Love Machine Or Insatiable Addiction?

Love Machine Or Insatiable Addiction?

You know what l’m talking about. It’s our smartphones, which besides being used to stay in contact with business, family and friends, is our source for “love” or so us gay men think who are hooked to the pickup apps like Grindr and Scruff and Bear411 and all the rest. That’s why Manhunt, the granddaddy of all gay hookup sites, is dying. Though available in a mobile version, MH is behind the times for most of us who don’t want to wade through layers of data junk. Just show me the guys please, especially the ones who desire me, alright?

Okay, the web killed the bars that are now largely social and left the bathhouses for the most part the domain of the old and the anonymous sex boys. But while in the beginning the web promised the possibility of good sex and even better love, sadly it too has deteriorated. Over the last couple of years the guys who hit me up fall into several not very desirable categories:

The illiterate. My profiles say l’m looking for hairy, bearded inshape guys over 40. So why do l get smooth or sloppy 24 year olds or guys who look like they belong in a nursing home or at some Jennie Craig Failures reunion?

The flirtatious. More pics please.

The drive-by breed me all night boys. See Fort Troff > fucking machines.

The out-of town hotties looking for a free vacation in Fort Lauderdale.

The meth heads who think you’re hot till you tell them you don’t pnp or don’t have any candy around.

The don’t get it’s. Fifteen years they hit me up, fifteen years l don’t respond or finally you tell them you’re not interested, and like somebody with Alzheimer’s they continue.  Ditto with guys who send you three messages in a row.

The no-shows. promise to call you, promise to come over, even schedule a hook-up and never show or even text you they can’t make it like they were abducted by aliens. (Or maybe they ARE Aliens.)

Do l sound like I’m disgusted. Well, guess what? l am.

A writer to “Ask Amy,” my favorite advice columnist complained about being addicted to his smartphone, and Amy pointed out that studies have linked smartphone overuse to unhappiness and depression. She went on to describe her experience of app fasting which made her feel free.

Could be it be we expect too much from these taps and oinks and “you’re hot” and when they don’t deliver our little fantasies, we find ourselves in worse shape than when we started?

I’ve got one good steady who actually loves me as much as l love him, so l think it’s time l went on my own app fasting diet.

How about you?

Fast paced .. hot sex .. wonderful prose…” says Amos Lassen Reviews About My Latest Erotic Novel, “For The Love of Samuel”

“Fast paced .. hot sex .. wonderful prose…” says Amos Lassen Reviews About My Latest Erotic Novel, “For The Love of Samuel”

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.

Audiobook  version available on Amazon soon. Here’s a sample. Billy, the aging 51 old gay man, puts on the magic dog tag of the long dead Civil War soldier, Samuel Evans and over one weekend begins his transformation. Already feeling his libido renewed, Billy visits Manhattan’s last remaining leather hole, The New Eagle… the narrator is me …

For excerpts, more audiobook samples and a club music track inspired by the book, check out:

Taxes: Silly, Stupid – And Unfair

Taxes: Silly, Stupid – And Unfair

I live in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which was named a disaster area for taxes purposes so that four letter word Irma at least meant you can deduct any losses from the storm that were uninsured. And there were plenty for me and my damage was light: fences, lost landscaping that had to be hauled away, a leak in the roof not covered under the high hurricane deductibles… okay, but the instructions for completing the essentially one page Form 4068 are six pages long? Does that make any sense to you?

Or how about school tax which represents the bulk of your real estate taxes that we gay people who don’t have kids, which means the vast majority of us, have paid like forever? Even str8 couples l know who fuked and made babies complain why they have to continue to pay school tax long after their kids are gone and they’re retired.

I have Turbo Tax that l’ve used for decades – very user friendly – and as a favor l did the very uncomplicated taxes for one of the security guards at the Ramrod, our leather bar and the most happennist place in town for the over 40 male. Retired from PA, he makes barely poverty level, just over twenty thousand, yet had to pay $600 in taxes. Does that make any sense to you?

And you think the average American, and that means 99% of us, is going to benefit from Trump’s new tax plan?

Don’t bet on it.

Wonder Why l Haven’t Posted  on Facebook The Last Month?

Wonder Why l Haven’t Posted  on Facebook The Last Month?

Here are five possible reasons:

Possible Reason #1: The Mafia guy who wanted me to leave George and support me back in the eighties came back into my life when he heard G and l had split. To make up for lost time, though by now he needed a walker to get around, he took me on a first class tour of Europe, then abandoned me in Romania to get back at me for not leaving George thirty years before. Go figure. Lucky l had my Capital One Visa card on me to get home.

Possible Reason #2: The husband of the sister of the hubby of my young lover got sick and my lover’s hubby flew to Denver to help sis which allowed my lover and l to screw like bunnies all month until l had to (tenderly) kick him out for running up my food bill. You can’t take love to the supermarket.

