“Fuck Yea!”

“Fuck Yea!”

Before bedding down with just one man, my handsome forty three year old lover (when you got the near perfect guy who thinks you’re hot shit too, why look elsewhere), I was Run-around Ray when, if I was box office poison on the web a particular week (now the web  is just plain dead) I would hit the sex clubs and bath houses and ended up leaving twenty or thirty dollars lighter and more frustrated than when I came in.

One time I was at Slammers, our local sex club, getting my fifth uncompleted blow job of the night at one of its glory holes (my moment of triumph would cum a half hour later), when a guy, apparently hitting the jackpot on the other end, yelled out, “fuck yea!”
It struck me that this is probably the most frequently used phrase us gay boys utter in our tainted, jaded vocabulary.

Now the origins of the word, fuck, are kinda murky. Some scholars trace it to Latin, others say it’s Germanic, and that “fuck” initially meant “to strike,” then later “to penetrate.” There’s even one silly hypothesis that claims it dates back to when sex was illegal unless it was permitted by the king, so people who were legally having intercourse were doing Fornication Under Consent of the King or F.U.C.K.

But, who the fuck cares how it came to be, right? We all love the guttural sound of the phrase and its lustful, super-butch impact when you say it, making you feel (if you aren’t already) like some hot, big, brick shithouse of a guy, bearded and hairy and hung ….
And we gay guys use it for every occasion:

When somebody’s going down on you and doing a great job, it’s “fuck yea, buddy, fuck yea!” alternated with “fucken A, fucken A!”

Or when you’re plowing a guy, his hairy muscled legs up on your shoulders, and he’s laying there, starry- eyed or his hairy fucken butt’s in your face, or you’re the one getting plowed, every thrust generates another “Fuck yea man, fuck yea!”

Or when you see some hottie across the way at a bar or a bath house and you whisper to your buddy or, suitably plastered, just go up to the guy and spurt it out, “Fuck yea, man. You are fucken hot! So when are we gonna fuck?”

Or as we’re shootin’ our load, whatever position we’re in, don’t we all yelp, “fuck yea!”

Sure we do.

Fuck yea!

My Fifty Years As A Gay Man: Was It Worth It?

My Fifty Years As A Gay Man: Was It Worth It?

If you’re polyannic, wear rose-colored glasses 24/7, or are an alcoholic, meth head or druggie, don’t read this. You may want to throw yourself in front of a train.

I’m too self-centered, maybe a defense mechanism for having been shunned socially as a teenager, but I think I would have made a lousy husband – to a woman – and a lousy father. But life as a gay man? I can sum that up in two words: profoundly disappointing.

Maybe I just had the bad luck of meeting the wrong guys or attracted them, even after I went through the Gay School Of Hard Knocks and should have read people better. But 2018-07-02 18.14.12

sooner or later it was all about THEIR needs, not OUR needs. (The web has only made this worse.) Or they were grossly immature to the point I began to believe some of the old psychologist’s tales that gay men are gay because they’re in some form of arrested development. (You’re 48 years old and don’t have a pot to piss in? What the fuck happened?)

Leading a closed relationship with another man for decades who I should have left after a year of incompatibility didn’t help – you get comfortable with splitting the bills so shoot me – because when I did have time to do my thing it was limited and I ended up in all the wrong places – the sex clubs and bathhouses and the orgy parties – where good people were a rarity.

And making friends was difficult when both my ex-partner and I were working hard and G was antisocial to begin with. You meet gay buddies on vacations and cruises and activities like bowling or softball or jogging, none of which G wanted to do, and so I did my traveling alone with no one to share my experiences with, and when I attempted other stuff I soon felt like a fifth wheel with other guys, often coupled off with their other halves, viewing me as some kind of threat. So I eventually just dropped them for the quickies of the sauna room and sex club dark hallways. The tinsel part of gay life – the white parties and the club circuit and the drama – never appealed to me.

Also being halfway decent-looking was a problem because many times I wanted to be friends – just friends – with guys who thought a conversation would eventually lead to the bedroom. So I just stopped doing it.

