Hard-on Daydreaming

Hard-on Daydreaming

Str8 or gay, fantasizing is a big part of life – it’s what gets most of us through the day. Fantasizing about a better job, having money, winning over more friends,  seducing better lovers, or the ultimate wet dream, finding the love of our shitty two-by-four lives  But when does fantasy interfere with us enjoying our realities?

I bitch and write about the web and by extension phone apps a lot, mainly because, whether we like or not, it has become a dominant factor in being gay in Twenty-first Century America. More than any other place today, we meet – or try to meet – one fuck wonders, fuck buddies, future partners or just buds cyberlly. But it bothers me, yes, even troubles me when I encounter guys who are nice enough to come on to me – attractive or just pleasant looking and sounding guys – who are on the web, at least I think, more for the fantasy and not the possibility of ever pressing flesh.

I could probably give you dozens of examples, but let’s focus on one I had recently with a guy on one of the daddy sites who was a continent away from me in South Oregon. Judging by his age, look and demeanor, he was, like me, a Daddy, but certainly one I would have no problem bedding down with for an Aviance afternoon. (Aviance was a fragrance back in the 80’s and 90’s that portrayed a sexy, working woman in its ads who, when she was ready to let her hair down with her man, splashed on the Aviance.)

He opened his ice-breaker with a very sweet compliment. “I gotta tell you, I think you’re one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen.” Maybe was he was suffering from macular degeneration, but I thanked him for the ego kick and hit one back at him.

“You ever get to south Oregon?” he asked next.

Now anything’s possible in life but the chances of me, who lives in sunny south Florida, ever visiting south Oregon were, well, as great as me growing anther six inches. (which ever way your dirty mind wants to imagine). So I replied, “I doubt it.”

“You sure?” he countered. So then I got sarcastically cute.

“Well, I do have a friend who has early onset dementia who said that when he knew he was truly losing his mind he would move to Oregon where physician assisted suicide is legal. If he does, we could always fuck around after I went to visit him for the last time before he takes his morphine cocktail. Otherwise, it doesn’t seem likely.”

To which he replied, “Gee, can’t I at least fantasize?”

Now we all jerk off on occasion ( or some of us on a regular basis) over some hot guy on the web, but I found in his reply kinda sad. I really think he was fantasizing about us as a twosome, not just some hot cum rag cyber buddy.

Is this the reason why eight out of ten of the hits I get on the web are from out-of-town guys who have no plans of ever visiting Fort Lauderdale, while the local guys I hit up never reply or hit me back with evasive nowhere responses? It’s just easier to fantasize when you know you’ll never have to deal with the reality of actually meeting the guy.

Like the hot hairy guy in PA who gushed endlessly one summer when I was up at my house in the Poconos on how much I was his type. The problem was he was a half a state away from me in Harrisburg. We dicked around about rendezvousing at some midway point til I got the brilliant idea that I would visit Harrisburg and its National Civil War Museum and make a sidetrip to Gettysburg. (I’m an amateur Civil War buff.) I e’d him several times that now we could finally meet – what was his final e-mail to me two days before I was ready to leave and I tried to pin him down on when?

“Gee, I really did a good work-put at the gym today.”

Huh?? I didn’t even bother to tell him he was brain dead before I blocked him.

I think some, if not many of us just reject guys who want us up front and personal because we’re afraid our daydream bubble will be busted, and choose rather to jerk off over some guy we know is unattainable but who we can mold into whatever dream man we desire. And that is why I also believe that cock in our face, more and more, never really seems to measure up to the cock of our fantasies.

 

My Take on the Current Transgender Controversy

My Take on the Current Transgender Controversy

You can look at it from a number of angles. Banning transgenders from the military is discriminatory at first blush, yet because we did not go for total equal rights under the Obama Administration and instead harped on a very narrow right, namely gay marriage, who do we have to blame but ourselves?

On the other hand, I have read in print the fact that many transgenders tend to identify with heterosexuals, not us so where should we stand in this mess? (See my recent blogs, “Do Transgenders Belong in Our Sandbox?” http://wp.me/pXwOp-1xq ;  “You Can’t Have it Both Ways,” http://wp.me/pXwOp-27L )

But even if you agree Trump’s position is discrimination against citizens of the US., particularly those protecting all of our rights as members of the military, no one, l mean no one should enter the military thinking the government, meaning us as taxpayers, are going to pay for their transgender surgery which costs well over one hundred dollars per person and which could amount to tens of millions when looking at the military as a whole, if that is the guy or gal’s underlying reason for entering the military in the first place.

Grossly put, they should be “done” with their transformation before they sign up, or leave if they’re conflicted.

