Sex on a Steamy, Rainy South Florida Sunday Afternoon

Sex on a Steamy, Rainy South Florida Sunday Afternoon

I had had an especially bad week. I was scheduled to see a second vet to find out if my fourteen year old doxie, Bebe, might be suffering from a neurological disorder. l was gearing up that following week to receive a plasma injection, about the only option l had left to relieve the pain and loss of strength in my right shoulder stemming from an old, inoperable rotator cuff tear.

And l was plain fagged out from having three of my fuck buddies in one week.

Uncharacteristic for south Florida where rain showers give way to sun twenty minutes later, it had been raining all day since the night before with no indication of stopping. A perfect Sunday to catch up on my sleep with which my three dogs, still half comatose in bed,   totally agreed.

So when Jim, who l had played with the beginning of the week, texted me in the middle of my coma nap around two in the afternoon  what l was up to, I knew exactly what he had in mind but my response was almost automated.

“Sleep,” l replied.

Jim’s “LOL,” woke me up and made me realize what a jerk l was. There would be time enough to sleep when l was in the grave.

“Get that manly butt of yours over here now fucker,” l texted like a corrected Trump tweet.

“Fifteen minutes,” was his reply.

I thought it might be fun to play around beneath the overhang on my enclosed patio while the rain came down.

I was right.

Greeting him in my kaki green “Nasty Pig” tank top and nothing else, my dick saluted my buddy like a five star general as he stripped, leaving only his tight baby blue T shirt and blue jockstrap on. I could see from his rising bulge he – or l should say that beautiful eight inch piece of man meat l knew so well – was happy to see me.

We started, like we usually did, with our nips, both hardwired to downstairs, and as he sprawled his lean manly frame on the  old sofa that faced my heated pool, steam rising in a surreal way in the rain, l began to make love to every inch of my favorite fuck buddy. Kissing his hairy chest as he stroked mine, l worked my lips down his abs, then returned to his lips. He had grown a tight goatee just a few weeks before that perfectly matched his shock of sexy George Clooney gray hair, and l instinctively began to kiss, then suck it like it was some new erogenous zone we were discovering together.

But the most surprising “go with the flow” moment of the afternoon came when, on my knees, making love to his junk, l asked very romantically, mesmerized by his perfect butt below, “You clean?” He hesitated for a second – for dramatic effect or just to be a prick – then nodded in the affirmative to which l slowly dove my tongue into his lightly furry manhole like a World War ll Japanese Kamikaze pilot aimed for a U.S. Navy carrier. I delved deep for about twenty minutes in what turned out to be hottest rimming session in our respective checkered gay existences.

We played until 5 when the sun came out, took a dip in the pool, then decided to call it a day. I watched the very depressing finale of “Feud,” where Joan Crawford, one of the icons of old Hollywood, dies alone and broke, then went to bed. Later that week Jim would learn his beloved cocker spaniel had a brain tumor, while l would be relieved to hear that my doxie’s neurological condition was only a bad ear infection. But l was hit in the balls by a second orthopedic specialist who stood to gain thousands from me but told me flat out that my anticipated plasma injection would probably do nothing. I thanked him for his honesty but decided l would go through with the injection, six hundred bucks out of pocket, if nothing more than to cross it off my bucket list.

But for a few hours fantasy and reality merged as two naked men who knew one another’s bodies better than a mapmaker knew the continents made love under my patio overhang on a steamy rainy south Florida Sunday afternoon.

 

 

Ten Minutes Left In the Candy Store: II

Ten Minutes Left In the Candy Store: II

If you are one of those late bloomers,  a guy who comes out late in life, what should you do next?

First, move to a place where gays are welcomed – and plentiful. And when it comes to places where older gay guys don’t feel like dinosaurs, nothing beats balmy Fort Lauderdale which boasts not only one of the largest concentration of gay men in the country but, as a retirement mecca, also men over 50. Check out our leather bar, the Ramrod,  the country western bar, Scandals, or Lauderdale’s iconic Alibi. That doesn’t mean if you like younger guys, you need to settle. Far from it – Lauderdale’s got ‘em all, from twenty somethings on up.

Secondly, if you’re planning not just to take in the eye candy but swallow some of it, get yourself some Big V, (Viagra, silly boy) available cheap and without a script online. Or Cialis if that’s what works for you. O.K., I know, I know, you don’t really need it, but it’s a great insurance policy just in case you got a hottie but Mr. Peter thinks it’s nap time.

