My Life As A Gay Man- Getting Paid For It: Part I

My Life As A Gay Man – Getting Paid For It: Part l

Here I am, a guy who taught Sunday School as a good Lutheran and ended up on the other end of my life, after a successful professional career in the str8 world, a gay fiction writer, hustler and porn star.

Go figure.

Getting out from under the 60 hour work week grind of public relations, I finally was able to do something I had wanted to do for years – write gay fiction. Now in SoFlo, I had the time and wrote two works, one a collection of short stores, the other a novella. And I said “fuck you” to the snooty literary agents of the pre-web era and a dying publishing industry by posting my stuff as e-books on Kindle and Nook.

Rationalizing I needed to do first hand research on male prostitution for my next book, what better way to find out than be one. So, very matter of factly one night I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile on

Ah, but there were other, deeper motives for my madness. One was my attempt to fulfill a fantasy suggested by my dearly departed meth head/fuck buddy/clone Mitch, who had already been a guy for hire back in New York, that we play a Rentboy tag team for guys looking for double the trouble.

The other was my overactive ego: would someone actually pay me, an aging faggot, even if time had been kind to me, to have sex with them?

A buddy once said to me that he found it pretty pathetic that somebody had to pay for sex. But I heartedly disagree. Sure, sex can be a wonderful exchange between two people, but why can’t it also be a commodity for those willing to buy what they want, just like the newest tech toy or Abercrombie and Fitch polo? Contrary to the notion that only losers pay for sex, there are plenty of good looking guys out there, busy with high power  24/7 careers or entwined in complicated personal lives, who just choose to take the expedient route. I’ve always been an advocate for making prostitution in this country legal and get over our collective Puritanical hang-ups. Make sure the boys and girls are disease free, and tax ‘em, baby.

“Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona, trying to create a market niche distinct from all the pretty boys, and I openly admitted I was over 40 in my ad (how much over 40 I conveniently left out), but rationalized that tidbit with the tagline, “but you did say you wanted a daddy, didn’t you?”

I low bowed my hourly rate to $150 so I’d have a better chance at scoring, given the stiff competition, and made myself “out only” – their place, not mine.  Would-be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone #, and I used a Tracfone just for that so if or when I had any issue associated with my new career – as in being stalked, like I should have such problems – I could chuck the phone just like a drug dealer.

So what does it take to be a Rentboy, besides, of course, some alluring physical attributes and a lot of moxie?

(a) The ability to do it with just about anyone, and if you’re playing the top like me, you know dicks don’t lie, which I figured wouldn’t be a problem given some of the loser tricks I’ve had over the years. You just put yourself in a fantasy mode, right?

(b) A feeling of super-superiority that you’re so hot (it’s all about self-love, baby) that the guy is willing to pay you – PAY YOU – to feel your tool in his mouth or up his butt. You know what an exhilarating high that is? Better than meth.

(c) The absolute resistance to ask the guy what he looks like. Yes, you need to know what he’s looking for, but those big bills on the night stand are what are supposed to arouse you, not whether he looks like Woody Allen’s older brother.

But when a week went by after posting my ad and I got no takers, I was convinced I had pushed the envelope too far, that I was a jerk for even thinking I could pull this off at my age, with all the twenty something, thirty something porn star quality meat that was vying for that same universe of hungry, lonely men. What was I trying to do? Make the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s oldest male hooker?

Ah, but my feelings of dejection were premature. At the beginning of my second week I got a hit.

Part II Wednesday.

My Life as a Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone, Part III

My Life as a Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone, Part III

Memorial Day weekend was coming up, but while I looked forward to another all-nighter in High Land with Mitch, he had different plans –another escape to Key West and the battling lovers. But he was emphatic about connecting as soon as he got back and going to Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay beach, that coming weekend.

I believed him.

That Thursday night, Mitch sent an e-mail – his last to me – on Manhunt. I had just posted some new provocative photos on my profile to show off my hard won gym body.

“Fucken awesome pics, bro.”

The following Tuesday came and went, Wednesday, Thursday. I e-mailed him on Manhunt, called his cell, even called his other cell number he used for Rentboy. No response. I passed his address twice, looking for his little car in the front lot. No car. In my gut I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe he had had a confrontation with his warring friends or a drug dealer or a john. Maybe he had somehow O.D.’ed ….

Finally, that Thursday night driving home, slightly plastered courtesy of Alibi’s three dollar Long Island iced teas, I decided I would stop at his place and this time knock on his door.

