Welcome to Amerika, Where Censorship is Alive and Well

Welcome to Amerika, Where Censorship is Alive and Well

A few years ago, ATT, my smartphone carrier, made me an offer l couldn’t refuse. I could get a tablet from them for ninety-nine cents, have a larger data plan and actually pay less than l did with the plan l currently had.

Sounds like a no brainer, right?  Well it was except for one bump in the road. When l activated my tablet, Yahoo, the built-in search engine, wouldn’t allow me to open any sites that even smelled of sex: no hook up sites, not even my own blog that had the word  ”gay” in its web address. I tried to remove the parental controls but couldn’t. Neither could the ATT rep who suggested l switch to Google which l did. But as l wrote in the blog at the time about my experience, who the fuck is Yahoo to censor what l pull up.

Well, get ready for censorship like this country hasn’t seen since wartime – and long before the World Wide Web – when restricting info D.C. claimed was for our protection.

A few weeks ago, the Federal Communications Commission that controls all media in this country like God controls the weather, did away with the Net Neutrality Act adopted when the web was born a generation ago and essentially prohibited carriers from censoring content. Now with that reg history, these carriers can do anything they please, including slowing down or plain blocking sites they deem inappropriate which means we could all end up like l did the day l tried to pull up sexual content on my new tablet.

And would it just stop there or place in cyber purgatory any liberal-minded site that was contrary to what the current regime wanted us to see?

Coupled with that is an edict ordered by Trump’s jesters government that the Centers of Disease Control, one of the primer research bodies in the world, can no longer use words and phrases in documents that even imply forward, progressive thought. Words like fetus, transgender, or science/evidence based research which some say will set research pursuits back decades. Information sites relating to the LGBT community have also be quietly mothballed.

Who knows? In the not-too-distant future our communications may mirror the puritanical code adopted by Hollywood in the thirties and carried over to television that prohibited the word “pregnant” to be used in the I Love Lucy show back more than half a century ago when Lucy was carrying Little Ricky.  I guess everybody was supposed to think Lucy ate too many of those chocolates when she worked at the candy factory.

Happy 2018 – I think. Back here next Wednesday.

My Totally Unconventional, Completely Fucked Up (in A Nice Way) Christmas

My Totally Unconventional, Completely Fucked Up (in A Nice Way) Christmas

I knew l would be spending this Christmas weekend alone – just me and my doggies – and loved the idea. What family l had left, my sister, her husband and grown kids, were back on Long Island, and my ex, George at our home in PA had repeatedly rejected my offers to come down here to my Fort Lauderdale home for the winter. Do you think our super fight the last winter he came down two years ago which almost ended up in one of us landing in jail and the other in the morgue had anything to do with it?

Plus, why the hell would l abandon my sub-tropical surroundings for Ice Locker Snow Country?

Fuck that!

But, you think, what about all those hot fuck buddies you keep bragging about, Ray?

Well, A, my fifty something clone was tied up with a female house guest and long-time friend, in from Montreal; B, my 43 year old black Irish lover, who said he couldn’t live without me, was on vacation on the Left Coast with his hubby; Lover C, my 36 year old Latin stallion who said he would do anything for me and who l introduced to fist fucking, was visiting his folks in Venezuela; and Lover D, my 54 year old cutie who looks 35 and has an emotional maturity of a 17 year old, would be with his brother.

That is until Lover D found out three of his brother’s kids from two failed marriages would be visiting their tiny apartment. The last time they came over, they ransacked D’s room unannounced, went into a bag, pulled out a dildo, pranced up to him and asked, “What’s this Uncle?”

Pleading with me to take him in, Lover D was hard to say no to, considering he was the best cocksucker l had ever met in my 48 year professional career as a gay man. One time, he would have broken the Guinness Book of Records, if there was a category for the longest cocksucking session ever.

Ten hours straight. Scout’s honor.

I was also playing his mentor of sorts. as he tried to get his life back in order (probably for the fifth time) and find a job so he could afford his own place. I had taught resume writing during my years as a part-time adjunct professor at one of the leading universities in South Florida, and he brought his last resume for me to look at.