Possible Reason #3: I spent the last month narrating the Audiobook Edition of my latest work of hard core gay erotica,  “For The Love of Samuel” published on Amazon under my pen name, RP Andrews.(My author website is I used the home sound studio of a buddy’s wife who is a musician and singer who does her own recordings to do it cheaply, and she was amazed all the new things she could try on her hubby in the bedroom after listening to my very explicit man-to man sex scenes. Proof that my Audiobook Edition would do the trick was when a twenty seven old fuck buddy started masturbating over one of the chapters l played for him after we had done the nasty. How life affirming.

Possible Reason #4: I dropped the tablet l do all my writing on since my bum shoulders made using a laptop painful when my three darling doggies jumped on me for half of a bologna sandwich l had for lunch. I guess the expensive Rachel Ray dog food wasn’t good enough for them. It took a month to get the tablet repaired.

Or the Actual Reason: Facebook put me in Facebook jail for thirty days for a very artsy picture from over a year ago of me nearly naked cuddling up with one of my dogs FOR WHICH I HAD ALREADY DONE TIME. At least the Supreme Court gives you a chance to defend yourself. When you deal with FB all you’re complaining to is a computer. Good luck, fucker.

So while Zuckerberg and company took advertising and sold info on us so the Russians could skew our election, all his people and programs are worried about are guys like me showing their dick. Take my word for it: l got a nice dick.

So have fun Mark when they haul your ass before Congress. Ask me if l give a fuck. Go ‘head and ask me.

Ciao, Baby

I will be taking an extended hiatus from my blogging since l am scheduled shortly to undergo major shoulder surgery and l’m not sure when l will be able to continue my sermonettes.

There was no “ah hah” moment when it came to the rotator cuffs in both my shoulders going bye-bye. My doctors and l agree they were probably old injuries that got progressively worse over the decades.  Now with my ability to reach severely diminished, especially with my left shoulder (l can’t reach the console light in my car), and surgical outcomes for reattaching rotator cuffs poor in older people like me, l have no choice but to undergo Bionic Man reverse shoulder replacement major surgery. (The rotator cuffs are like elastic bands and if an injury is too old, the tissue has atrophied and it is difficult to reattach. Take a bag of rubber bands, throw them in a drawer for five years, pull them out, and all you got is dust.)

For someone who was never seriously sick or injured all his life and who at seventy has none of the conditions typical of old age, no cholesterol, no diabetes, no high blood pressure or heart disease – hell, for all my sleeping around in NYC at the height of the AIDS crisis, l’m HIV negative  –  coming down with knee issues and back issues and now shoulder issues hit me like a tsunami.

I had scoliosis as a teenager, and in those days the treatment was sleeping on a board. My posture all my life was never the greatest and l believe what l’m suffering from today may be rooted in these past problems, and perhaps may even be hereditary since l remember my mother complaining about arthritis-like pain when she was only in her forties.

To my credit, l was neither some super jock or weightlifter, nor a couch potato, and began deliberate moderate exercise in my thirties when l saw the donuts at the office coffee machine were ending up around my waist.  Once l retired to Florida, that regimen got execrated to gym proportions. I didn’t smoke or take drugs or drink except for a few rum and cokes on the weekend, though l sometimes wonder now with all the shit that began hitting me in my late sixties whether l should have partied like it was 1999.

For the past three or four years I’ve been getting Ortho Visc shots in my knees, a lubricating anti inflammatory to hold back bone erosion, though last fall x-rays showed the med was not working as effectively as it had in the past

Senoisis of the spine hit me two years ago, where pressure is put on the spinal cord, creating painful Charlie horse like symptoms in both legs. The surgery was happily uneventful mainly because l shopped around for a back surgeon who would perform less invasive surgery. I had to do my own research to discover conventional back surgery where they replace connective tissue with an erector set can lead to incontinence and impotence. Happily Mr. Peter is still with me and l don’t need Depends yet, but with the back surgery all l had to deal with was an incision healing. It’s hardly that simple with the more painful shoulder surgery where l will be in a brace and sleeping in a recliner for six weeks.

Coupled with all this is the fact l am shrinking just like “The Incredible Shrinking Man” sci-fi classic of the fifties. Bad enough l was 5’6” all my life, but in just the last two years l have lost five inches in height. X-rays by a spine specialist showed my vertebrae and discs are collapsing and the cause l realize now of my chronic morning neck and back pain.

For even after my shoulder surgery was scheduled, to be performed by one of the guys who developed the procedure so you can’t get much better than that,  l questioned whether it is all worth it. If l will still be facing the neck and back pain everyday for the rest of my life, what’s the point? Yes, l thought of suicide, not tomorrow or next week or next month but sometime in the indeterminate future when it all becomes too much. I even have a plan: park my car in my carport, run a hose from the exhaust pipe of my Honda Element into the house and it will be arrivederci for me and my three aging doggies.

But l also love to fuck with doctors, body mechanics with egos of children or sometimes God, who l dealt with everyday in my thirty some years as a hospital marketing exec.  When l told my primary care doc about my suicidal thoughts, he quickly got a psychiatrist to see me in his office.  He was afraid l’d do myself in before the surgery and screw the system of all those tens of thousands of dollars of insurance money. So the shrink gives me a script for some pills which l’m testing right now.  Having been mild bipolar most of my life, l have always subscribed to the hard core philosophy that you have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps, kick yourself in the ass, smell the coffee and realize no one gives a shit about you but you.  And move on.