Sure, it may be a miniscule portion of the Department of Defense budget which, if Trump has his way, will suck up even more of the dollars left for everything else, but as a transgender, in support of the ban, recently commented, the military “is not a sex clinic.”

Fuk!

Fuk!

Have you ever thought how many ways us uncultured guys use the word fuck or as my shy, G-rated spell check says “fuk”?

Go fuk yourself!

Fuk you!

Ask me if l give a fuk, go ‘head and ask me!

What the fuk!

Who the fuk do you think you are?

Fuk ’em!

Get the fuk out of here! ( As l shouted one nite when a low life suddenly opened the unlocked passenger door of my Element  as I was sitting in my car in a dark, deserted lot stupidly checking messages on my Samsung Galaxy just after leaving my favorite leather bar.)

Don’t fuk with me, motherfuker!

About the only way we use it affectionately and probably the way we use it the most is:

FUCK YEA!

When we’re with a hot guy or OUR guy…

When we see a hottie pass us by in a car or in his running shorts or speedos…

Or when we’re just wet dreaming …

Of all the four letters in English, none screams out such contempt or, in the right context, such ecstatic pleasure.

Fuk yea!

 

The Cupie Doll Syndrome and Network News

The Cupie Doll Syndrome and Network News

I used to watch Scott Pelly’s CBS News on weekday evenings since although he wasn’t totally impartial about Sir Trump, at least he was not as unabashedly biased as super conservative Fox or ultra-liberal CNN.  I got whatever l needed about the weary, fucked-up world we live in in thirty neatly packaged minutes, marveling at the risks taken by his reporters on the Isis and Syrian fronts, and then Scott and l would take our Prozac together.

But just a few weeks ago to my unpleasant surprise, Scott got canned (he still covers Sixty Minutes). Why? Because his ratings among the three network news anchors, Lester Holt of NBC, David Muir of ABC and himself were the lowest.

Was it content l thought? Or like the other cable news outlets especially FOX where its female commentators all look like blonde or brunette Barbie Doll clones, had Scott fallen to what l can best term the Cupie Doll Syndrome?

From what l heard, Muir’s show is now at the top of the shit heap and last week l watched a few of its segments to see why. Now l can’t comment on the quality of its newscasting since l haven’t seen enough of it, but the why at least from jagged view was simple:

Muir and his gang of reporters are all pretty and young, probably all under forty, or well maintained like Muir who’s a boyish handsome 42 year fuck (the same age as my good-looking lover back in Lauderdale) and – sorry guys – married to a man.

Contrast them to Scott’s team who is predominantly over 50 with a few youngish up and comers and you get the drift.

Right now they have fill-ins in Scott’s place. I’d be real curious to see if CBS follows the trend and replaces him with a matinee idol and starts purging its experienced but aging news team with the young and the restless.

And God help you if you’re in journalism school knowing that the jobs are in cable and web outlets, no longer in newspapers and magazines that are going the way of the landline phone (AT&T is already phasing out landlines in some regions) and you aren’t photogenic.

 

 

ESP

ESP

Up here for the summer in Pennsylvania with my ex at the country home we co-own, l recently visited my sister and brother-in-law on Long Island and their adult sons, my nephews who live nearby their mom and dad, and my three grandnephews. To get there, l opted for mass transit and took Metro North from Port Jervis, a town just across the border in New York State, and then the Long lsland Railroad from Manhattan to Port Jefferson in Suffolk County. The visit was bittersweet since my sister is facing major lung cancer surgery in August.

Now my Big Seven-O birthday had been on July 8th,  but it wasn’t till l had returned from my visit with Gina and Dennis that l received a birthday card from them that had been sent out days before my birthday but because of the forwarding of my mail from Fort Lauderdale had just gotten to me.

Most congratulatory greeting cards are sappy and saccharine but this one, well it was as if either my sister or the copywriter for Gibson Cards had read my brain:

“70 is all about doing it your way and getting away with it.

70 is the wisdom you’ve gained from experience, and the respect you’ve earned from living real life.

70 means you have an amazing story to tell, filled with places you’ve seen, the people you love, and the ways you’ve made a difference.

70 means you’re better than ever.”

Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Or as one buddy pointed out, “You’re the only guy l know who says it like it is and doesn’t care what people think.”

Yep.

The Fly Paper Boys

The Fly Paper Boys

Unlike a lot of guys on the web or phone apps, who I can understand are looking to connect with another gay guy on a social, buddy-to-buddy  level, I’m not into chatting, and I say that in my profile. That’s why, call me a prick, I try my best to steer clear of guys, even hot, good looking guys, who start the conversation with a “hi, sexy,” or “hi, buddy, how’s your day?,” instead of like direct little me does, “Hey man, you’re hot, wanna connect?” or “wanna connect while I’m in town?”

