It sounded like the ideal marriage of family and fun.
My sister and her husband, high school sweethearts and five years my junior, had rented a nice condo by the beach just north of Tampa for a three week winter getaway from Long Island. The plan was for me to drive to St Pete’s, four hours from Lauderdale and just south of where they were, spend a Wednesday night at the gay guesthouse where I had been before and hopefully play with some pre-arranged web dates; and then go over to my sister’s place, an hour way, the following day, and spend Thursday night with them. Friday A.M., the three of us would drive in one car the monotonous seven hour trip to Pensacola to visit their daughter, my niece, and her husband to celebrate my grandniece’s – their granddaughter’s – fourth birthday. On our way back home that Sunday, I’d drop my sister and hubby off at their place in Tampa, then spend another night in St Pete’s on my own where I ideally would have some more dick and ass, before I headed home to Lauderdale Monday morning.
P.S. I had never told my sister I was gay; if she had figured it all out after all these years, she never brought it up and neither did I.
So my little getaway sounded like the perfect plan, right? Well…
I had spent a few weekends in St. Pete’s over the past year or so and had had my share of fun with some web buddies, mostly lined up in advance. This time, though, wooing guys was harder than cumming on meth, to the point that I thought maybe I had outworn my welcome and made all the guys in town who would have ever been interested in me. There were a few newbies who had hit me up in recent months out of the blue and sounded like they’d play my sex slaves but when I told them I’d be in town that Wednesday and Sunday evenings, the silence of their non-replies was deafening. I did manage to line up two regulars for that Wednesday. Troy, a victim of AIDS, was thirty pounds thinner than when we had last played, and could neither shut up or get it up; but thankfully, the second, my good old boy, Steve, a tall lanky, hairy, pleasant enough looking guy, made up for it with his cocksucking expertise. And, as luck and timing would have it, I was able to snarl a burly, humpy football player type visiting from upstate New York late Wednesday night who came over Thursday morning before I hit the road for my sister’s where we sucked one another’s tools and I raped his furry manhole. But ever the practical pig, I was still concerned about how light my dance card was for that Sunday night on my return.
My sister, brother-in-law and I were to drive together to my niece’s which would save some gas but, even more importantly, break up a very long and boring ride with some conversation. But, at the last minute, they decided that they wanted to stay through the middle of the following week, and months earlier I had booked Key West for what would be an ill-fated break with my other. (See my blog posted 3/31. ) By the time my visit in Pensacola was over, I was supremely happy I had an excuse for not being able to hang around longer.
And since I would be traveling back on my own, it quickly dawned on me that I might be able to make a few Pensacola boys after I left my niece’s before heading back to St Pete’s, kind of an insurance policy just in case I came up dry for Sunday evening.
Gays can be silly or caustic, but str8’s, well str8’s are just boring. Thursday at my sister’s rented condo in Tampa, we talked about a lot of things facing us as fellow retirees-to-be, but somehow their excitement over a retirement community “where everyone has their own golf cart!” which my brother-in-law’s older brother was contemplating not far from Tampa where he lived with his wife of 30 years was not something I, a man of the world whose Saturday night didn’t begin until midnight, could share. In fact, when all of us went to the Olive Garden for dinner that Thursday evening, I, the oldest fuck at the table, looked 20 years everybody’s junior. Maybe staying active in the hunt forces you to try to keep your shit together – who knows?
That night, with my sister and brother-in-law asleep, I canvassed the search engines on my I-pad and lined up a trio of Pensacola men, none online at the time, who I hit up for a possible Sunday morning rendezvous.
My boredom with the other side of the social spectrum only worsened once we were at my niece’s though, being a frustrated actor, I put on a good front. It seemed like everybody was talking down so little Sydney could remain entertained (My sister, the archetypal grandmother, also bought enough gifts to open a branch of Toys Are Us). About the only half-ass adult conversation we had was which cars we’d be taking to the jump center on Saturday afternoon where, for $200., my niece had arranged for a birthday party for my grand-niece and her pre-school cohorts, including Sydney’s towheaded “boyfriend,” Timmy.
Hey, you know I like guys over 35, but I could see how a pedophile would love to defile those innocent, wide-eyed little four year olds who jumped on the trampolines for a good hour without a care in the world. One little girl who caught my attention wore big, weighty glasses and a colorless expression for most of the afternoon. I later learned from my sister that she had had three brain surgeries so far in her little life. Yet her parents were upbeat and smiling, happy I guess that their little Cindy was beginning to fit in.
And for the closeted homo still lurking in me, there were a few cute daddies I was able to strike up a conversation or two with. Their hot bods and tight asses, together with the birthday cake we all devoured later somehow compensated for the lack of leather, hairy chests and rum and cokes, my usual weekend fare.
Two years ago, when the last of my nephews was getting married, my niece’s husband had strangely confided in me, maybe because he viewed me as a neutral member of the family, that he wasn’t getting any more action at home, and that my niece had apparently acquiesced her role as a wife to be the doting mother of their little girl. Not good for two thirty somethings. That secret resurfaced in my mind as I watched him fiddle most of the night with his I-pad as we sat through one mind-numbing kiddy flick after the next on their 46 inch flat screen to the endless delight of my grand-niece. Was he combing hook-up sites for str8’s just as I did for us gay boys? Was he even carrying on an affair and texting some chick, right there while his wife was gathering up all of Sydney’s new toys courtesy of Grandma and Uncle Ray?
Could you blame him?
Later, in the sanctuary of my guestroom, I checked to see if any of the three Pensacola men worth jerking off over whom I had hit up Thursday night had come through. No. “No messages.”
So that Sunday morning, while everybody regurgitated every last boring tidbit of Saturday’s jump party, I, who felt more disconnected than I had ever felt from family before, bid my fond – and relieved – farewells and headed back to St Pete’s, seven hours away.
“Watch your speed,” my niece’s husband cautioned as I rolled out the driveway. “The cops are out like roaches.”
“Don’t worry, I never go under 80,” I quipped back.
Just like my life versus theirs.
Tomorrow: Would I Be Lucky In Love Back in St. Pete’s?