Five Tips For Surviving and Thriving in The Real Work-A-Day World

Five Tips For Surviving and Thriving in The Real Work-A-Day World

From a gay guy who lived and succeeded in it for almost forty years:

Tip # 1: Don’t bad mouth a staffer whether they’re higher or lower than you on a pecking order. One day, he or she may be your boss.

When l first started out in hospital public relations, l handled the employee newsletter, and for my initial issue, l did a story about one of our young, kinda sexy, physical therapists. Both of us in our twenties and just beginning our respective careers, we hit it off instantly.

Fast forward twenty years. My physical therapist had gone for his master’s degree in hospital administration and became our new COO – and my new boss. By that time l had become PR director, and while all my colleagues wondered what made the new guy tick, it was “Hi Ray” to me.

Corollary #1 to this: Try to be positive with fellow staffers. It goes a long way to getting what you want. That doesn’t mean you have to be saccharine or agree with everything they say. You should also sound like you are knowledgeable and can support a position. But too much fighting gets you nowhere.

Corollary #2: Be nice but trust no one.  Don’t give them any ammunition they may use against you (even gay guy to gay guy) just because you think they’re your pal. There’s always somebody who will smile to your face but who’s out to get you for whatever reason.  Maybe they figured out you’re gay (could wearing your pumps on Thursdays to work have something to do with it?) and they are a conservative Evangelical. Who knows.  Or when things get nasty, it’s every man and woman for themselves, which means someone trying to fuck you to save their own ass.

Tip #2: Listen, don’t talk. Don’t try to push how much you think you know on someone more experienced than you. Listen and you may learn something, and making that person feel important – even if they’re an asshole  – doesn’t hurt when you need a favor. (See Tip #1, Corollary #1.)

Tip #3: Don’t flaunt or talk about being gay. Unless you’re in a few industries where that’s a plus, or forward thinking companies like Apple or Amazon, homosexuality is still a negative in, for the most part, the very conservative mainstream corporate world  and worse can lead to bad things happening. (See Tip #1, Corollary #2.)

One guy, degreed up to the ass, was a Iittle loose about his sexual persuasions on the job, and when the COO position became open, a position he should have had hands down, he was rejected. According to the rumor mill, the Archbishop of New York was quoted as saying, “I don’t want a faggot running one of my hospitals. “

Tip # 3 Don’t think your looks or gift for gab will save you, or make up for hard work, knowledge, experience or tricky office politicking. They won’t.

Tip # 4: Always take on tasks and projects beyond your job description. That’s not only how you learn new skills on the job you might apply later, it also makes you more valuable to your organization. When things get bad and cuts need to be made, you’ll more likely to survive the slaughter.

Tip #5: Adapt to a changing corporate culture. Over my thirty years as a hospital executive, l had a dozen CEO’s and COO’s, each as different as their hairline, and each with his own managerial style of working. I had to adapt to them, they didn’t adapt to me. And l don’t care how valuable you think you are, if you don’t adapt, or fight the tide, they’ll find a way to unload you for someone who’s on their wavelength – even if that someone knows shit compared to you Ditto to being a team player. If your principles become that comprised, it’s time to move on.

If I remember any other pearls of wisdom to save your ass on the job – after all I got off the public relations merry-go-round in 2002 at 55 and have been semi-retired/retired for 16 years now, so I guess I did something right – I’ll pass them on you.

Pulling A Ray

Pulling A Ray

Pulling a ray:

Definition 1: not holding back telling somebody off who irritates you or getting back at them in a way most people wouldn’t

Definition 2: iconoclastic; going against the grain

Definition 3: over the top

I’ve gotten a reputation of sorts lately among buddies, friends, and even my “girl friend”  neighbor about my sometime outrageous behavior. Hey, l’ m retired, financially comfortable and independent, and don’t have to take shit from anybody anymore and l don’t.  Being an ex-New Yorker l think also has a lot to do with it.

Like the time a trick who grossly misrepresented himself – let’s put it this way, if he had an athletic body like he claimed l was 6’4 –  who l was just about to politely throw out when he said those fatalistic words, “ you sure you don’t get fuked?”