Okay, so D comes over Friday afternoon, we enjoy some horse play in my pool and he, or l should say his mouth, is just warming up when who texts me but Lover A, my clone and who could have been the love of my life if we had met at a different time in our individual lives, but was no longer relationship material, and who had told me he was going to play celibate while his girlfriend was staying with him. Who knows, maybe she had a boyfriend or girlfriend of her own in town, but Lover A, who was notorious for hitting me up last minute,  suddenly had the opportunity for some nookie, and texted me his very familiar line, “Wanna be bad?”

Now, l had invited D one time to suck both of us off and wasn’t happy when A was showing a little too much interest in D, but l two choices now: tell A l was preoccupied, knowing l might not see him again for weeks because of Girlfriend, or tell D that the show was over and to get the fuck out.

Not happy with either option, and with D’s consent, l said yes to A, and for a few hours we had a very amicable threesome. And when A who had gotten more affectionate over summer  while l was away with my ex at our home in PA, asked for more alone time with me, D very graciously complied and retreated to my other bedroom and watched porn. A few hours later, while A and l made some of the most passionate love in our two year relationship, D returned with some bondage positions he’d like to try on the two of us “hot daddies.”

Fortunately, Home Depot was already closed.

By 2 – a.m. –  A had played-out our ritual dance.and left, and by 4 D, after some more of his favorite past time, edging my cock, got me off, we both grabbed a few hours of sleep.

Saturday, however, instead of being a timeout, brought up the curtain on Act 2 with D reviving my cock and gjving me another award winning blow job.

I guess reviewing his resume will have to wait.

But not on New Years. C, my furry Latin stallion, will be back from his visit to his native country, Venezuela, and he claims ready for daddy, or maybe a new guy who l met a couple of weeks ago, a fifty three year landscaper with a tight furry bod from Philly who’s snowbirding for the winter and who agrees is my long lost twin, may be the one by my side sipping champagne when the clock strikes midnight 2018.

With a Christmas weekend like that, who needs Santa Claus?

One thing though: I thought retirement was all about playing golf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why I Hate The Holidays

Why I Hate The Holidays

Don’t you love all that warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides this time of year? You know, the stereotypical family around the table (with a few blacks or Asians or even gay marrieds  – or maybe a transgendered aunt, huh? – to be politically correct), carving the turkey or ham or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, the latest iphone, xbox, or luxury car.

Why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers at least me is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that. Sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on scotch or cheap wine or brandy. For many years, my sister and I were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas.

I did my master’s degree at the University of California in L.A. and was perplexed how, around the holidays, all the North Eastern traditions, not Latin American since we were so close to the border immersed in balmy weather, dominated the season. I felt the same way when I came down to South Florida to find Christmas trees under tents so they wouldn’t dry up under the 80 degree sun. But now I realize why – people want to return to the Christamases of their youths and for so many of us the East Coast or Snowbelt was home.

But after some moments of bittersweet nostalgia, the other, less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind, and suddenly my mythical holidays vanish. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. And every time we’d go to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mom’s slightly bent younger sister would jokingly coax grandma’s two boxers to “sic ‘em, sic ‘em!” Meaning us.

Worse, living with my psychiatrically unstable mother, gone now twelve years, who usually hosted the holiday family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. We’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father, dead 24 years, (you had to be a saint to live with my Mother) making nice with everyone, when Mom’s sister would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo!

I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet.

Well, everyone’s dead and buried, and my sister’s back in New York with her hubby, grown kids and grand kids, and George, my ex, said he won’t be down for the holidays either even though I was willing to pay for his plane fare. Instead he’ll be all warm and cozy up at our home in PA that I still pay half the mortgage on. (Yes, he got the better end of the deal.) And he always has his adult nephew just across the border in Upstate New York who most likely will invite him over and George, Mr. Anti-Social, will most likely decline.

Me? I may go out with my neighbor and her mother for dinner though they’re Jewish, or just stay home with my doggies, quite content with my microwave dinner and some Pumpkin pie I can pig out on.

Merry Christmas, Raymond, Merry Fucken Christmas to you.

By the way, Jesus was born in August. The apostles, the best PR guys in history, moved the observance of his birth to coincide with an ancient pagan winter festival so that people could buy into this new Jewish cult called Christianity.

