Looking for Mr. Good Dick

Looking for Mr. Good Dick

Why are so many of us so promiscuous, think we are, or like to be? Why can’t we just be happy with that one guy?  After all, no one, not even our egotistical selves, is perfect.  But I guess that’s the problem. We think that that next guy (read dick) who hits us up on Scruff, or eyes us in the ten items or less aisle at the supermarket, or shakes his booty next to us at the next Bearfest or Leatherfest or RSVP cruise will be the dick of our wet dreams. But while perpetually on the hunt, we are never really satisfied with “him,” and so our insatiable search goes on infinitum. Like Bette Davis once quipped in one of her early films, “I’d let you kiss me, but I just washed my hair.”

What the fuck was she waiting for?

Why are we so obsessed about dick? Maybe it’s because men and their cocks come in so many shapes and sizes (small, big, thin, thick, cut, uncut), that the possible Las Vegas slot machine combinations between the type of guy we’re hardwired for and their dick are endless. So, we remain constantly curious to see what IT’s like and what IT will do for us. And that often means going beyond our usual circles of bars or local hang outs and out into the world like some sexual explorer, dropping all that money that could be going into a CD or retirement account on trips, botox, liposuction, or Lumineers, or killing ourselves at the gym, all just to look good when that ultimate dick might be right next door if we open our eyes.

But I think deep down inside it isn’t about cock at all, although we may fool ourselves into thinking it is. Because saying it’s just cock eliminates pondering about or dealing with that other c word: commitment. We think we’re not ready to commit ourselves to another human being just quite yet; we meet the guy with the perfect cock and the perfect body and the perfect everything, but there’s just something about his big toe that isn’t quite right; or we want to play run-around Sams forever. After all, old age or worse, loss of libido, happens to other people, right? And so the search goes on. And on. And on. The 10’s are looking for 13’s, the 4’s will only settle for 10’s and the 7’s are ready to go straight.

 

The One Percenters – And The Rest of Us

The One Percenters – And The Rest of Us

Last Friday afternoon, a buddy of mine and l took the Art Fort Lauderdale tour of four multimillion dollar homes on the Intracoastal, sporting art from some of the top galleries in town, which we reached via water taxi that left the Bahia Mar Yacht Club. It was something only a place like Fort Lauderdale, the Venice of the Americas, could pull off. The homes themselves, all vacant and up for sale, were magnificent in size and style but frankly lacked any warm, homey feeling.

But as we passed through “Millionaires’ Row,” a not surprising yet nonetheless stark fact l had just heard in the news came to mind: 82% of all the new wealth created in the United States last year was held by just one percent of the population. Yea, the One Percenters, with annual incomes averaging $400,000+. Worse, over half the American population saw no growth in personal wealth at all.

Fort Lauderdale itself is an example of the American City of Tomorrow where the rest of us are headed – probably to the poor house. In 2002, on the brink of my retirement from New York, I bought my home here in Lauderdale for $140, 000. Within a few years, my house value had escalated to $400,000. Then came the Great Recession when those who bought on the high side saw their homes’ worth tumble. Only now are prices rebounding to what they were prior to 2006 but Bank of America predicts another Wall Street Crash is on the horizon. And so the ugly dance starts all over again.

Yet Fort Lauderdale, once a sleepy spring break town and step child of Miami that came into his own over the last decade, is building little in the way of affordable working and lower middle class housing for the very folks cities need to run them, instead constructing luxury homes “starting at $600,000” which might as well be Fantasyland at Disney World for the average Floridian couple making $50,000 a year. No wonder millennials l know are setting their sights on places like the Carolinas or Vegas where living costs are more realistic.

I fear my Lauderdale is a microcosm of where the rest of this country is headed if not already there.  The power to run everything concentrated in the hands of a few, what we like to call “The One Percenters.”

And the rest of us be damned.