Listen, it says l’m a top in my profiles, if l was versatile l’d say so wouldn’t l, since that makes you more marketable, but l’m not and when some dumbass says that and you tell him no, he just keeps sniffing at your asshole, so after explaining all that to him l then told him to “Get the fuck out!” which he did in four and a half minutes, two of which he spent putting on his sneakers. I guess his mother never taught him how to tie his shoes

Or the time l was sitting in my car – unlocked – in a lonely bar parking lot stupidly checking who “loved” me on my phone when out of the blue a black guy opens the passenger door and proceeds to enter my car. Instead of screaming like a little girl about ready to lose her virginity, l just looked at him with my tough boy New York killer stare and yelled, Get the fuck out!”

He did. (Yes, I know he could have had a weapon or four buddies waiting outside but there was no time to think sensibly.)

Or the time l was walking over to Hunters, our dance club, wearing a pair of my short shorts from The Athletic Man, a clothing store here in Lauderdale near the Ramrod that specializes in clothes for shorter guys like me. I could hear some queen a few yards behind me whisper to his loser buddies, “l wouldn’t wear shorts that short out in public.” I waited till the shithead caught up with me, then with a smile on my twisted face l whispered back to the queen, “You think these are short, you should see the ones l wear to the supermarket.” Fucker. Then l added, “Thanks for paying for my Social Security, buddy.”

Or the time I complained to the real estate board about some slick real estate con artist who had wasted my money, letting me go through with an inspection on a property that he knew wasn’t available. As soon as he heard l filed a complaint, he sent a $475 check in the mail. Most people who had this happen to them would have yelled a lot and beat their dog but done nothing else, but not me.

l pulled a Ray.

So when a buddy of mine, normally the overly polite, overly patient type, got extremely irritated with an obnoxious house guest (remember, we live in Lauderdale where the average hotel room costs two hundred bucks a night), and finally told him to pack up and leave, he reported to me proudly,  “I pulled a Ray on him.”

“Just one thing,” l added, “You didn’t tell him, ‘Now get the fuck out.’ “

Or when my neighbor, a highly competent paralegal, got fed up with the super chauvinistic behavior of her boss against not just her but all the other women in this small family owned firm, she didn’t say, “fuck you,” when he fired her, no she went to the Human Rights Division of the Labor Department and filed a harassment complaint.

Go girl!

I’ve always been the iconoclastic type, you know, going against the grain, so when all my leather cohorts are wearing jeans and a harness on a Saturday night, l walk into the Ramrod in a singlet.

And now that l am retired with no job to wake up for, l can have two of my luscious fuck buddy/lovers over on back to back overnight sexcapdes. After all l can rest up afterwards. Just like a clinical nurse buddy of mine who flies  around the country monitoring drug studies for the pharmaceutical companies did a Ray when he was finished with work in Omaha and decided to stay an extra day and night where he enjoyed a well-deserved, hot four way orgy.

“I pulled a Ray,” he texted to me the next day. I could almost see the snicker on his face. “It was fun!”

Lucky fuck. And selfish. He could have, at least, cammed me in.

Like my 59 year old gay financial planner often says to me, “I want to be like you when I grow up.”

Hey,  l always tell my friends and neighbor if l pull a Ray and it backfires, chances are they’ll get a call about me from one of three places: a hospital, a police station, or the morgue.

But at least I did what I wanted to do, right?

Here’s A Lustful Excerpt from My Latest Erotic Gay Romance, “For The Love Of Samuel”

Here’s A Lustful Excerpt from My Latest Erotic Gay Romance, “For The Love Of Samuel”

“For The Love of Samuel” is my latest erotic gay romance of love lost and love found, set in contemporary New York City and Fort Lauderdale.

New Yorker and aging gay man Billy Veleber who abhors growing old has lost Mitch, his former meth head lover, to his habit, and Gus, the older man in his life and mentor, to despair, when he is confronted with the chance to become 21 all over again, through the magical prowess of the dog tag of a long dead Civil War soldier, Samuel Evans. Young again, Billy abandons Manhattan for Fort Lauderdale where he meets Dare, the love of his life, whose clever quick rich venture first bonds them, then threatens to end their idyllic lives together forever. Billy also faces the reality of having to tell Dare the truth about himself.