Now, if you’re already partnered, that’s a plus because so much of the social scene operates around the dinner party/house party circuit where pair-offs are just, well, less threatening. A pair of over 40 guys move into a nice middle middle or upper middle class neighborhood and within days of their arrival, invites to stop over for drinks flood their mailbox. It doesn’t matter if you run into these same guys looking for younger meat on the web or the local whorehouse like Slammers, or even hitting you and your partner up for a foursome. Everything is quite prime and proper over cocktails and crepes.

But if you’re alone, there’s no doubt, things can be more difficult. After all, let’s face it; you no longer have youth on your side or work where you may meet other gay guys on the job. And because Lauderdale is such a transitory town, making friends, even fuck buddies, is an uphill challenge. That’s why unless you can still fool Father Time (good genes or good luck, I’ll take either), it’s essential to make the most of what you have. If you’re not in shape, get in shape and join a gay gym or one of the gay sports teams where the potential exists that you might meet other men, at least, socially. If you got the bucks, turn back the clock and take advantage of the wonders of modern medicine which abound in South Florida’s countless rejuvenation and cosmetic surgery centers.

And if you can’t make him on your looks or bod or personality, well, there’s always your 401 K (you have one, don’t you, dude?). Hell, I don’t think there’s anything wrong about paying for sex or a live-in bf if you know that’s what you’re doing. You want it quick and dirty and on the Q.T.? Line Him up on rentmen.com. Looking for something more like a handsome well built thirty or forty something “escort” to be your paramour? Then places such as the piano-bar-restaurant Tropics where May-December marriages are made over drinks is your destination.

A lot of late bloomers go through what us jaded “been there, done that” call their “whore” phase when some guy who’s had three men his whole life suddenly sleeps indiscriminately with every anatomically correct male who says “hi” and is willing to bed down with him even if Mr. Friendly is a dwarf.

Fine – sow your oats – but with all this gayety comes one huge cautionary note. The Achilles heel of any just-out over 50 gay guy is his lack of experience, indeed, naïveté in The Life and I don’t mean in bed. Just like society at large, gay men can be cruel and devious even when they have a smile on their face and tell you that you’re wonderful. Particularly those who partied the last twenty years away. Unlike us career faggots who been through the Gay School of Hard Knocks, many older fresh-to-The Life guys don’t have a knowledge base to work from and are unable to read between the lines with these gay boys, particularly those old enough to be their sons. The result: they end up being cockteased, heartbroken, exploited.

Or worse.

If you use Just for Men and your gray still shows, and you don’t have a blue belt in karate, never take an under 40 guy back to your place – you go to his or it just doesn’t happen.

Remember, having ten minutes left in the candy store doesn’t mean you can’t feast – just do it with your eyes open and your brain in the on position.

 

 

 

 

 

Ten Minutes Left in the Candy Store: Coming Out Late in Life: Part I

Ten Minutes Left in the Candy Store: Coming Out Late in Life: Part I

I was 21 when I had my first sex with a man, an older guy, probably all of 25 or 30. But talking to guys over the intervening decades of my gay existence, I realized I had come out rather late in contrast to so many of them who boasted about having their first man-to-man blow-out at 15 or even 12. That’s why I’m amazed when I encounter men on the other end of the age spectrum who waited until their fifties, even sixties before they decided to kick open their own private closet door and lead an openly gay existence.

As you may expect, many of them were married marrieds who tied the knot with a woman in their twenties and married for all the reasons guys who should know better do: family obligations, family or peer pressures, professional reasons, the desire to have children, etc.  I even know one guy who married a second time simply to have a woman help him raise his four year old son after his first wife (who knew nothing of his gay side) died in a car accident.

This is not to say these guys didn’t fuck around with guys all those years of suburban wedded bliss; but it was usually on the sly: on out-of-town business trips or solo visits to out-of-state family; or when they used bowling night with the guys as a cover. Wonder why those peepshow bookstores with the pay booths and cheap neon signs have survived  the gyrations of our changing gay landscape?

Then there are the truly closeted men living all their lives with a parent who they care for until the end while they faithfully play the organ at church every Sunday morning; or living solo lives letting the demands of a 50 or 60 hour a week job absorb their entire existence.