Yes, guys and gals, Christmas was bullshit right from the beginning.

Some things never change.

Why I Hate The Holidays

Why I Hate The Holidays

Don’t you love all that warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides this time of year? You know, the stereotypical family around the table (with a few blacks or Asians or even gay marrieds  – or maybe a transgendered aunt, huh? – to be politically correct), carving the turkey or ham or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, the latest iphone, xbox, or luxury car.

Why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers at least me is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that. Sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on scotch or cheap wine or brandy. For many years, my sister and I were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas.

I did my master’s degree at the University of California in L.A. and was perplexed how, around the holidays, all the North Eastern traditions, not Latin American since we were so close to the border immersed in balmy weather, dominated the season. I felt the same way when I came down to South Florida to find Christmas trees under tents so they wouldn’t dry up under the 80 degree sun. But now I realize why – people want to return to the Christamases of their youths and for so many of us the East Coast or Snowbelt was home.

But after some moments of bittersweet nostalgia, the other, less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind, and suddenly my mythical holidays vanish. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. And every time we’d go to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side, Mom’s slightly bent younger sister would jokingly coax grandma’s two boxers to “sic ‘em, sic ‘em!” Meaning us.

Worse, living with my psychiatrically unstable mother, gone now twelve years, who usually hosted the holiday family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. We’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father, dead 24 years, (you had to be a saint to live with my Mother) making nice with everyone, when Mom’s sister would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo!

I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet.

Well, everyone’s dead and buried, and my sister’s back in New York with her hubby, grown kids and grand kids, and George, my ex, said he won’t be down for the holidays either even though I was willing to pay for his plane fare. Instead he’ll be all warm and cozy up at our home in PA that I still pay half the mortgage on. (Yes, he got the better end of the deal.) And he always has his adult nephew just across the border in Upstate New York who most likely will invite him over and George, Mr. Anti-Social, will most likely decline.

Me? I may go out with my neighbor and her mother for dinner though they’re Jewish, or just stay home with my doggies, quite content with my microwave dinner and some Pumpkin pie I can pig out on.

Merry Christmas, Raymond, Merry Fucken Christmas to you.

By the way, Jesus was born in August. The apostles, the best PR guys in history, moved the observance of his birth to coincide with an ancient pagan winter festival so that people could buy into this new Jewish cult called Christianity.

Yes, guys and gals, Christmas was bullshit right from the beginning.

Some things never change.

My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

My Life As a Gay Man: Derek – III

It was supposed to be my last fuckfest before my departure for the summer to the vacation home in PA’s Poconos George and I had owned since our New York days. My beach buddies jokingly referred to my PA hideaway as the Betty Ford Clinic for Recovering But Unredeemable Lauderdale Sex Addicts and they were right: no bars to speak of, no sex clubs, no book stores or truck stops, and tricks on the web or phone apps were scarcer than coke at the end of the Winter Party.

So, having had two super star guys in just the last few weeks, Derek, and Brent, an ex-military, lightly muscular, lightly fuzzy fiftyish hump and a versatile bottom who had been trying to connect with Derek himself, my solution to the happy dilemma was to have a threesome at my place where I would underwrite the party favors – shots in the dick included. After all, both of them had been product-tested by me (I had even given one another great references when I played with them separately), and if I ended up on the sidelines watching them, shall we say, get acquainted, having two naked hunks in my bedroom with me, all of us high on smack, and with three dicks as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar – what more of a send-off to Nowhere, PA, could a boy want?

Brent arrived a few minutes early but I could see by the grin on his face when Derek came in that I deserved a finder’s fee. We dispensed with the pharmacological segment of the night by 10:30 (though their chat about their respective, repeated stays in drug rehab bothered me) and soon after we were immersed in undoubtedly the hottest threesome I ever experienced in my gay career. More times than not, I’ve been the sex toy to rekindle a stale relationship; in others, I’m the star as I play with one guy as the other plays voyeur. But this Friday night and this threesome were from a different planet. We were into one another almost equally, me tonguing Derek’s butt hole while he sucked Brent’s eight incher, or Brent fucking Derek while I fucked Brent. Hell, once, Brent and I had both our cocks up Billy’s butthole at the same time, a very first for even this jaded, around-the-block-a-few-times fag. We were in lust, incredible, utter lust in one another and it showed.