I did end up with three reliable fuck buddies in NYC but was alone my first ten years in Fort Lauderdale until I entered the meth scene where everyone was you’re buddy – if you had the stuff. And they’re were some handsome fuckers to get high with. I knew what I was getting into but I was lonely, till I gradually dropped them all including a guy I had fallen in love with but had told me directly and indirectly he didn’t want a relationship. I wasted three years and thousands in drugs before two degreed and former professional me got the message.

The web that I played heavily and which was pretty successful in its early years has diminished to one big carnival joke. Most of the guys who hit me up don’t even read my profile, or are so fucken ugly I’m beginning to wonder if some enemy of mine is paying them to hit me up just for laughs.

I am in love with a very handsome guy, thirty years my junior – no drugs – but his being married to a man for whom he is deeply obligated has made our half a relationship difficult for me to cope with, but at my age cope is all I can do. I should be happy as shit someone like him is interested in me and I am.

But gay life? Baby, you can have it. And the fellow faggots I’ve met along the way? Nine out of ten you can put on the Titanic II and sink it.

Photo: It’s my birthday Sunday: me at 71.

 

My Fifty Years As An Out and About Gay Man

My Fifty Years As An Out and about Gay Man…

This past Friday night, the beginning of an extended Fourth of July holiday (since the Fourth falls in the middle of the week), I was at the Ramrod, my old drinking hole and Lauderdale’s leather/levi bar, enjoying the club music and the half naked men gyrating on its postage stamp dance floor when it hit me. Besides turning 71 in another week, July also marked my fiftieth anniversary as an out and about gay man.

Practically every Gay Pride festivities in the U.S. has the word Stonewall in its title. Stonewall was a seedy Manhattan bar in the West Village, open when its Mafia owners paid off the cops ( remember, gay bars were illegal at the time), raided when they didn’t. Only this time, on a hot June night in 1969, the patrons, many of them drag queens, were in no mood to be paddywagoned to the local police station. Instead they rioted and the Gay Liberation movement was born.

No I wasn’t in the Stonewall that fateful night. But it was the first gay bar I ever walked into a year earlier in July of 1968.

Living at home in Jersey while I was completing my degree, I was working to pay for college at a now defunct retail store chain called Two Guys where my boss was a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason, that rotund, wise-guy comedian. Only there was something a little peculiar about Charlie. When he said he wanted to do something special for me for my 21st birthday, I figured we’d go out for dinner at the local Italian restaurant where, for lunch, Charlie would have a gargantuan meat ball sub and a “diet Coke, please” since he was on a perpetual nowhere diet. I had convinced him to hire Rob, a crush of mine from college, but I was surprised when the two of them pulled up at my parent’s house to pick me up that Saturday night.

Driving into the City, Charlie revealed his true persuasions to me and Rob (we soon came out to him, too), and how he had been a headliner drag queen entertainer in the ‘50’s. So where did we end up but in Manhattan’s then seedy West Village and the Stonewall. I’ll never forget the beads you had to walk through after the bouncer let you in, and the go-go boys dancing on the bar. It was years later that I read how the place had been run by the Mafia and how it was constantly raided if the payoffs weren’t enough. Had I known then, I would have hightailed it to Port Authority Terminal that night and taken a bus home.

Years later, my ex who is ten years my senior told me he was nearly caught in a bar raid in the mid ’60’s. Believe or not, gay bars were illegal and if you got caught in a raid, your name was published in the paper. Your family knew, your employer knew, your life was over. My ex managed to escape through a back emergency entrance, otherwise …

I had hoped I would make it with Rob, but in the end he fell asleep after his first drink, and I ended up getting picked up by some older guy (probably 25) in a white suit who took me back to his apartment a few blocks away. Naïve me, when he whipped it out my first reaction was, what am I supposed to do with it?

But I’ve always been a quick study.

Over the intervening decades I would play the gay scene in Hollywood, California, before there was a West Hollywood, return to New York and its West Village leather scene, now all gone, meet my ex partner who I remained with for forty six tumultuous years, somehow survived the AIDS Genocide of the eighties, built my career and my fuckbuddyships in the nineties, and entered the world of the web in the early 2000’s as an early retiree to Fort Lauderdale which was poised to become the epicenter of gay life in America.

If you want to know more, check out my memoirs, “Furry Man’s Journal” on Amazon under my pen name, RP Andrews.

And have a Happy Fourth.

