Grabbing some last rays of Florida sunshine before I head up the end of this week to spend the summer with my other half at our new home in northeastern PA. What I affectionately refer to as the Betty Ford Clinic for Recovering But Unredeemable Lauderdale Sex Addicts. No bars to speak of, no sex clubs, no book stores or truck stops, and tricks on the web or phone apps are scarcer than blow at the end of Miami’s White Party.
But my soul needs cleansing and my dick needs a rest, though there are a couple of past summers’ country buddies eager to get reacquainted in between me whacking off to the humps on boundjocks-dot-com. This while George sits in our new Florida room mesmerized watching his beloved Mets. And I’ll be working with my publishers on final edits of my two new books so they’ll be plenty to keep me occupied.
When one of my publishers asked me for promotion purposes whether my books should be classified as erotic gay fiction, my reply was, “Sure, serious plot, fucked up, complex characters and LOTS OF SEX.”