But finally comes the day when the married guy meets Mr. Right or realizes he is getting nothing out of his relationship with a member of the opposite sex; or the parent dies; or the time for retirement arrives; or the man experiences a life-changing event like a near-fatal car crash; when, at 55 or 58 or 63, he asks himself the rhetorical question of the ages:

What am I waiting for?

More Wednesday

He May Be 5’2, But He’s The Tallest Guy in The Room

He May Be 5’2,  But He’s The Tallest Guy in The Room

He’s the guy if you frequent our Lauderdale leather bar, the Ramrod, you don’t notice at first. Short, cute and young with a compact lightly furry body, curly red hair and grizzly beard, it’s not until you spy his cane and limp which wisey forces him to stay in the shadows or hang loose at the small leather store by the entrance and watch the seemingly endless sea of men pass by that you realize he’s different from the rest.

And you’d be right. For at 5,’2, Cody in my mind is the tallest guy in the place.

We first made contact on – where else – but one of the hookup sites. I almost never even consider reaching out to a twenty something – sad to say l have found so many of them to be airheads with the social skills of an unflushed toilet. But l was intrigued by his mention in his profile that he had a disability and his almost defiant attitude that if a prospective bedmate had a problem with that he could, well, go fuck himself. In chatting with him online l found out his disability was cerebral palsy which l confess l knew little about.

Now unlike many guys who get turned off by physical deformity, l had known it since a child when l helped my grandfather who had lost his right arm to the elbow in a factory accident strap on his black patent leather prosthesis that was all for looks when he dressed for Sunday church. In my youth l had dated a double amputee who lost both his legs in Vietnam, and had a wheelchair bound buddy l had met while summering at my Pennsylvania country home who still calls me his private leatherman. But l had never known or even met a guy with CP in my life. Yes, l gotta be honest. l was curious.

I expected the short young guy with the cane and the limp who looked even younger than his twenty three years that l picked up for dinner a week later to start spouting off about the latest Rihanna concert as soon as he got into my car. Instead l was confronted with an incredibly mature, and yes, handsome young man who l realized later was also incredibly street smart, and who like me, fifty years his elder, found most of his peers lame brained. A fellow former Jersey boy, we hit it off immediately. It sounds strange but It was almost like l had known him all my life.

His CP the result of a fucked up childbirth, Cody was pimped out as a  kid by his crack addicted mother to her dealers in exchange for drugs, and when he didn’t always cooperate he was beaten, crazy as it sounds something that made him even stronger and more determined to rise above it all. And unlike many victims of CP who have immense developmental challenges, Cody was born a genius with an IQ exceeding 130 and who, still in his teens, orchestrated his own adoption by foster parents to escape his private hell. A man of his time, he quickly gravitated to lT, graduated high school when most kids still needed to take their shoes off to count, and completed his doctorate – yes, doctorate folks –  by age twenty. This incredibly cute kid with the cane and twisted limbs. He got his first job by disassembling and reassembling an IT corp’s computers – without a manual. The company president was so flabbergasted when he heard the news he flew in from Japan just to witness this boy wonder. Today Cody works in the world he loves and also handles administrative work for a local healthcare agency.

Unfortunately his personal life continued to be a train wreck. His legal husband, a heroin addict who he supported, committed suicide by intentionally overdosing. Cody loved the guy so much and was so distraught that he nearly grabbed a syringe when he found him dead to do himself in. But l think he realized he had been through too much shit to throw it all away now.

His wild side brought him to Lauderdale where as a pup in the local leather scene he entered a polymorous relationship with a handsome older Sir and the guy’s partner. But Cody also had that independent streak in him and while he continues to love Sir to this day, he also knew he needed to be on his own. Today he shares a small apartment with a buddy, rebuilding his once stellar credit that had been obliterated by his husband’s untimely demise, and plans to buy a home soon.

Like many victims of CP, Cody’s condition has led to a multitude of other health issues, including several surgeries. And as if life hadn’t thrown enough shit at him, this sweet young man was in a terrible car crash that left his hip shattered. But where many lesser folk would have given up and demanded a pity party before they jumped off a bridge, Cody not only persevered but rose above it all, a quality – besides his adorably boyish looks, piercing black eyes, grizzly beard that l like to rub against my chest, a handsome man’s penis that feels so good in my mouth and his lightly furry body, beautiful despite or may be because of his deformity – that makes him incredibly sexy.

