When Sex was Easy (or at least Easier) …
Back in the day, bars were for cruising and bath houses for fucking. Then came one of the first hook-up sites, Manhunt, in 2001, and in short order, the idea of lining up a guy from the comfort of your living room bred a zillion copycats. And once our cellphones became smartphones, a second generation of hook-up possibilities blossomed as phone apps.
But what was supposed to be a means to an end – connect with a guy electronically to meet later in the flesh – morphed over time as an end in itself. Banter some dirty talk, swap hard cock or butthole pics, maybe even Skype, and bingo, bango, you both get off without having to even use mouthwash. Or just flirt, or exploit a guy’s profile pix as your own custom porn site, without him ever hearing from you. Or else use what were designed as hook-up sites to cultivate virtual buddies from across the country or around the world.
Nice, and maybe even a lifesaver for guys who live in the middle of nowhere or in a country where they’d cut your dick off if they knew you liked men, but, sorry, I’m on these sites for the real thing, not to swap Christmas cookie recipes or hear about your shitty day. (Do you really wanna hear about mine?).
A few years ago a buddy of mine and I went down to Key West, armed only with our laptops, and in the space of three days together turned twenty one tricks. And once a year, when family from back North was visiting in Tampa, I would hike up their way to say hello, and after my social obligations, would line up seven or eight guys over the long weekend to corral back at the gay guesthouse I stayed at in St Pete’s. I also used the web as my pimp when I took “whore” vacations to places like Chicago, or L.A. or Atlanta.
But those days of low hanging fruit are over. Now, I would never entertain doing one of these junkets – that could cost close to a thou or more – relying on the web to find sex. It just ain’t happening, even at home, at least not in the free and easy quantities that it did in the day.
So okay, the bars are now mostly social and bath houses refuges for the Denture Creme generation, and the web as a vehicle for finding in-the-flesh sex is largely fucked.
Ah, but for a few of us lucky folk who live in cities with sex clubs, where you can walk around in your jeans and T-shirt and whip out your cock or drop your underwear to have fun, there’s still hope in humanity and gaydom.
When I still lived in NYC, (I left in 2002 for Ft. Lauderdale), my favorite hangout on a Wednesday or Sunday nights (the only nights frankly it was open), was Wally’s, a warehouse-size club in the West 20’s where for the price of what it costs for a rum and coke today you could rummage around hottie territory, blow or get blown or even get it in the rear and in an hour leave like a choirboy with some cum dripping from your beard or some residual lube in your hole.
Well, down here in Lauderdale, we have a place called Slammers and Friday I’ll give you a blow-by-blow rundown about a typical Friday night at my weekend oasis. And on Wednesday, look for another installment of my advice column, “Go Ask Daddy.”