Here I am with my partner George at our summer home in rural Northeast PA for the next two months, and it looks like it’s gonna live up to its dubious reputation as the Better Ford Center for Recovering But Unredeemable Fort Lauderdale Sex Addicts in the Poconos.
After all, you’re talking to a boy who called Christopher Street in Manhattan’s Village his catwalk and has spent the last ten years in Fort La-de-dah where this past Memorial Day week I had eight guys in seven days. Now, I’ve got George complaining to me about the dishes I leave in the kitchen drain board, when he’s not fanatically (that’s where the word “fan” came from, folks) watching his beloved New York Mets who’ve got a game almost every fucken day. (Wonder why I’m scouring the hook-up sites?)
As for my little gay universe, there are about 22 guys on the Manhunt, etc., or my smartphone apps to choose from. Not very encouraging. Worse, they fall in the following abysmal, dead-end categories:
· Hot guys (and who’s “hot” is in the eyes of the beholder) who I’ve reached out to who don’t want me;
· Hot guys I’ve reached out to or who have reached out to me who are 57 miles away; (Remember, I can’t host unless I want my balls for lunch though I think if George had an extra-inning game he wouldn’t even notice);
· Hot guys I’ve reached out to or who have reached out to me who have no intentions of ever connecting, but string me along, flirting and begging for more pics to j-o over which I give willingly because I want theirs;
· Hot and not-so-hot guys who hit up me on Scruff or Growl’r from NYC, two hours away, or Australia, half a world away. Weren’t these phone apps supposed to help you zero in on guys 37 yards from you??
· Not so hot guys who have stalked me for the past ten years and don’t know how to give up; and
· Kinda hot guys who, after getting me all sweaty and stiff, send me a webcam picture that looks like the father of the guy in the lead profile pic they got posted.
In the middle of this vast wasteland, I’ve got Planet Fitness, where I go to keep my shit together, the closest gym across the border in neighboring Port Jervis, New York, a decaying upstate town that pretty, but pretty dumb myopic Manhattanites who hit me up think is a another boro of the City. There’s so many young – like 19 years old young – hunky specimens of manhood that I’m OD’ing on the eye candy while my cock is going through dick twitching hell. (Fuck Viagra, just give me six foot Tommie by the weight rack and my cock will be as stiff as a pipe in 30 seconds.)
But, cheer up Ray, I say, there are a few potentials off Manhunt or Scruff that still might work out. And thank the Gay God for Jim, my lackluster fifty something Broadway theatrical agent who has a summer home just a few miles down the road from me who connected with me on Manhunt a few years ago and is quite happy to have me come over when he’s up and his partner isn’t and just lie there like an unpaid rent boy while he sucks me dry.
I was resigned to accept my summer fate – a lot of late night dates with xtube and my hand – when just this afternoon, Vinny hit me up on bear 411. Vinny, my forty something handsome Italian/black Irish stud, paralyzed from the waist down, not from an accident but a rare spinal infection, who I based one of the main characters in my new book, “The Easy Out” after and who, BTW, I fell in love with two summers ago.
Suddenly things are looking up …