About the only bizarre thing that night – at least up to that point – was the nature of our conversations. Other guys in these strange Kama Sutra positions would be spitting out four letter words like a Porn Film Script Writing 101 thesis, but instead we chatted on in smack-speed-talk about the last political gaff or what was on sale at Target, all while we were eating dick and fucking ass in the most delectably decadent ways.

After going at for over three hours, Derek declared he was hungry (slamming totally killed my appetite for days,  somethimg l called the Tina fuck diet) and while I went at my third round fucking Brent, Derek left the room to order pizza. The delivery guy either took no notice to Billy answering the door in his jockstrap, after all this was Lauderdale, or was too homely to invite in. We soon were munching our slices of extra cheese and guzzling down Coke in my kitchen, our three hard cocks waiting to be served when both of them almost on cue announced they were done for the night. Brent said he was bushed, Derek that he would be semi-officiating the following afternoon at a Celebration of Life memorial open house for a 75 year old close friend of his named Tom, who had died just the week before of lung cancer, at the old man’s Coral Ridge– smell money – home. He even invited both Brent and I to come: “The Alibi will be catering and they’ll be an open bar.” And so at 2 am I was alone, two slices of stale pizza sitting on my stove, still horny.

And still hard.

Cynical me thought that they were actually planning a rendezvous that night to continue the evening’s fuckfest as a dynamic twosomee ( l found out later they hadn’t) but if so, so what? I had had my fun and my money’s worth even if it meant scouring the hook-up sites in the middle of the night to find one last ass to fuck before Mr. Peter thankfully called it a night.

I hit up over a dozen guys who were online and supposedly “looking,” but no takers. It was a Friday night, damn it, so were my hunches about the web correct, and most of these guys just on to dirty talk and j-o? I finally nailed a 39 year smooth Latin who was in Miami but wanted his Daddy bad.  “OK if I party?” he asked on his next to last email to me before hitting the road.  “NP” was the understatement of the night from me who was still flying high, real high.

His profile said ,42, his pics said cute, but the reality that walked into my house at close to 4 a.m. was closer to 50, tired and loose. But no matter. After I had had the best of Lauderdale, even God would have looked like an also-ran.

At first Meeko really sounded like he was into it and my hard dick big time. (Gee, drugs will do that to ya, won’t they?) And we went at it for well over an hour. Not able to get off fucking him, I asked if he could suck me off to which he obligingly lay back and worked my dick tenderly with his mouth.  But I was beginning to get worried. I had remembered earlier how Brent had complained his dick hurt if I bent it at a certain angle, and now my dick was beginning to ache – bad. Derek had given us the shots in our dicks around 10:30 which meant they should have worn off (as they had my last two times I had done the needle with Derek by 4. But here it was almost 6 and my cock remained as hard as a thirteen year adolescent boy’s.

Something was wrong.

Realizing all the mouth action in the world wouldn’t get me off, I told Meeko very nicely that I had had it for the night. But instead of taking the cue to leave like most tricks would, he suddenly switched on some persecution complex, complaining how he had treated me right, had come all the way from Miami – high – and how I was an ungrateful bastard to reject him like this. He who just a year before had had major surgery for colon cancer (Now, that explained the Frankenstein scars across his abdomen – but he still liked to get fucked – odd, huh?).  All my pleas that it wasn’t him, it was me, went nowhere. I had only wanted a hole, not a live demo on psychoses. But I realized it was better to say nothing – why throw gasoline on the fire like bringing up his 20 year profile pics  – and finally, finally, he collected his things and left, continuing to mutter to the door what a real fuck I was underneath my cool veneer.

I played with myself another hour, watching x-tube til I came, but my erection remained unabated. I remembered when I had left Derek’s place last time how he had mentioned Benadryl was good at bringing the hard-on down, and in fact had given me two for the road. But I had no Benadryl in the house and instead devoured what cold med tabs I had lying around. I waited a half hour and when nothing changed I called a buddy of mine around 8. He knew all about what I had planned for Friday night. After all, what’s the point of having a threesome if you can’t brag about it to your friends?