From The Archives of Confessions of a Str8 Gay Man: Peter Pans and Tinker Bells

From The Archives of Confessions of a Str8 Gay Man: Peter Pans and Tinker Bells

I teach college in between doing research for my books in the dark venues of Lauderdale’s sex scene, and I’ve been amazed that almost two thirds of my students and the ones with the most smarts are women. I mean, Christ, where are the men? Are they all planning to be web designers, rock stars, or live off a woman’s six figure corporate lawyer’s salary? Again, I talk in generalities, but my conviction is that the ladies are far more mature than the guys and that a good percentage of the American male population, straight and gay, still live in a world of adolescent exuberance. Straight guys who fall in this category I like to call Peter Pans: out with boys, into football and playing jock, forgetting they’re 45 or 55, beer bellied, and up to their asses in debt.

Now the gay equivalent I label Tinker Bells. Gay guys who partied through their 20’s and 30’s with little in the way of career aspirations or investments and, now at the Just for Men time of their lives, have no notion or, worse, haven’t even thought about who’s going to take care of them when the Viagra doesn’t work anymore and their asses are sagging. Oh, we’ve all run into them, the great-in-the-sack, still hot at forty something or fifty something guy who lives in “A Rented Room” and has had a string of Christmas help, minimum wage, temp jobs. The same guy who pissed the money away as fast as it came in, searching for that next great lay in Amsterdam, Rio or Montreal, or following the moveable feasts of Leatherfests and Bearfests and White, Black and Blue parties. Social Security quarters? Pensions? 401K’s? Who’s running for President again?

Now, the crème de la crème of the Tinker Bells are the ones we all see on any gay beach like Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay oceanfront sandbox, the buffed thirty year olds with the matinée looks paired off on the blanket with some old man, I don’t mean older, I mean a member of the Denture Cream Generation. What I’m sure they know but don’t want to face up to is the reality that the Old Man is the one really in charge and that they are as expendable as a used condom on the floor of a sex club.

So why should I give a shit about the Tinker Bells? None of my fucking business, right? I beg to differ. Unfortunately, we’re forced to deal with them every time we venture into our closeted, two-by-four gay worlds. (And we are closeted and ghettoized, boys, make no mistake about that, and not by choice; more on that in a future blog.) They’re the waiters at the gay restaurants, the help behind the sex club or bath house entrance windows, the clerks at the gay shops.

You’re dropping $45 for a T-shirt to cater to your petty ego that you know was made in Vietnam for a quarter, and there’s a Tinker Bell, having a-diarrhea-of-the-mouth conversation on his cell while you’re trying to check out. Suddenly that frumpy look comes over his face, unless you’re cute of course. You’ve disturbed him. It’s at that moment that I’d like to say three things to the fucker AFTER he’s taken the security lock off the rag I’m buying: (a) “I don’t have to spend my money here,” (b) “Don’t take it out on me that at 42 you’re still working at a minimum wage job,” and lastly, (c) “When you run my Visa card through with the twenty thousand dollar credit line, I want a smile on your face and a ‘thank you, sir’ from your mouth.”

From The Archives of Confessions of a Str8 Gay Man: “Seeking an LTR”: You Sure About That?

From The Archives of Confessions of a Str8 Gay Man: “Seeking an LTR”: You Sure About That?

Right off, this sermonette is for gay guys. I really think gay girls are wired differently and take relationships seriously from the first peck on the cheek. As a lesbian fellow faculty member at the university where I work once said to me after we had come out to one another, “When two guys hit the sack, it’s all about sex. When two gals hit the sack, they’re married.”

Yet for all the fancy free, free-as-a-bird frivolity and indiscriminate fucking this lifestyle purports to offer, more guys than may even admit it to themselves are desperately hungry to get off the whirling gay merry-go-round. To settle down for a quiet, boring existence with a life partner, soul mate, or whatever hackneyed phrase popular culture chooses to use at the moment. Not a series of bed-hopping two month flings so you can boast about your string of “ex’s,” I mean something solid.