A voice yelled out to me as I began to walk back to the guest house. It was the landlord or property manager, a tall, skinny, thirty something, pleasant enough looking guy with a faint goatee.

“Looking for Mitch?” he asked politely.

I nodded.

“You a friend of his?” the man asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mitch is dead.”

“What – what happened?” I stammered, though surprised at myself that I was not entirely stunned by the news.

“I don’t know much but from what this friend of his from New York, an ex-lover I think, Todd, told me – his number was on Mitch’s cell so the cops called him – Mitch was driving back from Key West late Monday night and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Mitch had mentioned to me more than once how he had gone without sleeping or eating for days when he was on a perpetual crack/G/jerk-off binge.

Forty-two fucken years old and he was gone.

“His – his parents know?”

“Yea, they asked me to clear out his apartment and box up his belongings but there was a lot of stuff, a leather harness, leather vest, toys, drug paraphernalia, you know, I didn’t think they should see. You’re welcome to take what you like …”

I smiled my bleak thank you, turned around and drove home, happy I was dead ass drunk, happy that I had at least learned what had happened to him, happy that the super hadn’t told me what the accident had done to that beautiful body and beautiful face.

And yes, strangely at peace knowing he hadn’t just abandoned me.

A few nights later, I responded to Mitch’s last e-mail to me on Manhunt with a “thx hot man.”

That Saturday, when I went to Sebastian, I made sure to park in space #42.  A month later, I became’s oldest toyboy. And believe it or not, my first trick, a retired dentist in town from Palm Springs, asked if I had a twin brother to play tag team with me on his butthole.

Imagine that.

Next: Getting Paid For It

My Life As A Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

My Life As A Gay Man: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

Two nights later as I canvassed the websites to see if anybody loved me, Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college and had an 8 a.m. class and Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me?

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was out of Elbow Grease and we spent the next hour rambling from all-night drug stores to a 24/7 porn shop on Dixie Highway which only had some small canisters left.

Lighting up in the car, we began another trip to Arousaland and it was that night that Mitch – or was it the G? – confessed he hadn’t enjoyed being with a man as much as he had with me in a very long time.

This time neither of us came.

As we walked out from his place to my car together an eternity later, he gestured to his new little compact Cooper sitting in the front lot that his parents had leased for their 42 year old only child. By 42, I was a vice president with quarter of a million in the bank and two houses.

“I’m a little pissed at them, though,” he whined, “I really wanted a convertible. After all, this is South Florida.”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” I said.

“Hey,” replied Mitch not at all defensive. “They made me the egocentric fuck I am today. It was always Mitchy you’re so handsome, Mitchy, you’re so great, Mitchy, you’re so smart. So why shouldn’t they get their Mitchy, their little boy, a convertible, huh?”

The cynical former New Yorker slash former public relations exec in me knew it would happen sooner or later if I continued these liaisons with a meth-head, beautiful as he was to me. Sure enough, a week later, early on a Saturday afternoon, after inviting me on line to his lair, Mitch followed my, “yea, why not,” with, “I’m out of stuff. Got any $$ so I get some for us?”

Usually, the “I’m not going to fall for this shit” side of me would have responded, “thanks but no thanks.” But, hell, I had gotten high twice on his dime so, I rationalized, I owed him, right? I left the hundred bucks in twenties in my mailbox while he went to meet his dealer in Miami and I took a nap. Our plan was to rendezvous around 9. When I didn’t hear from him by ten I figured I had been taken but decided to call him anyway.

“Sorry, he wasn’t ready with the shit,” Mitch explained, all apologetic. “I’ll be over at your place by 11. Promise.”

Now, call me paranoid, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable about letting a confirmed druggie know where I lived but I had been getting increasingly claustrophobic about his place. Besides, he didn’t want me to use Crisco when I fist fucked him on his air mattress since he claimed it smelled up his humble abode. My house, with central air, eliminated that logistical problem.

Mitch made good on his promise and we spent the night and most of the next day in Druggie Heaven. And the Crisco helped me go in deeper, so that by the end of that night Mitch had become a full-fledged fistee graduate.

While I instructed my lawn man that morning about some new palm tree plantings, Mitch catnapped. But I noticed that when all the stuff we had been taking wore off, my usually very animated and boisterous stud, my butch Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in his cord, became very quiet and subdued, almost shy.