Now while my childhood was like a Disney movie, l still feel an infinity to Cody, as a fellow short guy, academic nerd and social outlier who learned pretty quick you needed to be assertive to succeed in a tall man’s world.

And while l’m old enough to be his granddad, l view Cody as my super smart kid brother who l am protective of when we’re out together against the morons who are oblivious to his problem, but who l am also learning so much from at the same time.

The other night when he was over my place, he spent as much time programming my new notebook as we spent in bed, and the next day when we visited the local Apple store, crowded with yuppies and guppies, to get the cracked screen on his iphone fixed, I wanted to grab him, this short young kid with a cane but the determination of Goliath, and hold him close to me. As much out of admiration as out of lust.

Understand now why for me Cody is the tallest guy in the room?

You Can’t Have It Both Ways

You Can’t Have It Both Ways

A while back, l penned a piece entitled “Do Transgenders Belong in Our Sandbox?,” in which l voiced my view that many transgenders go on to lead heterosexual lives and therefore do not continue to face the stigma and discrimination we who are homosexual most or all of our lives experience, even though if you were born gay you couldn’t pick a better time in history to do it.  Consequently they should not be grouped with us lifers, i.e., gay men and women and practicing bisexuals.

(For the full blog check out http://wp.me/pXwOp-1xq)

Well, a vindication, sort of, of my viewpoint has come from none other than the transgender who created that community’s flag. When Wilton Manors here in South Florida, considered the unofficial gay capital and largest gay party town in the country today, decided to permanently fly the Rainbow flag as a symbol of its stature in the gay mindset, the transgender flag creator, Monica Helms argued that the transgender flag be flown as well since in Helms’ own words in a letter sent to Wilton Manors City Hall:

“Many trans people identify as straight and wish not to be included under the Rainbow flag because of being straight.”

Okay, exactly my sentiments folks but now is where it gets strange: she asked that the trans flag be flown on three annual transgender remembrance days to “show that the city is aware of the large diversity of the trans community and supports them.”

Let me get this straight: you claim most trans people identify more with the straight world than ours, yet you want us to somehow still recognize you.

Why?

If you don’t connect with us which is what l said in my original piece, why would you want to be in our sandbox now? If that’s the case, Wilton Manors should recognize every asexual citizen in its borders, or wives who like to fuck their husbands with a strapped on dildo on Thursday nights …

If you don’t identify with us Rainbow people, then in my mind you’re just another member of mainstream society and aren’t deserving of any special recognition at all.

You can’t have it both ways.

“Online Solicitations Require No Reply.”

“Online Solicitations Require No Reply.”

This was the headline of a recent advice column from Miss Manners, today’s Etiquette Guru.

A guy who used online dating sites was complaining that he often never received a response from women to whom he had sent a “personalized letter … five to eight sentences long … pointing out some of our common interests … and suggesting we meet for coffee and conversation.”

He felt their ignoring his little missiles was rude and uncouth. He continued:

“Even if there is no interest on their part, what is so difficult in a response, something like, ‘Thank you for your interest. While l enjoyed reading your profile, l do not see us as a couple. Best of luck in your search.’

Miss Manners’ assessment of the guy’s dilemma went on for six paragraphs (maybe she’s paid by the word like Charles Dickens was. His profuse prose had its reasons, all financial). She ended with:

“Although your tactful wording could serve as a model for rejecting an acquaintance, there is really no charming way, other than silence, to express, ‘l can’t imagine that it would be worth my while to meet you.’

How would l have answered the guy?

What fucken planet did you land from?

I akin hits on the web to cold sales calls, which means if l ain’t interested in your product – which in this case is you – l don’t have to do anything, especially if telling you l’m not interested is going to eat away at my data usage.

Hell, if l hit up a guy l dig and whose profile sounds like we should be compatible once, maybe twice if l just came home from the bar and l’m drunk, and he doesn’t respond, l MOVE ON. I don’t expect shit if he ain’t interested. Like l say, if they don’t want you, they don’t want you.

Yet l get guys who l’m not interested in who have been hitting me up off and on FOR YEARS. If l didn’t respond to your fifth fucken “You’re hot!“ or your tenth, “Breed me,” do you really think haranguing me will work??

Or may be you’re a MORON ( which by the way was a psychiatric clinical term) and don’t get it.