I can sense that desperation in the countless gay website profiles I scan, some that go on for paragraphs on what the profiler is looking for in another man, way beyond dick size and tits. I see that same desperation in the tired, expressionless faces of guys in the bars on a Saturday night, still hanging in there at 1:15 for more, I think, than just a quick fuck, even if they’ve fooled themselves into thinking that’s the only reason.

But “The Life”, with its non-stop emphasis on physicality and sex, sets the odds against us right from the beginning. How can you expect most guys to buy into another person’s likes and dislikes when they’ve never romped in bed? Straights, though certainly not always, can often make it on personality and socio-economic draws. But when it comes to man-to-man connections, sex, whether we like or not, is almost always the first ingredient. Guys who say they want to “get to know you first” often don’t stand a chance at getting to first base. After all, some would argue, if the lust isn’t there, can a LTR ever take root? (Maybe.)

That’s why, in my mind, guys who may even be ready for a Long Term Relationship, let alone those of us just in it for dick and ass, are intimidated by some of these “walks on the beach” web profiles because the guy’s expectations sound too high. Hell, Manhunt, Bear411, DaddyHunt with their provocative pics and explicit sexual habits rap sheets, are not e.harmony.com’s. For a lark, I checked out match.com which offers gay listings. It was somewhat comical, guys talking about their spiritual side or whether or not they ever wanted to have children. Nice virtues to consider but, come on now, men, do we initially connect discussing world peace?

When we think of a LTR we think of commonality in thinking and interests and style, and commitment to another human being emotionally. But, in the end, the only way any relationship will last is if both parties are ready to let go and compromise. Every LTR is different. Some relationships are as tight as threads on a screw, others as loose as a fist fucked ass, but hey, it’s whatever works that counts, as long as the guys know they’re willing to bend for one another (figuratively speaking). Without that flexibility, LTR’s can’t happen, I don’t care how great the sex is and how much you both like film noir. That’s why I’m convinced that the older we get, the less we’re open to giving in, no matter what we say or even feel.

You also have to be ready to deal with a lot of mental angst. My ex-partner and I were together longer than most American marriages have lasted, and in those decades we buried over a dozen family, a dozen pets, shared health crises, and fought over the stresses of two high powered careers. And, yes, there were many times when we thought it was time to call it a day.

So, ask yourself, when you idealize those “walks on the beach” you have stuck in the fantasy lobe of your brain: are you really ready?

Will you ever be?

The Smart Bike Ride for AIDS: Smart For Fourteen Years

The Smart Bike Ride for AIDS: Smart For Fourteen Years

If my knee caps weren’t shot, l just might have participated with a buddy of mine in this year’s South Florida Bike Ride which officially kicked off this morning. Over 350 riders from across the country and even overseas, ages 18 through 78, gay, str8 and everything in between, left Miami for the 165 mile trek to Key West, pretty ambitious in my mind for a two day event.

Now in its fourteenth year, the Smart Ride, the second largest charity bike ride of its kind in the country, was postponed from its usual fall date when Irma wreaked havoc on our sunny peninsula. But that didn’t deter its organizers, bicycle enthusiasts, and the many who knew victims of the Gay Genocide or recognize how important the dollars the Bike Ride raises are for thousands of Floridians with AIDS today, to mount this weekend’s event. And it looks like this year may break a Smart Ride record, with close to a million dollars contributed to support AIDS-related agencies throughout the state.

I did fundraising back in my New York days as a healthcare executive and know as much as twenty five cents of every dollar donated to an organization goes to administrative costs. So l was amazed to hear the Smart Ride is a 100% volunteer event, with every penny raised going to help. Now that’s what l call heart.

Go Jim!

 

Above: Candlelight Vigil held Thursday evening at The University of Miami, starting point of the Smart Bike Ride.

My Life Today

My Life Today

I intend this to be my last blog, for a while or maybe forever, who knows. I get the impression nobody reads my ramblings anyway, so what the fuck’s the point? I’ve said pretty much all I wanted to say, but being a born preacher type, from time to time if there’s something to say l’ll say it and fuck the world, right?