“You got any Benadryl?” I asked when Sam picked up the phone.

“No, why?” he said, obviously still groggy-eyed.

“My dick won’t go down.”

“Shit. How long?”

“Derek gave me the shot 9 – no 10 hours ago.”

“Shit.” There was a dead pause in his voice. ”You better go the ER at Holy Cross. They – they might – have to drain the excess blood out of your dick. You – you want me to take you?”

“No, no, I got myself in this mess, I’ve got to face it myself.”

On my way to the hospital – 20 minutes away – I stopped at Walgreen’s drug store, bought a box of Benadryl and popped the tabs – eight all total –like candy on my way over, hoping for a fucken miracle.

There were only two people – an elderly couple – sitting in the ER waiting room when I arrived, dressed in baggy shorts and an oversize button down shirt I usually only wore to cover up my leather harness while I drove over to the Ramrod on a Saturday night.

I was coolly clinical with the perky black registrar at the desk and white-lied about suffering from erectile dysfunction, and how the pills did nothing but give me a headache, and how a friend had prescription medication injections for his penis and how I had asked him to try it on me. Only, only what should have been a six hour junket had turned into a 10, going on 11 hour nightmare. My dick hurt bad – real bad.

I repeated my tale for the intake nurse who said they would have to call in a urologist.

Then she led me to an exam room and instructed me to strip, leaving a hospital gown on the side of the exam table. Several other hospital personnel, a patent rep and a staff doctor useless for anything more than asking questions came in over the next 45 minutes while, still smacked out but getting dizzy from my Benadryl overdose, I sat, stood, sat, stood, trying to find a comfortable position for my aching dick but to no avail. Twice, I even ventured out of the room, oblivious to the bump under my gown, to ask if they had heard from the urologist.

“He’s on his way.”

From where? Bulgaria? I think they were taking secret delight in watching this stupid bastard suffer.

Finally, finally he arrived, looking like an absent minded professor, gawky, egged head, with dark horn rimmed glasses. He spent the first ten minutes that felt like another eternity going through some fucken medical history form – Jesus !  Then he had me lie on the exam table as he and the nurse – female nurse – took a gander at my never–quit pecker.  I was still high from last night’s slam, but quickly brought up all the Benadryl I had swallowed which seemed to work as a good cover story to explain my erratic behavior and non-stop gibberish.

Now I confess I’ve had my share of Nazi sex fantasies, you know, being tied to a cross bar butt naked while hot, young, blond, blue-eyed German soldiers play with my privates under some evil commandant’s orders. But this – this made my fantasies look like a Shirley Temple flick.

After scrutinizing my dilemma, Herr Professor sat down beside the exam table and uttered his pronouncement.

“There‘s blood trapped in the chambers of your penis. I will first have to drain the excess blood, then fill the chambers with saline solution. Hopefully that should diminish your erection.”

Then without a pause, he added the kicker: “This procedure will leave you permanently impotent.”

Crazy as it sounds, I actually felt half relieved by his life sentence. I could finally free myself of my addiction to the hook-up sites and hang up my jock-strap. This insatiable hunt which was only leading me into darker and darker realms of depravity would finally come to an end.

He had shaved my pubes, dick and balls and my upper thighs (remember, I’m a hairy guy) and was ready to numb up my dick for the “final solution” when it happened.

“Well, you’re a lucky man,” he proclaimed genuinely happy about what he saw. “It looks like it’s going down. We may not have to perform the surgery after all.”

Had the Benadryl finally kicked in?

Thank God for Walgreen’s.

For the next hour, I lay there, an icepack on my crotch, as I contemplated the insane merry-go-round ride I had been on the past few weeks, recognizing that if this phallic fiasco wasn’t a wake-up call, I was dead. But through all this doom and gloom of what might have been, I still got a chuckle when I overheard the nurse who had been in the room mutter to her cohorts at the nurses’ station just outside my half open exam room door, “He’s got a nice one.”

Back home later that morning, I called my buddy Sam to let him know I had avoided the knife and what the urologist had described would have been a “bloody, very bloody procedure,” then  went on about finishing up the preparations for my trip up to the Poconos and George. I had planned to leave the following morning – Sunday morning – and now it looked like I still could. I first thought about canceling a rendezvous with Terry, my furry 45 year old “boy” in Jacksonville but then thought I would use the opportunity to test whether King Peter was still King, having suffered the most hellish night of his realm. And if he didn’t perform his royal duties, well, so be it. I deserved it.