This flashback occurs 15 years before our story begins when Billy, 35, meets Gus, 50, at a midtown Manhattan bath house after Billy has abandoned Mitch, his lover, because of their deepening meth addiction.That night at the baths, Billy and Gus just talk, Billy about his affair with Mitch and Gus about his dead lover Dennis who couldn’t escape the habit. The following day Billy meets Gus for dinner where he learns he is one of the City’s leading neurosurgeons. Gus, who has already fallen in love with Billy, offers to help him with his communications career and even have him move in with him if he likes. Billy gladly accepts and after dinner follows Gus back to his apartment in New York’s West Village…

Upstairs, Gus poured two glasses of wine and led Billy to his bedroom, the larger of the two. On the top of Gus’s bureau, Billy saw a picture of Gus and he guessed Dennis together in their speedos at some beach, magnificent specimens of hirsute masculinity, both bearded and strong as only two handsome, no, two beautiful men can be. Dennis was shorter than Gus, not much taller than Billy, but he resembled a young Tom Selleck.

Billy just blurted it out.

“How the fuck can l compete against that?”

“You aren’t competing, never was, and never will be,” said Gus, “because you’re, oh so much stronger up here,” pointing his finger to Billy’s head, “than Dennis ever was, or ever could be.” He kissed Billy on the forehead. “You were on the path to nowhere and turned around. Dennis chose that path and never looked back.”

He peeled off Billy’s polo shirt as Billy did the same with Gus.

“Plus, like I told you,” said Gus with a grin as he rubbed his broad hand across Billy’s chest and nips and shoulders, admiring all of it with his brown eyes, “no one, not even me, has got you beat when it comes to this.” He twisted some of the long delicious hairs on Billy’s chest as if he was going to braid them.

Billy returned the favor by kissing Gus’s chest and running his tongue across his heavy nips.

“Bite ‘em,” whispered Gus, “this old man can take it.”

“Strong ltalian stock, huh,” whispered back Billy.

“Damn right,” said Gus.

“Well, you got strong Slavic stock here, buddy,” boasted Billy, strutting out his chest, Gus’s cue to sink his teeth into Billy’s tits.

“Fuck Gus,” said Billy gritting his teeth, “you’re – you’re the man! Jim was never into that …”

Gus got up – “l don’t wanna make them too sore, the night’s still young” – and with both their pants still intact, he got up, walked over to the wall closet that ran the length of the room, and pulled out two leather vests.

“Ever get into this?”

No,” said Billy, laughing. “mine was always the Abercrombie and Fitch crowd.”

Gus slipped one of them on Billy, the other on himself.

“Come here,” and he had both of them stand in front of the mirror that ran the full length of the closet.

“Did you ever see a hotter pair of men in your life?” said Gus, laughing.

He was right, thought Billy, who felt empowered like he never had before.

He turned around, unbuttoned Gus’s pants, pulled them down along with hid boxer shorts. yanked them off and his shoes so that except for his dress socks and vest Gus was butt naked, threw him, this Colossus of a man, onto the bed and quickly striping off his own jeans and shoes and grabbing his own dick, Billy knelt down and swallowed Gus’ huge, thick penis in one gulp and kept it down his throat, feeling it twitch, for what seemed an eternity.

“Shit Billy, what – what the fuck are you doing to me?” yelled Gus, watching his young man like a jock father would watch his son make a hit a home run. “l’m going to come Billy, do you want it, do you want it?”

Billy didn’t make a move or a sound or a gulp as Gus’s big, thick swollen dick spurt uncontrollably down his throat.

“Fuck,” said Gus, “no one, no one has made love to my dick like that before, no one.”

Billy looked at his own penis that was still raging hard. But so too was Gus’s.

“I want you inside me,” said Billy.

“You’ll have me,” said Gus, breathless. “But tonight I want you inside me.”

Still lying on the bed in all his glorious masculinity, he turned to the nearby bed stand, reached over, opened the top drawer and pulled out a canister of Elbow Grease. Billy was standing by the bed, his penis so hard it hurt as Gus lathered it up, gave it a few kisses and then spread his furry Sequoia legs wide open.

Gus winced and gritted his teeth but kept smiling as Billy slowly entered him, Gus’s smile getting broader with every inch.

Billy could feel the heavy rug of butt hair and the thick brush that encircled his manhole. He fucked him slowly, again and again as all that fur massaged his shaft like a million tiny fingers.

Finally, silently he came, and lay himself on this man.

His man.

“Could you ever love me Billy?” whispered Gus.

Billy lifted his head and looked at Gus like he was crazy.

“What, what do you mean?”

“My heart throb is dead. Yours is still very much alive.”

“Maybe what l feel right now is lust,” replied Billy, “after all, you cockteased all weekend. “ Gus laughed. “But if l don’t come to love you, truly, deeply love you after all you’ve done for me already, God damn it, you can burn my homo license.”

