, my buddy is highly intelligent but did little with his brains and frankly doesn’t have a pot to plant flowers in as they politely put it in ‘50’s movies. But still he fanaticizes about living in two of the most expensive places in the country, with no dossier, no real professional job experience, and certainly, while still a hot man, no longer Sugar Daddy fodder. Like returning to a  past that no longer exists would make his future.  As they say, you can’t go home again.

We’ve all known or met or heard of guys like this. Guys still hot into their 30’s, 40’s and 50’s whose perpetual sex appeal is both a blessing and a curse since it allows them to continue playing the game long after they even really want to or should. Or deludes them into thinking there’s still time to find Mr. Right. They may work for a company where transfers are easy, or have a business of their own that’s movable like online sales, landscaping, power-washing or deep tissue massaging, since they never really lay down roots in one place all that long.  Actually not being chained to professional obligations or pension plans or the corporate ladder makes flicking around easy.  And so they do, from one gay ghetto to the next, a few years in one place, a decade in another, two months in the third, going through lovers and relationships like handi-wipes, all the time searching, waiting, hoping. For what? For whom?

These guys may think they’re sincere when they insist they want a LTR  or, if not that, some deliriously happy existence. Whatever the hell that is. But are they for real? Are they willing to give as much as they expect to get? For most of them, commitment is sharing a fresh bottle of poppers with the new guy they’re screwing.

Just one question: do they ever tell someone on which gay ghetto catwalk they want their ashes scattered?