Cleaning up my bedroom from the fuckfest of the night before – it seemed like it had happened centuries ago – I found that Derek had left behind a pile of accruements –  cockrings, leather gloves, and my favorite oddity, a gas mask for inhaling his home made poppers – and I e’d him, without divulging my little episode in the ER, that I’d bring the shit with me later that afternoon to that Celebration of Life for his old pal, Tom.

The house was loaded with older gay men like me when I arrived about 6, and Derek made it a point to give me a hug when he saw me. Interestingly, Brent never showed, but I wasn’t about to open a can of worms and call him to see if he had suffered a fate similar to mine.

I didn’t want to know.

A large blow-up of the late Man of The Hour stood on the fireplace mantel. I instantly recognized him and soon figured out from where.

After chatting  with a few brittle types,  I was  finally able to retrieve Detrek from the maddening crowd and asked if we could talk privately. We snuck out to the empty patio where I relayed to him my tale of terror. He seemed unruffled by what the urologist had said to me about the procedure rendering me permanently impotent as if he had heard it all before.

“I gave you and Brent 2 cc. Next time, I’ll cut it back to 1.5.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I lied. I had vowed to myself I would never play with fire again. If Viagra couldn’t cut it, so be it.

Back inside, a tall, thin older guy with a mop of hair that was a cross between Einstein and Harpo Marx, asked if I went to the Zoo, the old Gold’s gym. No, I replied, I went to LA Fitness, but the query had served its purpose as an icebreaker.

We soon drifted as only gay men could to what our preferences were in guys. Ernie liked ‘em hairy and built and pointed to his partner three conversations away. I took that as a cue to hold up my polo shirt.

“Think I qualify?” I asked.

His eyes lit up as he scanned my hairy chest and abs.

“Sure do,” was his reply.

“So how do you know Derek?” I asked innocently, dropping my shirt. .

“Oh, Derek gets around. He and I and my partner Bob have played a few times. He’s one hunk of man.”

“Sure is.”

“And you – how do you know Derek?” he asked in a half patronizing, half probing tone.

My response came out of my mouth like butter melting on a hot corn on the cob.

“Oh we’ve played too, in fact, he and I had a threesome with a mutual hottie just last night.”

Ernie, obviously hiding his stunned reaction, suddenly excused himself to the bar.

A few minutes later as Derek and l left in his truck so he could drive me to my car a block away and discreetly retrieve his toys, I voiced my opinion that I had recognized Tom from his picture and that I was sure we had fucked around in the bath house years before.

“No surprise to me, “said  Derek. “Tom was a pig. Capital P-I-G.”

As I handed him his goody bag from my car, Derek bid me farewell, and added, “Text me when you get to PA. I want to know you made it in OK.”

I nodded I would. Funny coming from a fuck buddy I thought. Or did he feel just a little guilty about my penis crisis? But I was an adult male and had nobody to blame about what happened than myself.

My Jacksonville web bud, Terry, whom I connected with the following evening, had once been something of a heart throb. We had met on the web and first played a year ago on a similar trip up to PA. We were clones – short, nicely built and very furry – and I invited him down for long weekend where people instantly took us for lovers. This time, though, the blush was off the rose. He had gained weight and looked his age, 45. But with a Viagra coursing through my loins and hope in my brain, I was determined to make him feel good, and happily fucked him awhile til Mr. Peter began to fade, more I think from the long drive and the fact I was, well, bored with Terry, who in the end was just another bottom who did little else but shove his ass in my face, than from the ordeal my dick had gone through a mere 36 hours before.

Two days later, settled in PA, George already nitpicking me about leaving a half empty water bottle from my trip in the frig and complaining for the two hundred fifth time that our next door neighbor was running a meth lab that was slowly poisoning us, I texted Derek a non-committal message.

“Hey buddy. Arrived in PA yesterday, Hope all is well with you.”

Next day, I got my reply.

“Was waiting to hear from you.  Glad you’re OK, See you soon.”

