“But he says he loves me,” proclaimed my bud Bill about his new but problematic beau Greg. Now Bill is 68 going on 18 when it comes to experience in dealing with gay guys, having come fresh off a 40 year marriage with two kids and a grandson he hasn’t seen in three years since the divorce. Down here in sunny Fort Lauderdale, he sowed his oats for a while but apparently fell for the made-for TV-Logo movie about well, us. Naively spoiled in suburbia, where he only socialized with other boring married couples, and never rejected sexually IN HIS LIFE by anyone, Bill believed all gays were “artistic and wealthy.” Yep, and Bill doesn’t even drink.
Well, despite his wife attempting to take him to the cleaners after his decision to lead a gay old life, Bill is financially comfortable and, even at two farts from 70, still marketable in Lauderdale’s myriad of sexual venues.
But he’s gotten lonely, maybe even regretful about his drastic change in lifestyle, and is searching, pining, longing to find that “Special Someone.” Enter, stage left, Greg, still something of a hottie at 52, who lives off a seven hundred dollar a month disability check because he’s poz, sleeps on his brother’s couch when he isn’t sponging off buddies, has no job, no car, and no money. Oh, and he’s been a methhead for most of the last thirty of his partying years. But, fear not, Bill, ever the fatherly reformer, believes Greg when he says he’s shown Tina to the door, and instead of just enjoying Greg for the good fuck he is, no, Bill asks him to move in with him to enjoy the fruits of his 40 year career as an accountant, i.e., a luxury condo, a BMW convertible to drive around in, trips, cruises, etc. etc. Why? Well, of course …
Because “he says he loves me.”
Now, not one to be shy about describing in decadent detail his sexploits, Bill says sex between him and Greg is the most passionate he’s ever had in his life, though he’s bothered by some of Greg’s quirky behavior in bed.
Describing these quirks to me, my reply was simple.
“It’s not you he’s in love with, it’s the meth.”
It took Bill finding some drug paraphernalia around the apartment and some jewelry mysteriously missing from his bureau to finally kick the bum out.
Greg’s parting words? “You knew what you were getting into.”
Sure, meth, the number one drug problem in the gay community today, can be fun. Hell, I’m no addict, but I‘ve smoked it, snorted it and even mainlined it more than a few times, and there’s absolutely nothing like being on it for the most sensual sex in your fucken life, even if the guy you’re with is a troll and your dick feels like it’s an iron pole but in reality is as soft as putty.
And keep the party going and one day your teeth are falling out (salvia which disappears when you’re on the stuff is vital to dental heath) , you look like Auschwitz (nothing beats a Tina diet for losing weight), whatever job you had is past tense, and the only guys you know or fuck with are other methheads like you.
Now, of course, you’ve got the “methhead lites,” the still responsible guys who use it, or say they use it only on occasion, like a day off or weekend or special occasion or with a very special trick; and then there are the “methhead heavies,” often HIV positive because they have no inhibitions and got fucked one night by the wrong dick, and have absolutely no ambition for anything else than finding their next high. At a hundred bucks or more a pop. Bill’s Greg was President of this group.
So how do you know when a guy tells you he loves you while you’re fucking him or he’s fucking you that it’s not love but the crack? He:
• sweats like a pig
• chatters away like a Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in her cord
• thinks the cops are watching the two of you having sex through the camera on his smartphone
• eats celery stalks for dinner
• has a water bottle umbilically attached to his arm
• sports a wet noodle in the heat of passion
• wants you to fuck him all night
And damn well means it.
Hey, if I still had been a darling of my meth head stud muffins, I would have ended up down that same sewer. I try to kid myself by saying that’s because I’m an intelligent, educated, mature adult.
But not a day goes by when I don’t fantasize about getting high with a guy to relive the fantasy.
For that’s all it is.