Which l did.

I jokingly say what l need is a total skeletal transplant. I’d cut a deal with a homeless guy at one of the bus shelters, and in exchange for his skeleton, l’d name the bus shelter he and his cronies congregate each morning in his memory and buy them coffee every morning for as long as l lived.

And if he were six feet, four, I’d throw in donuts.

After boasting about his surgical skills, I was ready to tell my boyishly handsome surgeon who resembles Houdini, the legendary magician, the only way l’d know for sure the operation is a success is if l can reach up and twist my boyfriend’s nips while l suck his cock.

Otherwise l’ll sue him for malpractice.

Now one would think my ex who lives in PA would be down to help me out, but pushing eighty with his own sort of health issues though he’s still pretty mobile, G plead the Fifth.

Thankfully l have a few good friends, my neighbor Hope the first girlfriend in my forty-nine year career as a professional faggot; my forty something boyfriend/ lover who is married to another older man younger than me and who twenty years his senior ironically is no longer interested in him sexually – go figure –  and a nurse buddy who l tricked with a few times and who has generously offered to be with me for the first few days following my surgery, though l’m wondering whether he’s planning to re-enact that s and m flick, Misery, with all the enemas, Foley catheters, and other assorted medical procedures he’s promising.

Oh, there were others but as the date of my surgery loomed closer, their enthusiasm about taking care of me waned and our so-called friendships evaporated faster than a spilt bottle of poppers.

If l can, l will try to keep you posted on my recovery.  Wish me luck.

The Radical Transformation of the Gay Bear Man

The Radical Transformation of the Gay Bear Man

I’m not alone in the stance I’m about to take here; a lot of in-shape older guys like me I’ve spoken to feel the same way. And I’m ready for those stale jelly donuts to be thrown at my car and some more hate mail (“how can you be so insensitive, closed minded….”) flood this site. But fuck it.

When I was coming out, bear meant only one thing: a beefy, built-like-a-brick-shithouse, masculine-as-all-hell gay man, with plenty of fur, if not a prerequisite, certainly preferred. Today, the term “bear” has been triangulated and sliced up like a piece of deli style hard salami into muscle bears, cubs, otters, and “Big Men.” While a great number among this sub-set of gay demographics still fit the classic traditional, gay porn fantasy of Tom of Finland (even if Santa Claus for some of them is their steroid supplier), the Jenny Craig failures, who besides the “something extra” are often effeminate, effete and smooth to boot, have seemingly overtaken the franchise. Hey, I find a bit of belly on the right humpy guy sexier than a six pack, but these guys, as many under 30’s as there are over 40’s, are not just beefy or humpy or chunky or pleasantly plump or a few pounds overweight, but morbidly obese. “Morbidly Obese” means they’re walking time bombs for stroke, heart attacks and the like, and contribute to the ever higher health care premiums all of us pay, even those of us who take care of ourselves. (Check the National Institutes of Health or U.S. Department of Health and Human Services websites if you wanna know how many pounds morbidly obese is.) Fat under 30’s would rather hide behind all these “bear” labels than face facts.

Now I see these so-called “bears” at Bear events, often in chummy circles, bobbing in the pool like their own buoys, enabling one another to eat that extra helping of fries like druggies edge on their fellow meth heads to take another puff. They seem content, yea, maybe even happy in their own skin and God bless ‘em if that’s true. (I think the only way they’re gonna lose weight is when the docs lop off a limb because of advanced diabetes.) I can understand the comfort they find in surrounding themselves with their own kind, since many of them I’m sure were grossly overweight from a young age and were ridiculed for it. Hell, I was the second shortest guy in my class and am still branded by the humiliation of being picked last for every fucken team in high school.  So, guys, I know the feeling because I LIVED it too.

But, having said that, I’m also pretty pissed on how the image portrayed by these full figure guys – the multi-layered look, shall we say  – has largely superseded what bear means in the eyes of the rest of the Gay Community. They are NOT bears as far as I’m concerned; they’re just Fat Men (those of you who follow my blogs know I call a spade a spade) who have pirated my pride as a still muscular, still in-shape and still pretty hairy gay man who fucken sacrifices what he eats and works out to make it happen – there’s no magic bullet.

Is it a symptom of us baby boomer gays growing older just like the larger straight men’s population of America? (Check out the middle age spreads at any mall on a Saturday afternoon.) Our sub-culture’s version of the obesity epidemic spreading among our youth? A sign of rebellion against the twink swimmer build boys or gym bunnies?  A carryover from the Sixties “I’m O.K., you’re O.K.” mentality? A mod twist to the “chubby” in “chubby chasers” terminology of a bygone gay era?

Whatever the reason, and you have no problems with your body image, fine. Just call yourselves something else – O.K.? (maybe Full Figure Guys?) – and leave me my “bear.”