And with that he crawled down, threw Gus’s legs over his shoulders, and licked up his own cum dripping from Gus’s man hole, like he was a kid licking ice cream off a cone.

“Did anyone ever tell you,” murmured Billy, his man juice dripping from his bearded lips, “that you are one hot motherfucker?”

“For The Love Of Samuel” is available as an e-book on


You Go Guys!

You Go Guys!

In the past l’ve been disparaging toward the younger under 30 generation for being lazy, smartphone obsessed and somewhat brain-dead.

Not anymore.

Not after the gang from Parkland hit Tallahassee and the feds and told them like it is. Intelligent, articulate and determined, they are the voters of tomorrow so all these politicians accepting these bribes and payolas from NRA, like those caught in the sexual harassment net, may soon find themselves unemployed.

Like Rubio, a senator from here in Florida, who got booed at a recent town hall meeting for accepting millions in NRA dollars for his failed Presidential pursuits. Could you ever trust a guy like that would be looking out for your best interests?

What the fuck does anybody need with an assault weapon except perhaps law enforcement?

Why can’t mental health histories be centralized and nationalized – and accurate?

Why should people be able to buy guns at 18 but can’t drink till they’re 21?




Read your Constitution. The right to bear arms was tied to the fact that at that time  – the 1790’s –  folks were all alone without the protection of a police force or an army and had to defend themselves in the middle of nowhere. Holy shit! George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin must be doing belly flops in their graves right now.

Here’s a Lustful Excerpt from My Erotic Romantic Novella, “Not in It for The Love”

Here’s a Lustful Excerpt from My Erotic Romantic Novella, “Not in It for The Love”

Set at the turn of the new millennium, “Not In It For the Love” is the story of Josh, a young street-smart Florida drifter/hustler who is “adopted” by Bishop, a Wall Street power broker who sets him up as his trophy boy in Manhattan society. Josh leads a promiscuous lifestyle within New York City’s gay sub-culture of the late nineties, where he views himself as a sexual commodity when it comes to men. All this changes, however, when he meets Hylan, a young, bi-racial, down-on-his luck, wheelchair-bound musician…

It was a hot, steamy Sunday afternoon in August. Perfect for strutting the Village’s Christopher Street catwalk. Bishop had fallen asleep on the sofa watching From Here to Eternity on TCM, and a couple of prospective hot web dates had ended up going nowhere. Even my usually reliable ‘port in a storm’ fuck buddies weren’t responding to my ‘Hey, got some time?’ emails. The guys down in the Village for the Dugout’s weekly beerbust would be spilling out onto the sidewalk and street soon, shirtless, sweaty and hungry for one last screw for the weekend, even if they tried to hide their appetites behind smug ‘don’t give a fuck’ expressions.

I usually rode the subway down, less of a hassle with traffic and all, but I opted that night instead to take Bishop’s new, just-leased BMW out for a spin. It was parked in the basement garage in a space that cost more than most people’s rents. Although parking in the Village on Sundays was tight with all those out-of-town suburbies wanting to experience the City, I’d come to know the side streets where I could still find a space if I moved my ass.

I had made good time coming down the Westside Highway. At the first red light off the highway in the Village, I weaseled out of my sleeveless open shirt and was snaking through the Meat Market District when, a half a block from the Lure, that leather bar, this shirtless guy in a wheelchair sailed out of nowhere and sideswiped me.

My first reaction was shit, Bishop was gonna kill me for banging up his precious car. Then I saw in the rear-view mirror that the guy had been knocked out of his chariot onto the street and looked like he was pretty banged up. So I parked the car illegally by a pump and trotted over.

Even in his scruffed-up condition—he was dressed only in army fatigue shorts and sneaks, and his shoulder, knee, and forehead were all scraped and bloody—even messed up as all that, I found him…well, beautiful, a word that, frankly, had never come into my head before about any guy. His body fur was thick and wiry like steel wool, and his tangled, scrambled hair and beard stuck out like one of those African natives in those old copies of National Geographic people threw out at the trailer park. Even lying there on the street, his body reminded me of that bronze statue of Zeus I had seen in the lobby at the UN on one of Bishop’s attempts to show me some big city culture. Not overblown like a gym bunny, he was built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something. Even if his withered legs didn’t quite match his bulked-up upper torso.