Derek and l played only once more, briefly, when l returned after Labor Day,, and a few months later he moved to Portland with some new love.

As they say, you can’t go home again. The same applies to the hottest man in your life.

 

My Life as A Gay Man: Derek -II

My Life As A Gay Man: Derek – II

A few weekends later it was my birthday and Birthday Boy, with no George around to berate me about my advancing senility, wanted to have some fun. It looked by mid-week I had lined up a potential five guys altogether off the hook-up sites who professed their lust for me and availability that weekend.

Well, guess what.

Two, in the last stages of our negotiations, asked if I “partied,” and when I responded with my stock answer, “No, but you can if you like. If I party, my dick ain’t  gonna keep your butt  happy,” they vanished from cyber-space like space junk burning up in the atmosphere.

The third I met on a quiet Wednesday night at the Ramrod, Lauderdale’s leather bar, and was actually someone I had casually chatted with in social circles there and at other places. A little taller than me, sexy balding, with a scruffy beard and a nice tight body, my dick always twitched a bit when I saw or spoke with him. But nothing more ever came of it til that Wednesday night when he approached me and without much provocation confessed he had had his eye on me for years but had always felt intimidated. (Huh? Little 5’6” me.)  After we casually explored one another’s chests with our hands – I was shirtless, he had a T on which I lifted to find, as  remembered, he was fuzzy too – he punched in my number on his smartphone and we agreed to get together sometime Friday late afternoon or evening.

Great.

Early afternoon on Friday, I got a text from him that he wouldn’t be able to connect because he was “tied up with friends from Kentucky.” OK, but when I texted him back and asked if he had any time over the weekend, nothing came back. Game player?  Cockteaser? I’m tired of playing Freud and trying to figure out potential tricks and why they act the way they do.

The last, a 37 year old Portuguese hottie with a matinee idol face and body to go with it, had hit me up on Manhunt a few days before, and though his profile said he was a bottom, I couldn’t figure out from his broken English (alright, my Portuguese is zilch) who would be fucking who. But the timing was all off; when I e’d-him that I was free,  he wasn’t, and vice versa, and soon my opportunity for a foreign adventure faded into the pages of “Old Messages.”

The least desirable of the five men I thought I’d have was Kevin who, in his defense,  was open about his age on his profile – 55 – though his pics were of a guy ten years younger. Not my personal best, very slim, smooth and tallish, he nonetheless was the only guy of the five who actually showed up at my door Friday. Looking his age. And though there was an effeminate tinge to him, I was determined to have fun whether I liked it or not, and once I got into the zone, we fucked for almost two hours straight, amazing me even more than it surprised him.

OK, so now it was 10:30 Friday night. Kev had left after we spent a half hour discussing world affairs;  he was a CPA and had been following some of the financial shit going on.  I was tired, my legs were aching from all the awkward positions I had been in, off and on the bed, screwing his butt every which way I could, but I gulped down a cup of coffee and a No Doz, and went out, rationalizing to myself it was only for a beer or two.

After all, it was Friday night of my Birthday weekend. I didn’t want to start acting my age by staying home watching reruns of “Blue Bloods.”

After hitting Bills, Lauderdale’s bear bar, where no one even looked at hairy shirtless me, I drove down the street to Ramrod for a nightcap beer. Frankly, the place was a bore; there were the usual cliques, the usual gym bunnies,  and the usual Jenny Craig failures who still thought they looked hot in a harness that, at least, served as a stand-in bra for their sagging tits. So I pranced around, accelerated the sips of beer so by the time I completed my second circuit of the dump, my bottle was empty and I was ready to leave.

I’m a firm believer that timing is everything in life and that everything happens for a reason. For, just as I was walking out of the bar, who should be walking up the driveway in leather chaps, a hot gray T and leather cap than Derek  I had dropped him a message on the hookup site where we had first connected but had not gotten any in return, and was content to cherish the time we had been together, as methed up as it had been.

Or maybe because of that.

Our eyes met and he smiled that engaging, infectious, “I got ya, don’t I, fucker” smile and quipped, “Got your message. Wanna save me five bucks for a beer?”

