Why I’m Beginning To Hate Tourists

Why I’m Beginning to Hate Tourists

Hey, I was a tourist myself once. It’s what lured me to move here to South Florida from NYC in 2002 and I never looked back. And no doubt, the Fort Lauderdale Chamber of Commerce is happy that 2015 may have set a record, when all the stats are in, of one hundred million tourists to our balmy hideaway. Str8 and gay, the hotels are happy, the guesthouses are happy, the restaurants are happy, the bars are happy, hell, even our sex shops and sex clubs are happy, and certainly all those additional tax dollars help keep my real estate taxes manageable.

So why have I had it with tourists? Beside the fact they clog everything up – our bars, our restaurants, our beaches and highways and byways? Because when they’re here they act like they’re visiting royalty and treat us townies like outsiders in our own land.

Case in point: Saturday, January 2, the last weekend of the holiday sprawl between Christmas and New Year’s was the monthly Pig Dance at the Ramrod, our local leather bar. A popular night for us who live here, it seemed like this time the entire leather community from coast to coast and across the seas had converged on this seedy little bar on the shitty, un-glitzy end of Wilton Drive where drug runners fly by on bikes at one in the morning and guys young enough to be my grandson panhandle us entering and exiting bar boys for a buck. (That’s why God created locks for our cars, even with Ramrod’s attentive security.)

I arrived at 10, early for any guy bar, to make sure I didn’t end up parking seven blocks away. I killed time in my car for about half an hour, seeing who “loved” me on my tablet, then adjusted my harness and strutted inside. By 11, the place was festive, but by midnight – three hours before closing – the Grand Central Station congestion, spiked by loads of out-of-towners, got to my agoraphobia and I left. By then, the security guys and bouncers at the entrance were counting bodies and there was a line of half-naked men out to the street. With its tight quarters and limited egress, RR is a disaster waiting to happen. One night, the fire department came in and ordered the crowd to thin out or it’d close the place down.

As if this weren’t bad enough, 5 foot six me seems to be a magnet for the tallest gay guys in America who surround me like the giant trees in California’s Sequoia National Park. And when you ask one of them to move as you snail through the crowd it’s a lost cause. Sure there was a lot of shit I wouldn’t have my dogs piss on, but there were some truly gorgeous hotties, like the trio on the dance floor with only jockstraps adorning their bodies by God. But these out-of-town beauties tend to stick together like glue in their own little clans, not mixing with anyone else unless they’re a number 14 on the hot-o-meter. I wasn’t the only solo guy holding up the wall that night.

Hits on the hook-up sites and apps from visitors for this extended holiday were likewise lean, to the point you get the feeling these guys from New York or Chicago or Sydney are just here to use our town for their own private party, re-acquaint themselves with some tricks they fucked at IML (I love these “family reunions” when I’m trying to get through) or grab sex on the run at our sex club, two baths, or at the “clothing optional” pool at the gay guesthouse they’re staying.

And if, by luck, you find one who’s interested, and like me, you’re one of the many, many Lauderdale philandering gays with partners who can’t host, well, they can’t host either. “Sorry, staying with friends.” Then who’s supporting all these gay guesthouses, huh? I offered to pay for the motel with a hottie but he declined. “I find motels, well, gross.” That from a guy who bragged proudly he had been gangbanged at Slammers the night before. My response: “So getting fucked up the ass in the dark by nameless dicks isn’t gross?” By then, I realized he was a pig’s pig and that a few hours with one guy would never satisfy him.

So I’ll just spit it out. Mr. Tourist, if you ain’t available for play, who the fuck needs you?

You think living in one of the top gay tourist capitals of the world is hot?

Well, think again.

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