“I’m sorry, man, didn’t see you coming,” I tried to explain as I knelt down and stared into those ocean-blue eyes. He had the strong, rugged features of a Midwestern white boy but I knew his cocoa tan didn’t come from a week in San Juan. A half breed, as Momma would politely put it when she was sober. Like the kind of models I kept seeing in those store circulars and on TV, not white, not black, so they kinda fit everybody.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I wasn’t looking,” he replied with the same kind of nerdy yet sexy voice I had heard on a few TV car commercials. “Could you help me get back to my place—I live just a few blocks from here—I’ll be okay.”

And that, folks, is how Hylan Jonathan Demarest—Ironsides as he called himself—sailed into my shitty two-by-four life.

I folded up his dented wheelchair and put it in the trunk—Bishop’s baby had suffered only a minor scratch—draped a blanket left over from this past weekend’s beach outing at Riis Park onto the front passenger seat so no blood would get on the leather then ever so gently lifted this hunk of man in.

His chair, though a bit bent, was still usable. Once we got to his address, I placed him back in it then wheeled him to the commercial elevator of the warehouse building off Jane Street, where his loft was.

Scratching at his door to greet us was Hylan’s big black lumbering motherfucker of a dog, Bosco, as furry as his master, who helped him, as he told me later, live. He sniffed the dry blood on Hylan’s knee and whimpered a little but accepted me in a second. Guess he realized I was here to help, not hurt his handsome buddy.

Once in his place, almost as large as Bishop’s penthouse but stripped down to the bare essentials, Hylan wheeled himself over to the bathroom and gestured for me to help him get his shorts, jockey underwear and sneakers off. No bag on his side or diapers like Old Man Shanahan, who lived a couple of trailers away from ours in Shady Isles and who I took care of once when his daughter couldn’t make it. Bosco, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable on Hylan’s king-sized bed.

I was getting so hard so quick my dick hurt, cramped in the crotch of the super tight jeans I wore when I was out cruising so my package looked even bigger. Funny, I always thought paralyzed guys couldn’t get it up anymore, but as he maneuvered his body with those powerful biceps into a plastic stool that sat in the shower stall, I could see he was getting aroused too, the head of his uncut cock beginning to make a surprise unveiling. He told me later that his plumbing didn’t always work so fast, so I must have been doing something right. And even if he couldn’t really stand, I figured he was about my height or even a little taller, and definitely bigger where it really counted. I figured his piece was nine, even ten inches and thick like a flashlight. Then he turned on the shower and braced himself under the water.

I quickly undressed, my aching dick bouncing off my abs, and joined him. Under the shower, I gently washed his cuts as I slowly caressed his broad furry shoulders. We said nothing, but when he gestured me to stand in front of him, I knew what he wanted and I surrendered my stiff manhood to his mouth. For the next five minutes he worshiped my cock with his tongue and his lips. All the while the shower beat down on us like a waterfall. Just as I spurted down his throat, he fell back like in some kind of trance, then slumped back into the chair. Nothing had shot out of that beautiful cock of his but I could tell in his own manly way that he had come too.

If this had been one of my usual hit-and-run man encounters, I’d be heading to the door by now. Instead, we slowly dried one another off and I carried him back to the bed and lay next to him, all quiet like, with Bosco still on the bed, making us some weird kind of threesome. Then, without thinking about it, I turned to Hylan. And began kissing him. First on the lips, then trailing down his hairy, massive chest and furry six-pack to his cock.

As we finished for the moment, his scratched up wheelchair, leaning against the bathroom door, caught the corner of my eye.

“I’ll— I’ll pay to get that fixed,” I whispered.

“You sure you wanna do that?” said Hylan. “After all, it was my fuck-up as much as yours.”

“No,” I replied, stroking his chest softly. “I’m okay.”

“Well, considering what you drive and what you wear,” said Hylan, tugging at the Rolex on my wrist, “my first guess was you’re a lawyer, or doctor, or own your own business maybe.”

Then he stared down at my still hard cock, then back at me.

“But looking at that handsome baby face of yours, I’d say you’re just being kept.”

I grinned the same way I had to charm the girls in high school as Hylan crawled between my legs and laid his head on my dick.

“My parents wanted me to go into medicine,” he began, stroking my leg. “My father is a civil rights attorney back in Chicago, my mother counsels troubled kids, but I was in my second year at Chicago U when I decided to switch majors to music.”