“My generation needs drugs to have sex,” he explained. His observation made me feel old and superior all in the same moment. And when later he was leaving and asked if I wanted to keep what crystal was left – “after all, you paid for it,” – and I told him no, he was surprised.

“You mean you don’t need all this shit?”

“No,” I repeated, very matter of factly.

“You know something,” he said, grinning. “I admire you.”

I didn’t hear from Mitch again for over a week and figured that was that. Maybe he was disappointed that his hypnotic hold on me had not quite succeeded as he had hoped. Translation: transform me into a crackhead fuckbuddy just like him. Then, one o’clock one night, out of the blue, he called, explaining he had taken advantage of a freebie in Key West, courtesy of a couple he had known from his NYC days who had fought most of the weekend but kept him amply supplied in stuff. He wanted to see me, said he missed me, and could I come over now?

His hair was a mess. Apparently he had tried to buzz cut himself but with no second mirror the back of his head still had uneven blotches of hair, making him look like a cross between a slightly deranged, homeless guy and an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. I pulled out his Oster and evened things out. Even then, just touching his head, my dick sprung to attention.

So how’s the Census job working out?” I asked.

“Oh, I gave that up – too much bullshit for too little dough. I’m on now,” and he proceeded to pull up his ad.

“Italian Stallion?” I asked as I scanned it. “OK, but why are using Larry? That sounds so Brooklyn Jew. Why not Vito or Tony or Joey or something?”

“The name Larry worked for me back in New York,” he gloated. Then he opened his bureau and, reaching for his wallet, flashed a seemingly endless sea of bills.

“I could make a lot more back in NYC but there’s also a lot more competition. And hell, eight hundred bucks for one night ain’t bad, huh?”

We lit up again.

“You know,” he continued to ponder in one of his rare, less erratic moments, “I bet we could sell ourselves as a tag team and make some serious dough. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there looking for a dynamic duo like us. Hell, we could pass ourselves off as brothers. Shit, now that would be some gimmick.”

All I kept thinking was how I would make the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest guy to have the balls to attempt to sell his bod on Rentboy.

“Yea, but aren’t most of these guys looking to get fucked? I mean, how can you perform if you’re …?”

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

“Oh, I’m a total top to my johns but I tell them that, after all, I am 42 and sometimes the Snake ain’t up for biting, and they’re content to get fingered fucked or have me shove a dildo up their ass just as long as I’m the one doin’ the shovin’ and they can feel all this fur of mine against them.”

He stroked himself, then seamlessly moved his hand ever so lightly up my abs to my chest and looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I know we could be a winning team.”

A few days later a far more frantic Mitch called me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he pleaded. “Can you loan me $50 so I can get to my parents? They’ll give me some dough once I’m up there and I’ll pay you right back.”

“But what happened to all that money you showed me the other night?”

“Ah, those fuckin’ Indians stole it all,” referring to the poker tables at the casino the Seminole Indians ran in Hollywood, “and my last two johns were no-shows.”

Suddenly the Daddy in me creped out.

“But Mitch, you gotta get your shit together. You’re an intelligent adult. You know that.”

“I know, I know – I will…” he replied, more to pacify me than attempt any moment of self-realization. “You’re beginning to sound like my father who keeps telling me to check out Gamblers Anonymous.”

I stuck twenty dollars in the mailbox, enough to fill the tank of his compact, and woke up to the reality that he was beyond redemption. That was about the only reason why I hadn’t fallen in love with him I kept telling myself, right?

I was just about ready to leave for L.A. Fitness the following afternoon when Mitch, unannounced, showed up in my driveway.

I told you I’d pay you back,” he said, laying the twenty dollar bill on my kitchen counter.

I never did get to the gym that day.

More on Friday…

My Memorial Day Weekend Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part I

My Memorial Day Weekend Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part I

I only knew Mitch a few weeks out of my petty life but I know I will never forget him. In fact, I think of him more times without thinking than I wish I did. And it’s been eight years come this Memorial Day weekend that he left me for good.

One Saturday night at 2606, the now defunct leather bar in Tampa, I was stalked by a dissipated, bloated guy, probably younger than me. I tried to be polite with some non-committal small talk but each time I delicately got some distance between us, he popped up again to leer. Finally, inevitably, he went in for the kill.

“So buddy, what exactly are you waiting for?” he asked in a guttural, butchy tone.

Without hesitating, I blurted straight out: “Me.”

Well, Mitch, my sturdy little furry New York City Jew boy, was the closest “me” I think I’ll ever meet in my life.