Instead, I have to ask myself, are these guys using their innocent greeting as a ploy for coming on to me, and if they’re not townies, are they planning a vacation here and want to connect? I’ve been hesitating to ask the second question lately because 1 out of 3 are fishing around for a free place to stay at which I wouldn’t mind considering, though they be unproduct tested, if they lived in LA or New York or Palm Springs or Atlanta or SF where there might be some reciprocation going, you know what I mean? But when they’re from Lansing, Michigan or southeast Oregon, well …

And even if a free vacation ain’t on their agenda, the conversation usually goes one of two ways, both of them wastes of time from my perspective.

Either the guy starts asking me how I spent my day (“playing with myself”) and then he replies by telling me how he spent his day (“milking the cows”), with the conservation becoming as exciting as watching glue dry. I can sense the loneliness in many a guy’s responses especially those who live in No (Gay) Mans Land.

Sorry, I’m not Dr. Phil.

Or he starts with the dirty talk because his end objective is for me to get him hot enough to spurt his load, something I’m rarely in the mood for.

Both conversations, if I carelessly continue them, really become a pain in the ass since when I’m on my pc I’m working on my writing and simultaneously checking out the hook-up sites to see if I can find somebody to, well, hook-up with, then or before I end up in the nursing home.

These guys are what I call the fly paper boys – as much as you try to extract yourself from the chat, they continue to pull you in with another question from “oh, what do you write?” to “you shoot big loads daddy?” And among the fly paper boys are a lot of repeaters who keeping coming back again and again and again …

So what have I been doing? Taking a hint from the young webbies who have no social skills whatsoever, I just cut the conversation off in midstream or don’t reply to their next probing query like how big my dick is. (It’s 6.5 cut.)

Or hope they’ve already popped their load and leave me alone.

Total Tops and Total Bottoms

Total Tops and Total Bottoms

I know, I know, I should talk. I’m a top who never gets fucked. But to my credit I also dig oral sex and have no problem draining a top’s tool dry or serving a bottom’s cock before I fuck the shit out of ’em. (I think also not getting into anal sex saved my life in the dark days of the AIDS epidemic in New York City. Some of the hottest guys from my generation are six feet under.)

But then you got those purists of the male gay animal, the total tops who only want to fuck, period, and total bottoms who only want to get fucked, period. Nothing else.

Time and time again, tops, humpy tops are looking at my profile on just about any of the half dozen or so hook-up sites  and phone apps I’m on, but while a few may give me a “You’re hot, man” shout-out, few, very few respond when I reach out to them with a “I know were both tops but I do have the East Coast Cocksucker Award if you want me to take care of you …” or simply “Two tops can still have fun.”

They’re what I label the myopic top who can see no further than a guy’s butthole. And they’re also the ones who I eventually block after they keep revisiting my profile endless times for only one reason. Don’t want the real me? Well, then, you ain’t getting the virtual me.

But I really love those humpy tops only who when they hit me up say they’d love to bottom for me.

Huh?

Then we’ve got the other end of the spectrum, the total insatiable bottom. They describe exactly what they want from you in their opening e-hit: “My side door will be unlocked. I want you to walk in, and without saying a word, come into my bedroom where I’ll be laying on my bed ass up and I want you to stick your dick in my ass and fuck me til you breed me and then you can leave.”

No foreplay, no sucking dick, no playing with my tits which are hardwired to my dick, nothing to turn me on except your hole. And a lot of these insatiable bottoms, methed up to the rafters, could lie there all night getting screwed til your dick fell off and still want more.

In fact one only wanted to be fisted – just my fist, not my dick. OK, sure.

Kinda sad, ain’t it? I mean, I realize guys and gals do a lot of things in bed, the human animal being a creative creature, but nothing can beat the diversity between two men. Tits, pits, rimming, fisting, sucking, getting sucked, stroking, bondage, toys – oh, and did I mention fucking?

Total tops and total bottoms also speak to a greater problem in this wonderful sub-culture of ours – meism. All I care about is my pleasure, not yours. Like a bottom buddy of mine from SF who when he’s in town but not supporting the gay hotel industry by freeloading with friends wants ME to pay for the bathhouse room – and his out-of-town membership – since he likes its kinky elegance so he can have MY dick up HIS ass for 45 minutes. Huh? He’s the one who needs the appendage – all I need is my hand.

So, to the myopic total tops, all I can say is, you’re passing up a lot of hot guys who would give you a ton of sexual satisfaction.

And to the insatiable total bottoms, my only advice is:

Get a broomstick!

P.S.  You know these guys who say they could fuck or get fucked all night? The typical sexual act lasts all of seventeen minutes.