But here, I ‘ve decided to offer an honest assessment of my life today. One thing I never did in the eight years I’ve blogged is bullshit you, even when I was against the grain and counter to what our shitty little politically correct sub-culture called gay life professed as gospel. Despite all our advances, or maybe because of them, it’s going to the dogs and becoming more femmy by the day, in part perpetuated and enhanced by our own media or by some RuPaul-inspired twenty something who thinks he knows gay life.

Oh, I can hear you guys now. “Stop sounding like a bitter old queen and be inclusive.”

Fuck inclusive. I’m a guy who wants a guy – in bed and in my life – and all this retro-fem shit, a throwback to the pre-Gay Liberation days of the 50’s, when if you were gay you had to act gay, only gives str8 society more fuel to hate us. Christ, I’m happy I got one foot on the banana peel. If this is the future of gay life, you can keep it.

Now back to my topic – my shitty little life.

At 70 l’m okay, in fact l would say l’m better than most.  l’ve had two successful professional careers, am financially comfortable, am a published author of five works of erotic gay fiction, though few of you read my shit and my publicist – ex-publicist – tells me is too raw for the female audience who are the primary readers of male erotic fiction (what does this say about the American female psyche, huh?).

Writing fiction was something I always wanted to do and, fuck, I did it.

As a lover, l have two incredibly handsome men currently in my life, both decades younger than me, one old enough to be my son, who have feelings for me  – love is often too big a word  – though one is married to a man and the other, burnt by two other relationships, is hesitant to enter another. Plus a third beauty, an infatuation, who I call my Latin stallion and who at 36 is half my age, so when he calls me Daddy he means it..

Fuck yea!

And I’m not shittin’ you when I telll you all three have natural male bodies only Michaelangelo could improve on. Furry, masculine… and romantic in a manly way.

Plus l have my trysts, still sexually desirable at an age when most gay men resort to porn and paid sex.

At 70, I call that bonus time.

Yes, I’ve been blessed.

In the negative column of my life is my obstinate ex-partner, ten years older than me,who l will never desert but frankly has become an albatross. ln these last years l have always been there for him in his health crises, sometimes traveling the fifteen hundred miles that separate us, he at our home in rural PA, me here at my house in Fort Lauderdale. (Two masculine guys with conservative views on the glitz of gay life, we gradually grew apart as he lost interest in me and my need for love which I often replaced with sex was something he was unwilling to give me.) But when it came to my back surgery two years ago, l was on my own, and now l face major surgery on both my shoulders  – my rotator cuffs are gone, baby, gone  – and will have to face them alone with the help, as best they can, to the few people l can count on in my life, my men, and my neighbor who l’ve christened the first girl friend in this man’s gay life.

And of course, there are my three doggies, my two doxies and my adorable chihuahua terrier mix who l sometimes think is channeling some long dead gay relative. But with my girls turning fifteen this year and my little boy eleven l know the day is not far off when God will take them. My ex and l had ten dogs and one cat over the decades but losing a pet never gets easier.

And yes, l have to confess, while l never had any hang-ups about being gay, and would not switch my life for that of a suburban str8 hubbie and dad, gay life has, nonetheless, been a profound disappointment for me. I chose the wrong person for a long term relationship, though understanding we had more in common than we were different, staying in it out of habit (let’s face it guys, when you co-own property, you’re married), realizing too late l had denied myself a chance to meet perhaps someone more on my wavelength. But perhaps is big word. I was never the gregarious type but envied the guys with oodles of buddies. But in the end the sociologists say a person only has one or two true friends in their lives, so maybe I’m not as atypical as l think. Fair weather friends, or guys who cling to use you l can do without. And baby, I’ve definitely had my share of those. In the end l’d rather be alone.

All the best to you in 2018. And one final plug for my new book, “For The Love of Samuel”: an audio version should be out next month. Narrated by – who else – but egotistical me.