I don’t quite remember who came on to whom on Manhunt that late Tuesday night, but there was no doubt his rough-hewn bearded face and naturally muscular, slightly stocky hairy body donned only in 501’s and a profile that emphasized, “looking for older, masculine hairy guys only – facial hair a must” caught the attention of my dick. That and the fact that, despite measurements that read “9 inches,” his screen name was “beefyhairybottom.”

I mapquest his address to a non-descript house off dingy 13th Street just a few blocks from Lauderdale’s leather hangout, the Ramrod, and drove over. Wishing to make a good first impression, I threw my tank top on my car seat and followed his instructions to walk to the rear to a small dilapidated guest house. I knocked on the splintered wooden door.

“Who is it?” shouted out a deep voice with that distinct New Yorkeese accent I knew so well, having spoken it myself most of my years.

I announced myself.

“It’s open,” he shouted back.

I walked through the foyer, if you could call the three feet that separated the door from the rest of his space a foyer, and parted the plastic shower curtains.

There he stood, naked except for a pair of leather boots, designer boots he would tell me later, a relic from his fat cat Manhattan days, holding a mini- blow torch of a butane lighter beneath the end of a glass pipe. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out just as quickly, then reached out and carefully handed it to me. He had said nothing about partying either in his profile or in our e-mails but I grabbed onto it anyway. Our eyes – both cat eyes, green but with a flash of blue in the right light – met as I clutched the pipe tightly so not to drop it while he held the lighter beneath the bowl end and gestured for me to gently shift it back and forth.

“Suck it in but don’t hold it – the shit can crystallize in your lungs,” he cautioned, still staring into my soul. “Not a good thing.”

I dropped my shorts and stood naked, our faint six pack abs almost touching.

“Leave your boots on,” he whispered. “I like that.”

Except for the fact he was a bit taller than me at 5 foot eight and younger, I could have been staring at myself in the mirror. Buzzed cut, balding, scruffy beard, broad hairy shoulders, tight muscular arms, hairy chest and abs, thick thighs and calves, again all covered in fur, he was the idealization of manhood in my mind.

My brother.

My clone.

Even though he was Jewish and I was a Lutheran, we were both, I learned later, Slovak/Russian mutts with that hint of Mongolian in the slant of our eyes. We had the kind of bodies my so-called friends would chide me were made to lay down railroad ties until I retorted I made three times the money they did.

About the only obvious difference besides age was Mitch’s huge fat cock (versus my more conventional six and a half) and his super erratic behavior. He was jumping around and rambling on as if someone had shot a tube of Ben Gay up his beautifully furry, manly butt.

“You want another hit?” he asked.

I never searched out for the stuff but if a trick had some to share, well…

“Yea, but I want Mr. Peter to cooperate,” I replied, grabbing my semi-erect cock. “You know junk and hard dicks are alien enemies.”

“Don’t worry. I got Viagra. Want one?”

I had already taken 100 mgs, figuring I had to be up and ready to fuck the shit out of him, but accepted the generosity of this beautiful stranger and popped another. I wanted to make damn well sure I would keep “beefyhairybottom” happy.

His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before. Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.

Throughout all our carousing and stroking and kissing and licking one another’s armpits and sweaty matted bodies, Mitch continued to babble on almost incoherently, not so much because of the junk streaming through his veins but, as he admitted, because he suffered attention affective disorder and didn’t take his meds for fear they would fuck up his high. Yet despite his ungrammatical soundbites, I learned a lot that first night about my clone.

That he was 42, had grown up in Westchester – read comfortable – a graduate of NYU, with a CPA’s license he had never used, how his parents were snowbirds with a place in West Palm, and how he had avoided working at a real job like the plague while somehow living the highlife in a beautiful Chelsea duplex. He proudly pointed to the framed page hanging on his wall from New York magazine circa 1989 crowning him one of New York’s sexiest men (“I know had a lot more hair then, but I still look good, huh?”) and gloated how he had gone from one successful business venture to the next, his last selling designer sunglasses on line netting him an incredible $25,000 a month which, when he wasn’t smoking it away, he lost on the poker tables of Atlantic City. Bottom line: he had come down to South Florida with $300 to his name to be near mommy and daddy and their wallets, and where he could live cheap, as exemplified by his $500 a month apartment, the size of my walk-in closet, that, despite the hole in the wall, he prided himself in finding.