“So what happened?” I asked, staring at his once strong hairy legs, with their hint of muscle, now thin and frail looking like an old man’s.

“Everybody automatically thinks I was in a car accident or was some crazy biker boy who crashed his motorcycle into a wall, but I can thank a bug for my wonderful wheelchair existence.”


“A virus that hit my spinal cord. I won’t bore you with all the medical jargon, but it’s been three years now, just after I moved from Chicago. One Thursday I was jogging on the old West Side Highway. By that Sunday my legs were useless. The emergency room docs at St. Vincent’s knew what it was but there was nothing they could do for me except give me painkillers till there was nothing left to feel.”

“How…? How did you stand it, dude?” I asked, rubbing his leg as if by some fuckin’ magic I could make him whole again.

“I felt like doing myself in in the beginning, but there are worse things that can happen to you, right? And having been a high school music teacher, I’m at least able to continue making a few bucks as a tutor, in between doing gigs at clubs here in the Village—I play a mean guitar—where I can show off some of my stuff.”

“You mean you write songs?”

He asked me to bring his wheelchair to the edge of the bed, then hopped in 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.” He brought up on the PC screen a song he had written and began playing it. “That’s why I moved to New York in the first place. If I’m ever gonna make it.”

I couldn’t resist stroking his chest and abs as he fiddled around with all those keys and knobs.

“So where did you get all this fur?” I whispered in his ear. My mind was on other things than music.

“From my mother,” he quipped, then laughed. 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 fuckin’ humpy body, too?”

“A mix of both sides. My father was a gymnast in college, one of the first black men to make the team at his school, and I competed in swimming when I was at Chicago U, if that counts,” he replied, snuggling closer. “Now it’s just some weightlifting”—he gestured to the barbells lying on a table a few yards from his bed—“and wheeling myself around.”

Back in bed we made love, kissing almost every inch of one another’s bodies a thousand times over, then dozed off till around five when Hylan nudged my shoulder.

“I know you have to leave but I wanna show you something first.”

I helped Hylan dress, then got him into his magic chariot and, leaving Bosco behind slumbering on the bed, down we went in the freight elevator back to the street.

“This way,” said Hylan, pointing to the river and the piers just a block or so away.

And once we got onto the piers, we stayed there, just us, my Hylan in his chariot and me standing proudly behind him, my hands firmly on his strong shoulders, watching the tease of a sunrise begin to light the skies.

Hylan reached up and grabbed my hand.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” he mumbled, his eyes still fixated on the horizon.

“Waiting for you to find me,” I whispered back in his ear.

“Not In It For The Love” available as an e-book on

Here’s A Lustful Excerpt from My Novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

Here’s A Lustful Excerpt from My Novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

Jonathan Antonucci, a 21 year old, barely-out-the-closet gay man from suburban New York, overnight finds himself a multi-millionaire, thanks to a bequest by his late gay great uncle. Uncle Charlie has unexpectedly died of a heart attack, leaving him the sole owner of several of the most successful bars in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s gay ghetto. Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates, and is immediately submerged in the underbelly of Lauderdale’s gay scene. He also discovers his great uncle’s memoirs which reveal truths not only about Jon’s own past but also what may have really happened to his uncle.

Let’s set up the scene: Staying at his late uncle’s beachfront condo in Lauderdale, now his, Jonathan finds Charlie’s phone and retrieves his last text message from a fuck buddy, Marcos. Hungry to know more about his uncle, Jon invites Marcos over to fill in the blanks…

The sun was warm on the terrace, and Jon lay on the green striped lounge, taking it all in. It didn’t take long for him to start to smell as the sweat from his hairy chest dripped down to his abs. Hearing the intercom buzzer, he grabbed his boxers off the sofa, slipped them on, and waited by the door.

On the phone, Marcos sounded like he’d be a big guy, the defense tackle type, but what arrived at Jon’s door was a short, compact man, no more than 5’7, with a boyish face and one of those pencil beards, hair buzzed on the sides and thick down the middle like a modified Mohawk.

Marcos smiled broadly with a glimmer of surprise in his smile.

“I sure as hell see the family resemblance,” said Marcos shaking Jon’s hand like a man. “Though you’re uncle was a short guy like me.”

“I think the height I owe to my father,” said Jon.
“And the fur?” laughed Marcos.

Jon rubbed his palm across his chest. “Dad, too, I guess.”