Friday, my assessment of my life as a gay man. Was it all worth it?

My Fifty Years As An Out And About Gay Man …

My Fifty Years As An Out and about Gay Man…

This past Friday night, the beginning of an extended Fourth of July holiday (since the Fourth falls in the middle of the week), I was at the Ramrod, my old drinking hole and Lauderdale’s leather/levi bar, enjoying the club music and the half naked men gyrating on its postage stamp dance floor when it hit me. Besides turning 71 in another week, July also marked my fiftieth anniversary as an out and about gay man.

Practically every Gay Pride festivities in the U.S. has the word Stonewall in its title. Stonewall was a seedy Manhattan bar in the West Village, open when its Mafia owners paid off the cops ( remember, gay bars were illegal at the time), raided when they didn’t. Only this time, on a hot June night in 1969, the patrons, many of them drag queens, were in no mood to be paddywagoned to the local police station. Instead they rioted and the Gay Liberation movement was born.

No I wasn’t in the Stonewall that fateful night. But it was the first gay bar I ever walked into a year earlier in July of 1968.

Living at home in Jersey while I was completing my degree, I was working to pay for college at a now defunct retail store chain called Two Guys where my boss was a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason, that rotund, wise-guy comedian. Only there was something a little peculiar about Charlie. When he said he wanted to do something special for me for my 21st birthday, I figured we’d go out for dinner at the local Italian restaurant where, for lunch, Charlie would have a gargantuan meat ball sub and a “diet Coke, please” since he was on a perpetual nowhere diet. I had convinced him to hire Rob, a crush of mine from college, but I was surprised when the two of them pulled up at my parent’s house to pick me up that Saturday night.

Driving into the City, Charlie revealed his true persuasions to me and Rob (we soon came out to him, too), and how he had been a headliner drag queen entertainer in the ‘50’s. So where did we end up but in Manhattan’s then seedy West Village and the Stonewall. I’ll never forget the beads you had to walk through after the bouncer let you in, and the go-go boys dancing on the bar. It was years later that I read how the place had been run by the Mafia and how it was constantly raided if the payoffs weren’t enough. Had I known then, I would have hightailed it to Port Authority Terminal that night and taken a bus home.

Years later, my ex who is ten years my senior told me he was nearly caught in a bar raid in the mid ’60’s. Believe or not, gay bars were illegal and if you got caught in a raid, your name was published in the paper. Your family knew, your employer knew, your life was over. My ex managed to escape through a back emergency entrance, otherwise …

I had hoped I would make it with Rob, but in the end he fell asleep after his first drink, and I ended up getting picked up by some older guy (probably 25) in a white suit who took me back to his apartment a few blocks away. Naïve me, when he whipped it out my first reaction was, what am I supposed to do with it?

But I’ve always been a quick study.

Over the intervening decades I would play the gay scene in Hollywood, California, before there was a West Hollywood, return to New York and its West Village leather scene, now all gone, meet my ex partner who I remained with for forty six tumultuous years, somehow survived the AIDS Genocide of the eighties, built my career and my fuckbuddyships in the nineties, and entered the world of the web in the early 2000’s as an early retiree to Fort Lauderdale which was poised to become the epicenter of gay life in America.

If you want to know more, check out my memoirs, “Furry Man’s Journal” on Amazon under my pen name, RP Andrews.

And have a Happy Fourth.

Friday, my assessment of my life as a gay man. Was it all worth it?

 

 

Is Supreme Court Justice Kennedy Retiring The Beginning of the End For Us?>

Is Supreme Court Justice Kennedy Retiring The Beginning of The End For Us?

Probably yes.

Why?

Because although as a Republican appointed by Reagan, he voted more on the side of the Conservatives, he was the one justice more than anyone else who made possible many of the rights we as gay men and women enjoy. Perhaps the most noteworthy were the anti-sodomy and pro-gay marriage decisions for which he wrote the Court’s majority opinions. He was also the swing vote in many social movement decisions that led to positive progress.

Now Sir Trump has the golden opportunity to replace him with a staunch, tighted assed Extreme Right type and get that person passed Congress which is dominated by the Republicans. Once that happens, see our rights and women’s rights and the rights of other minorities in American society erode or even go backward.