As far as men went, he liked them about his height (“tall guys are goofy looking – most of the porn stars are short like us, anyway”), hairy, with facial hair, and in-shape bods. It was as if he were reciting my own private wet dream. He tapped my hard earned six pack, then his own. “It has less to do with the gym than with genes, believe me,” he concluded smugly.

As predicted, Mr. Peter was rather shy that night, though I did succeed in fucking Mitch for awhile before my hard-on succumbed to the stuff. But it almost didn’t matter. We rolled around in our mutual sweat, mouthing our pretty but pretty useless genitals when we weren’t yanking on them like two adolescent boys exploring their puberty dicks.

Then came my moment of inspiration.

“You ever get fisted?” I asked, eyeing his toy box to the side of the bed with its eclectic collection of dildos and not wanting to disappoint that hairy, manly butt of his.

“Once, back in New York, but the guy was too rough, didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Well,” I boasted, holding up my right hand, “a cast of this hand is in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame.”

With that, as he lay there facing me, I gently entered him, and we were both elevated to a new level of Endless Ecstasy. In the past, I had found fisting a guy as exciting as doing my laundry but it was different with Mitch. As he groaned and gyrated on the bed and I slowly went ever deeper, we became one.

Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.

In the end, what I thought would be a 47 minute quickie turned out to be an all-nighter. With the heavy shades drawn on his single window, it was hard to tell morning had arrived, whether we liked it or not. My sole focus now was to get off, but with all the shit I had smoked and slugged down, it seemed a miracle to get my dick up enough to finally squirt, stroking the heavy fur on Mitch’s chest and abs as my erotica while he faded into blissful oblivion. Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.

“You are one beautiful man,” I said, scanning him slowly from head to toe, never expecting to see him again. He smiled faintly, turned over and fell almost instantly to sleep as I walked out.

Part II, tomorrow.

My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part II

My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part II

No, I wasn’t one of those urban fags that knew legions of buddies who died of a disease that ironically disfigured men so obsessed with their looks and physical being. But I do remember Bobbie Rosenberg who lived on the Upper East Side in an old walk-up, a relic of the turn-of the-last-century days when immigrants crowded what were then considered tenements. We had met at Uncle Charlie’s, a local bar, played around one night, then morphed into Saturday night bar hopping buddies. While I watched the clock, and wondered what the traffic would be like in the Lincoln Tunnel since I was still living at home at the time in Jersey, Bobbie, moonfaced, stoop-shouldered Bobbie, knew exactly what to do to get a man to come back with him.

I was fucken jealous and rationalized that the guys were so horny they’d fuck their cat by that point.

Bobbie also had the not-so-coveted knack of contracting the Disease of the Month which didn’t bother him at all; in fact, he’d often brag to me about what exotica he had caught getting fucked. Amoebas were my favorite.

December 31, 1979, Bobbie hosted a New Year’s Eve Party in his tiny apartment and invited George and I. I remember watching Dave Clark who had that gay icon group, “The Village People” on. They sang some song extolling the upcoming new decade and the buzz among us gay guys was that the ‘80’s were to be OUR time. Had we known what was ahead, we would have dumped our poppers down the toilet and joined a seminary. Looking back, though I know it wasn’t true, AIDS seemed like some Biblical retribution for the Sodom and Gomorrah ‘70’s.

I lost touch with Bobbie soon after that (George was never a fan of his – “he’s a pig”), and I often wondered if Bobbie had been swept away in the First Wave of the AIDS genocide that hit soon after.

So yes, I should have known better. Plus, I’m an educated professional with two degrees, and worked in healthcare most of my career. And even with the cocktail, guys still suffer vestiges of the disease or side effects from the heavy duty drugs they’re forced to take in the form of blown out joints, dementia, liver failure, haggard faces that require fillers to compensate, and wilted bodies unless they juice up.

Yet since James, who remained the best fuck of my life for many years, I prefer, no, hell, will only fuck bareback unless the guy is super-hot and not wearing a sleeve is a deal breaker.

When I went for my first HIV test and had to wait a week for the results, I was convinced, even though I never bottomed, I would be positive and was ready to accept that reality since I was an adult male who knew exactly what he was dealing with, not some poor weepy victim, a role so many guys I’d meet took on who played with fire after 1985 when it was clear you didn’t get it from a toilet seat or a bad bottle of poppers. But each time I’ve been tested, I come up negative, and even my gay doc subscribes to the theory that some guys – maybe a very small number of us – are just immune.