“As long as you got a shot for my dick.” I replied. Almost on cue.  If I was going to play again with the hottest man I ever fucked, damn, I wanted my performance to be an Academy award winner.

“Sure,” he replied, “I got just one vial left and your name’s on it.” A minute later I was following him over to his place, chewing a Viagra – I kept a few in the car just in case – as additional hard-on insurance.

His apartment was cramped and against the wall were moving boxes so maybe his story about buying that condo in cash wasn’t bullshit. He led me to the back bedroom where we both stripped down as he prepared the night’s magic brew. A few non-descript paintings decorated one of the walls surrounded by huge empty picture frames, mostly wood and ornate, sitting on the floor, and hanging from the wall.

“They’re art, too,” Derek replied as he held up a needle. From the poetic to the clinical.  “Before I do your cock, wanna shoot up this time?”

Snorting the junk last time had burnt the inside or my mouth and throat, so crazy me welcomed getting it straight into my system. Crazy, ain’t it, having some one l barely knew stick a needle in my arm. I made a fist, he found a vein on my left forearm and in two minutes I was in Warm and Wonderful Wonderland where Tinsel tickled every square inch of my body. Next came the jab in my dick which I massaged in my hand – I was getting to be an old pro at this – as he shot the junk into his own arm.

For a moment as he slowly sucked my cock, both of us lying on the bed, I sitting up, this hunk of man nestled in my crouch, I thought maybe my fatigue and the two beers I had had earlier that night were going to interfere with my erection. But I was happily mistaken and soon that beefy, furry, manly butt of his was my cock’s dominion.

Maybe junk is some kind of truth serum too, and makes you say things you never would otherwise though always wanted to, because I just blurted it out.

“I know you’re not into LTR’s and I’m already in one, so I’m not saying this to impress you, but I’ve got to tell you our last time was the most sensual sexual experience in my life with probably the handsomest man in Lauderdale.”

“And I thought I was looking at him right now,” Derek replied, drilling right through me with those deep black eyes of his.

For the next hour or so we fucked and kissed and licked and sucked. Then as I was taking my third circuit  at fucking him from behind,  I could see he wasn’t responding to  my usual dirty talk and actually starting to softly snore.

“You tired?”

“Had a rough week,” he replied. I wondered whether that had been in the office or bedding down and getting high with other guys.

“You wanna sleep? I got no problem with that.”

“No, No,” he protested, “keep fucking me, I love your cock inside me.”

But in a few minutes I realized my cock was no match to the Sandman and I gently pulled out and lay beside him on the bed, my dick, as hard as the Rock of Gibraltar, staring at the ceiling.

“You want me to leave?” I said softly before he drifted into Comaland.

“No, no, please – please stay.”

And I did. And not because I was hoping we might play later. I rarely spent a night in bed with a guy for three very pragmatic reasons: most were looking for drive-by, 7-11, slam, bam, thank you ma’am sex; I move around a lot in bed; and sooner or later my three little doggies would be wining at the bedroom door to come in.

So I took advantage of this sensual treat and for the next four hours, I just lay there, completely awake because of the junk  (the fact Derek was asleep showed me he was getting immune and probably was taking it in larger doses to get the old high), not even clearing my throat so I wouldn’t wake him and just admired every inch of this beautiful specimen of naked manhood  next to me when I wasn’t admiring my own hard-on which was good enough to fuck every guy in Ramrod on a Saturday night  – twice.

Around 7:30 he awoke and tried to get me off, but without success.

“I’m supposed to go to the beach today,” I said, “but with this boner I might get arrested.”

“I’ll give you two Benadryl. They’ll bring you down.” It was something I remembered and would save me in my hour of horror just a week later.

I took a quick shower as he lay in bed, asked him what I owed him for the junk – forty bucks – and threw out the invite to do it again at my place soon.

“Sure, sure,” he replied with a smile that just couldn’t lie.

“Oh, by the way, “I said, “Now I know why you’ll never have an LTR.”

“Why?” he smirked.

“You snore.”

He laughed.

“You’re right.”

And as I walked out to my car in the beautiful beginning of a warm, sunny day in my Lauderdale, I mumbled, “Happy Birthday” to myself and held up my finger to those four guys last night who couldn’t find time for me.

More Friday