Marcos glanced around.

“So Pete still with Herbie?” Pete was Charlie’s dog.

“Yea, I plan to pick him up later.”

“Your uncle loved that dog. Said even though he was a small little fucker, Pete had a bigger dick on him than most of his tricks.”

Jon grinned. “Wanna Coke?”

Marcos nodded.

“And watch out for Herbie. He likes to use dog collars on more than just his two babies, Hildy and Helen.”


“His two mini-doxies.”

They walked out to the terrace, Marcos stripped off his tank – he was tanned and hairless with the tight body of a gymnast – as Jon got the diet Coke from the frig. In the bright, naked sun, Jon’s visitor looked somewhere in his thirties. By now, Marcos had slipped off his floppies and cargo shorts and was down to his black bikini underwear. Jon could feel his cock stirring but went into the small talk, not knowing where this was headed or even where he wanted it to go. Right now, all he wanted was not to have his cock pop out of his boxer fly.

“So how long did you know my great uncle?” Jon asked staring out to the water in an attempt to cool his erection as he handed Marcos his drink.

“Since I came down from Tampa – I’m a transplanted New York Rican. Charlie had been down here awhile by then. We met at the local baths one Saturday night and just hit it off.”

“Baths? Aren’t they those seedy places where dirty old gay men go to have sex?” asked Jon curiously.

Marcos grinned.

“Yea, and they’re getting older and more tired looking every time I go there which hasn’t been much lately. And when I do go, it’s the same guys I saw there ten years ago when I’d go down to Lauderdale for an occasional long weekend. Christ, they should have bought time shares in the place instead of renting a room every week – it would have been cheaper. They used to ask for their social security card to get in – soon it’ll be their pre-burial arrangements.”

“So when you guys met there, Uncle Charlie was already …”

“Fifty nine and I was forty. I’ve always liked ‘em older, at least used to, but as you get older – I’m 45 now – you start looking at the younger men a whole lot more.”

Suddenly Marcos’s face went beet red. He realized what he had just said.

“You don’t look 45,” said Jon. “I’d take you for ten years younger.”

“Keep talkin’ dirty to me,” said Marcos. “Down here, when you’re half naked half of the time, you have to look good, or sure as hell try. And for those of us on the prowl, it’s a pre-requisite.”

“You and Uncle Charlie,” Jon replied.

Marcos smirked.

“You don’t sound like the usual airhead 21 year old I run into in the bars or on the web who were born with a smartphone up their butthole.”

“So you say you knew my uncle well?”

Marcos sighed. “Yea, he was a great guy. Him and I, neither of us were social butterflies, actually we were more homebodies, and it’s not that we got together a lot but when we did …”

“Like the day he died.”

“Yea, we were supposed to get together that night for a nice man-to-man, down and dirty, long slow sweat session. That’s my thing, you know, sweat and man scent. Just call me kinky. And Charlie enjoyed it too, told me when he was driving to my place, he’d turn up the windows on his Beemer and turn on the heat, in eighty degree weather mind you, just so he’d be nice and smelly for me.”

“So – so he had the heart attack here?”

“Yep, the doorman who’s on during the day down in the lobby was delivering a package that had come that morning, some kinky underwear I think from International Male Charlie told me he had ordered where your ass cheeks hang out. He knew Charlie was in since he remembered seeing his car in the lot when he came on duty, so when he got no response at Charlie’s door, he used the master key and found him sprawled on the bed, cold. He was long gone, it must have hit him as soon as he got in the night before.”

“I wish I had stayed in touch all those years,” said Jon. “I think he would have been a good teacher for all this.

I’m not like you guys who have seen it all. I’m a virgin to this life. All I’ve known is Manhunt and Growl’r and Scruff …”

“But you’ve met guys on them haven’t you, I mean you’re handsome and hot, with all that fur,” said Marcos leaning over to give a playful rub to Jon’s hairy abs.

“No,” corrected Jon, “when I said I was a virgin I meant it.”

Marcos laughed, “Well, I had my first girl when I was 13 back in Brooklyn and ended up fucking her boyfriend a week later.”

“Me and my j-o buddy, well, we were always afraid to do it for real with all the shit gonna on out there …”

“You mean like HIV?” said Marcos.

Jon nodded.

“What if I told you I was HIV positive?”

“You – you don’t look sick.”