Or maybe just lucky.

And you know what they say about luck.

As I was fucking James that first time I glanced over to the wall to the side of his bed where a diploma from the University of Chicago hung.

He later explained how his father, a corporate attorney, and his mother, a psychologist, had wanted him to go into medicine. He certainly had the smarts. But not the ambition, and in his junior year he switched to Music.

“Playing?” I asked.

“Well I play gigs when I can, but my heart is in composing.”

Then he took me by my hand and led me to a side corner off the bathroom where a tower of computer equipment and a keyboard glowed in the shadows.

“Let me show you,” and he brought up on the pc screen a song he had written and began playing it. I couldn’t resist leaning my chest and abs against his back and butt as he fiddled around with all those keys and knobs.

Five minutes later, we were fucking all over again.

Thinking back to James today, I think he became for me emblematic of so many guys down here in Lauderdale. Guys in their fifties, forties, even thirties, most of them poz, who did little with their lives, made sex and partying, with or without Tina, their career, and now lived on the dole – Social Security Disability, food stamps, subsidized rents – coupled with odd, “under the table” jobs, without a thought  for tomorrow.

Great fucks like James, iconic specimens of manhood that almost any gay man or str8 woman would give their right ball or right tit to have, but propped up like a glitzy Hollywood set, peeling away on the other side from dry rot.

I fucked James two more times.  On the third and last time, he surprised me by having some smooth fuck buddy over who wanted to watch two furry guys go at it. When James saw my arousal fading, the guy consented to leave. But 15 minutes after getting back up James’ butt, he had a sudden spell of diarrhea, a side effect of his meds, and shit all over the bed. And my dick. He apologized profusely. I quick took a shower and left.

Since then, James has hit me up every couple of months on Manhunt, but even when I’m in the mood to respond, “OK let’s do it,” he never takes it to that next step. The last time I saw him was the Holiest of Holy Gay Holidays, Halloween, when the main drag in Wilton Manors, Lauderdale’s gay ghetto, is transformed into a block party. Being kinda tame, I dressed up in my harness and jeans, ah, but James, solo, was strutting down the street in his signature outfit – boots and a jockstrap. Did he get attention? Was he desired? Was he hit on?

What do you think?

And as he passed me by and gave me a butchy “hey” wave, I turned around.

Yep. He still had it.

The perfect man’s butt.

Next week: Mitch, my brother, my clone.

FB: Will You Get Your Priorities Straight Already?

FB: Will You Get Your Priorities Straight Already?

I’m sure a number of you have spent time in Facebook prison for posting what the FB convent nuns considered “inappropriate” based on their definition of “community standards.” Like the time l got locked up for two weeks for showing too much bulge in my speedos, or 30 days and the threat of possible banishment to the World of the FB Deprived because they claimed the shadow of my penis was showing through my shorts

And when l wanted to spend money on FB advertising to promote one of my works of gay erotic romance, “Buy Guys,” using the cover art depicting my two protagonists, bare chested, l was told the art was unacceptable under FB’s advertising standards.

Fuck ‘em.

With the web and sex all over the place, today’s kids know more about all that deliciously nasty stuff at ten than l did at 21.

Meanwhile, under duress, FB finally handed over to a congressional investigation committee looking into Russia’s meddling in our last Presidential election over 3000 ads and links to pages posted and paid for by Russian web mongers probably backed by Putin to bad mouth Clinton and the Dems and sway the results to the court jester we now have in the White House.

Isn’t it pretty obvious they got their priorities screwed up? Or maybe they don’t.  All that advertising revenue to usurp our democracy is  all right. Letting some poor sex starved guy in Great Falls, Montana, get a boner looking at my shadowy penis is a sin.


My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part I

My Life As a Gay Man: Lauderdale James, Part I

Like I said before, men of the Club Med countries like Italy, Greece and Spain are on the top of my hit parade, and when I think of all the hairy Italian hotties, str8, bi, or in-between, that I could have wooed on the web which was just getting hot in my final years living on Staten Island, the most Italian-American county in the U.S., I want to either go postal or on a masturbation marathon.

But I really didn’t get hooked on the hook-up sites til I got down to SoFlo and had more time on my hands where I played the sites, in between marking papers, like a day trader. These early years were fun for an exhibitionist like me who loved to have it all hang out in my profile pics and chuckled as my profile became some guys’ own private porn site. The adoration from men – hot or not – from Des Moines to Dubai fed my fragile ego like a drug.