The most lasting legacy of any President is who he appoints to the Court since these individuals are there for life and can have an impact twenty, even thirty years into the future.

Liberals were hoping that elderly justices on the Court like Kennedy and Ginsberg would hang in there till hopefully the Dems returned to the White House, but no such luck. In fact, Ginsberg, fit as a fiddle, is in her nineties but it was Kennedy at 81 who decided to call it a day.

Oh yea, they’ll be fights as cases attempting to marginalize us as second-class citizens work their way through the courts in the future. But if a case reaches the Supreme Court, a court that will now be tipped to the right, says “Sorry Charlie,” that’s it.

That’s why it’s called the Supreme Court, dummy.

Medical Marijuana Anyone? Knox Dispensary Here I Come!

Medical Marijuana Anyone? Knox Dispensary Here I Come!

For those of you too young to remember or give a shit, there was this sadistic senator from Wisconsin, Joseph McCarthy, who led a Witch Hunt in the early fifties to make a name for himself. It was just after World War II and the Red Scare had gripped the country – now Russia tries to infiltrate us not with spies but through our modems – and McCarthy started accusing names in our society, mostly concentrated in the entertainment industry and Hollywood, as ”card-carrying members of the Communist Party.” A mere whisper from the McCarthy camp and you were blacklisted. Your career was over and for many their lives.

Well, a week ago this past Monday, thanks to the Florida Department of Health and the U.S. Post Office, I became a card-carrying member of the Medical Marijuana Society of America.

Yes folks, I got my official Medical Marijuana card, allowing me to purchase the stuff, and the very next day I made my field trip to Lake Worth, north of Fort Lauderdale in Palm Beach County and the Knox MM Dispensary. I preferred hiking it up to Palm Beach than entering the Manhattan style traffic of Miami, site of the only other dispensaries in south Florida. Broward County where I live has too many school zones – I guess despite all us gay folk, people are fucking like rabbits – but rumor has it one should be opening soon.

Knox was conveniently located just minutes from IS 95 in a bright sleek modern medical office building right on the main drive. True there was a security door to enter – the receptionist had to buzz you in – and a sign on the door stated no firearms inside but I guess this was for all the crazies – conservatives who think MM is the work of the devil, and potheads who would like to clean the place out.

While reviews on the web spoke of long waiting times, there were only half a dozen people before me,I guess, because it was a weekday afternoon. I checked in at the front desk, showed my card, the receptionist looked me up on the state registry and after only a ten minute wait I was whisked inside by one of their young, very Irish, very freckled sales reps who, glancing at my records, said l had an “open order.” That means l could buy just about anything l damn well pleased from capsules to edibles to the concentrated oil cartridges which you smoke in one of those vapo-cigs which is what I chose given my recent past experience with my friend’s stuff.

I made my usual editorial comment how modern medicine had failed me in the pain department. All traditionalists prescribed were pills that knocked you out, made you sleepy, made you dizzy, got you hooked, or left you with a limp dick.

Not MM, my cheerful, forever smiling sales rep said, “All it does is make you happy, make you giggle and give you an attack of the munchies.”

She went on to explain there are about 10 varieties or strains – much like Ben and Jerry’s ice cream – each with a slightly different effect. She recommended I start with Baldor for daytime use which gives you a boost (my testosterone doc told me it was also good for sex) and use Gemma at night when I want to relax and get to sleep. Each came in the form of an concentrated oil cartridge that screwed onto the vapo-cig. I expected the stuff to be a high ticket item but each oil cartridge was just ninety bucks. A few minutes later, I left with my stuff secured discreetly in a little white bag. (Did the white symbolize hope?)

Gemma lives up to its reputation. Three drags about an hour before you go to sleep and its nighty night. No more getting up two or three times in the night to shift from the bed to the sofa where my trusty heating pads await me to ease my chronic lower back and neck pain, the result of my collapsed spine. Plus unlike Advil PM that leaves you with a dopey feeling the next morning, MM has no such lingering effect. Baldor, the daytime stuff however does, so I’ve been taking just a drag along with my Advil daytime, and Bayer Back and Body.

So what’s the verdict you ask? Is MM better than all those pharmaceutical answers? Hopefully, but I still need more time and experience to make a final judgement.

But one thing is certain. Medical marijuana is the only option I got left.