Some of you may consider me tight assed and egocentric to not at least graciously thank a guy who gives a “You’re hot!” compliment but l find if l do, the guy often interprets this as an entree for more extended conservation. Exactly what l don’t want. Sorry guys, l’m on these pick-up sites to get picked up, not chat.

The worse are those guys who you have to insult by clearly stating, “l”m not interested. I’m into fur and you’re not furry. Sorry.” (l don’t have to give a reason why but l do so that the guy sees there’s a very concrete black and white reason why we wouldn’t click) who two weeks later hits me up again with another “Be my baby daddy.”

If there was ever a reason for a mercy killing, this is it.

 

The Third Sex Redefined: Today’s Bi-Married Man, Part II

The Third Sex Redefined: Today’s Bi-Married Man, Part II

So why does a guy who knows damn well a dick is the only kind of anatomical equipment that’s really gonna excite him get involved with a woman, and – yikes! –   marry her?

“I didn’t know I was gay.” Maybe the guy doesn’t recognize his true sexuality deep down inside, though today with the web and mainstream media, I can’t believe anyone could be that naïve or sheltered.  Or is he trying to fool himself and thinks if he just gets married, those strange urges will pass? Sure, there may be men out there who very admirably suppress their sexual desires and sublimate them into husbandhood, fatherhood and profession. And if these same men can live their entire lives that way with perhaps a M4M tryst now and again, who are they hurting?

“I’ll end up in hell.” or “I’m just supposed to get married.” A lot of this is a generational, ethnic phenomenon. Thirty or forty years ago, guys, particularly Catholic or Jewish or Muslim and/or from Eastern European or Middle Eastern ethnicities were often in the marriage vise when they turned 22. Then there are those who needed to carry on the family name or fortune. Have things changed all that much in our so-called enlightened society to make it easier for the gay blades among these ranks today to slip out of the marriage noose? I don’t know. But is it being more of man not to start the ruse in the first place? Move out of town and get out from under it all.

“The right guy never came along – until now.” Maybe that contact with another guy at a point in life when we reach that fork in the road happens after that walk down the aisle.

“My wife doesn’t want sex anymore and treats me like shit.” Some bi-guys, usually the over forty group, will tell me that the reason they turned to men for sex is because their wives don’t appreciate them any more. Or they don’t want to, or can’t keep up with hubby’s attempts to hold on to his youth, whether it’s staying in shape or wearing the latest threads. Or the woman just plain doesn’t want to have sex. Enter another man who tells the guy he’s hot. O.K., but I still say the urge for the male species had to be there in the first place.

“Living straight is just easier.” Maybe it just comes down to the fact that straight life has a script, gay life is free fall, and some guys would rather follow a script, i.e., marry by 25, have your 2.1 kids by 30, etc.,  and worry about the consequences, if they ever come, later.

Like the average non-descript gay guy I often speak about, bi-married guys are not a group that ordinarily stand out like some radical drag on roller skates at the gay pride parade. They live their married, often suburban, sometimes rural lives like any other married men. Only, unlike us full time gay boys who frequent the bars and sex clubs on a regular basis, bi-marrieds often wait for the opportunity to present itself, at the gym, adult bookstore, or more and more online where faux personas are as common as dog shit on a city sidewalk., do their business, then go home to wifey and kids as if they had just had a haircut or a beer with the guys. Or they have a job that gets them out of town a lot and offers plenty of opportunities to screw around.

BTW, when it comes to the gym, I’m not talking just about those guys who live in the cities where the gyms are mixed or even tipped in favor of us gay boys. Hell, a bi-friend of mine with grown kids gets action all the time in the sauna at one of the named health clubs in the heart of New York’s Long Island suburbs. When I naively asked him how that could be, he smugly replied, “One of the guys just watches the door.”

And while gays like to live in their deceptively safe urban ghettos, bi-marrieds feel surprisingly more comfortable in the burbs or boonies where they can fade into the woodwork like other marrieds. This is even true if, post-divorce, they’re raising their kids on their own, or with a partner who some kids view as their second “Popi.” When a divorce occurs after decades of marriage, the now adult children, maybe because they’re from another generation, often have no hang-ups about Dad announcing he’s gay; other times, they desert him once that closet door has been flung open, poisoned by a vindictive wife/mother or society.

Bottom line, bi-marrieds are out there in numbers greater than most gays or straights would believe and, who knows, despite all the challenges, may be happier, too.

After all, who can really define happiness?