Today, the web has morphed into safe haven for chatty Cathys who think if they small talk with a hottie somehow they’ve made him in their wet dreams, or for mindfuckers, game players, and pseudo-personas who dirty talk and edge you up but have no intentions of pressing the flesh. But as the bars went from cruisy to social and the baths aged into God’s waiting rooms, the web, and its children, the smartphone apps, became and remain, for all their fucked-up-ness, my main source for sex. Sex clubs like my local Slammers were OK for efficient, drive-by, 7-11 style sucking and fucking, but I always preferred a bed under me where, with the right guy, you could feel some affinity, even if it was for only 42 uncivilized minutes.

James was one of the first guys I connected with on the web in SoFlo though, if the true be told, I really considered him something of a hybrid pick-up. You see, we had eyed one another a number of times on Leather nights at the local bath house. But the evenings usually played out like the altar doors in the Russian Orthodox Church where my mother’s mother’s funeral mass was held, the priest donned in robes and a crown, entering one door then disappearing into another. Either I was “occupied” when James was roaming the halls, or vs. versa.

Then one afternoon, he hit up on Manhunt with a poetic line straight out of Shakespeare. That is, if Shakespeare had penned porn.

“Hey fuzzy, wanna fuck my furry butt?”

A half hour after James hit me up on Manhunt, I was at his place, a non-descript studio apartment hidden away on one of those dead end streets off the beach.

Now the best way to describe James – it was always James, never, never Jim – was to compare him to the bronze statue of Zeus that stands in the lobby of the U.N. He wasn’t super tall – maybe 5-10 at most – but, at 45, was well defined, built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something, tanned and furry all over, with short cropped hair and a thick beard, and a cut cock that hung half way down his solid thighs. He was masculine without being over the top, articulate without sounding nerdy, personable without being pushy.

The perfect butch fuck.

He met me at the door of his place clad in the same yellowed jockstrap and high laced boots I’d seen him at the baths. His bike, I learned later his only mode of transportation since he couldn’t afford a car, was leaning against his stove.

“So where did you get all that fur?” I asked, running my hands across his chest as I stripped off my running shorts, the only thing I had on besides my sneaks.

“From my mother,” he answered. He had a funny kind of laugh, round tones and all, stagey like, like one of those laugh tracks on TV. “She’s from Argentina, Spanish and Italian blood. My grandfather and uncle are gorillas.”

“And that bod? All man…”

“You should have seen me six months ago, I was wasting away.” He handed me a bottle of Poland Springs from the frig. “Then the clinic changed my meds, and started me on testosterone and HGH, human growth hormone – that made all the difference.”

It was then I realized I was playing with fire with my first openly poz guy.

Not that I hadn’t played before with men I knew were HIV-positive. I distinctly remember one while I was on vacation – alone as usual – who I had picked up in one of the bars in Houston’s Montrose gay ghetto, a tall, balding, non-descript looking guy with a hairy swimmers build bod and clipped mustache who was OK with oral sex. Maybe because he knew it would be easier to get. It was the mid 80’s, even ATZ wasn’t on the horizon yet, and after we played, Herb took a dozen eggs out of his frig, and separated the whites from the yolks  which he then chucked down with some OJ. He was insistent that this newest craze in self-medication for AIDS was helping him. I never met him again so I’ll never know.

And then there were guys, mostly at the baths, who wanted me to fuck them, some with condoms, some without. We’d exchange statuses quickly – of course neg/neg – but I hated the condoms; putting them on mid-stream was like some porn director yelling to the two hotties fucking away, “Hold it, we gotta change the camera angle.” The “go with the flow” spontaneity of man-to-man sex that made it lustful and wicked went out the window for me, often along with my hard-on. Plus the sensation for me just wasn’t there. Hell, a so-so blow job was a hundred times better.

But now, living here in Fort Lauderdale, with one of the highest HIV rates in the country, standing here in James’ humble abode, I was facing one of the most manly furry butts in my gay career – the butt of a poz guy – that wanted my cock raw. He claimed the virus was almost “undetectable.” And, after all, he looked great.

Greater than great.

So I fucked him.


First slow and deep, doggy style, then facing me, quick and hard, pounding his butt ever faster on my cock til we both shot almost simultaneously. I collapsed on top of him, our super hairy bodies bonded with a thick, warm layer of sweat.

More Friday…