“Well, my meds keep the big bad boogey man at bay, but yea, I’m a poz boy like half the guys down here. Guess the sun and fun attracts us.”

“Was my uncle – was Charlie…”

“No, he always played top, you know, he was the one who did the fucking. Seems they say it’s pretty hard for a top to catch it. Or maybe Charlie was just lucky. Me? All it took was one bad cock.”

Jon looked Marcos straight in the face. He had beautiful brown eyes.

“I’ve been wanting to see what it would be like to be with a guy, but living at home and working a shit job with a buddy who only wanted to shoot our loads over pics, well…”

“And you want me to be your first?” laughed Marcos, getting up. “I feel honored.”

“You’re making fun of me …” cowered Jon.

Marcos stopped laughing and got all serious.

“I would never make fun of you, Jon.”

“Sorry for sounding so pushy. I’m usually a wallflower. Forget I brought the whole thing up.”
Marcos grabbed Jon’s wrist.

“You’re not afraid of me?”

“No, don’t ask me why, but I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

Marcos raised Jon’s hand and stuck his nose in his sweaty armpit.

“This is what I meant when I said no shower. Fuck, you even smell like Charlie.”

Marcos led him by the hand to the bedroom – Jon followed his cue and left his boxer shorts on the living room tile – and threw himself on the bed.

“Come here, Jon, lay on me.”

Jon began to shake nervously as he gently lowered his six foot two frame over Marcos. They were both sweaty from the terrace sun and the film of mutual perspiration formed an invisible seal between their bodies.

“I always enjoyed doing this with Charlie, just laying on top of one another like this, sweaty and smelly, stroking the fur on his butt, mating down all that fur on his chest and abs, just like yours …”

With that, Marcos’s tongue got reacquainted with Jon’s armpit and Jon instinctively raised Marcos’s hand to smell, then taste his.

“Something your never gonna get over a phone app, right, buddy?” whispered Marcos.

Jon’s cock was aching, his PA pressed against Marcos’ drum tight abs, and he could feel Marcos’s wet, uncut cock nestled against his inner thigh.

“Let me show you what it means for one guy to give pleasure to another,” said Marcos as he flipped Jon on his back and buried himself in his crotch. Jon closed his eyes, but there was no need imagining like he had so many times before what it was like to have a man next to him. Now he had one for real.

Starting with the big toe on Jon’s right foot, Marcos used his tongue and mouth to explore every square inch of his body, licking up his sweat and deeply inhaling his stench like only a lover of the moment could, leaving Jon’s aching cock as his last frontier, yanking on his PA with his teeth, then swallowing him whole. It never took long for Jon to cum but now, just a few deep sucks by Marcos and he was there, spurting down Marcos’s throat uncontrollably.

Marcos wiped the cum off his beard and glided his finger over Jon’s lips as he roughly jerked his own his cock and shot his load a good foot all over Jon’s hairy chest, the splatter even hitting his nose ring.

“Now, wasn’t I better than Growl’r?” laughed Marcos as he fell back on the bed, alongside Jon, the sheet beneath them drenched, then lay on his belly, all still.

Jon moved closer and, leaning over, ran his hands ever so slowly back and forth over Marcos’ hard back and smooth butt. If Marcos had been hairy, he would have rubbed his fur off.

“The Czar of Wilton Drive” … available as an e-book on

Whoever Fucked Up At The FBI Are As Guilty …

Whoever Fucked Up At The FBI Are As Guilty …

…as Crazy Cruz himself. No more bullshit apologies or “we’ll do better next time.” Hell, if l were the daddy of one of those kids – kids – I’d go postal even if they took me out.

Probably the law protects public servants from being criminally accountable, but in my mind all of them, from the Director of the FBI to the agent on TV to every other schmuck who dropped the ball should not just be demoted or fired, but should be charged with second degree manslaughter.

The FBI had a shitload of red flag leads and they did shit with them. You mean to tell me with their resources they couldn’t ID every Nickolas Cruz in the U.S., the name the guy used who signed off on that U-tube threat – “l want to be a school shooter” – when we can???

They have to be made an example to prevent such reckless incompetence from happening again. Otherwise why are we spending millions of dollars to keep these agencies alive??

I mean, what’s the fucken point???

The FBI’s excuse is it gets thousands of threats every day and only has a handful of agents to check them out. So manufacture one less billion dollar bomber and hire the army of investigators we need.

What’s happening is eroding the very foundation of our way of life, damn it!