Lauderdale’ s Wilton Manors Stonewall Festival: Oceans of Diversity

Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors Stonewall Festival:
Oceans of Diversity

For the first time in my life as a gay man I wasn’t just an observer but a participant in a gay pride event, and Fort Lauderdale’s, held this past Saturday in the heart of America’s current gay capital, Wilton Manors, was one that could even give NYC’s a run for its money. I had a table hustling my novels of gay erotica under my pen name, RP Andrews, (http://hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews) shared with my buddy Mike who publicly debuted for the first time his work as a digital artist, even selling some pieces. (You can find his stuff at

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My buddy Mike the artist and me the hard core porn writer by our table.

Yes, there was us vendors and the now traditional parade, and yes even a glorious hot and sweat South Florida afternoon to shine on us – what is a Gay Pride celebration without sweat – but what struck me most were the oceans of diversity that passed by our table. It was if no two people were quite alike, and it was then that I came to my own private conclusion that our people, the gay people of the world, are by far the most diverse people of humanity. Yes, there were those of us who conformed to our subculture’s’s niches, the drags and the leather men and the jockstrapped exhibitionists and butch cut girls, but so many, so many others projected our own “this is me, damn it!” attitude that made this day – our day – particularly special.

As an exhibitor I had the rare opportunity to chat with some young guys and gals (one twenty something young man thought I was sexy – thank you gay God) and to all of them I remarked that, despite Trump, this was a great time to be gay.

True, as a child of the late sixties, I was a part of the gay liberation movement that followed Stonewall, but I still lived and worked for the most part in a world where being homosexual was a stigma. Today, even the highest in our society can be chastised, even banished for making a mere homophobic remark. But my young people, as happy and excited as they were, the joy of the day lighting up their faces, didn’t quite see it that way, and intimated they wanted more.

Damn right we do. Yea, we’ve come a long way baby, but we ain’t quite there yet. But numbers speak louder than words and if the thirty five thousand people who came to Wilton Drive on Saturday are any indication, getting there is just a heartbeat away.

Happy Pride, not just on our day, but everyday of our lives.


Those That Shout Don’t Get Ulcers

Those That Shout Don’t Get Ulcers

My good friend Donnie is a genuinely nice guy. But sometimes being too nice and holding it all in with people you should not be nice to can lead to a terrible case of ulcers which were uncovered during his last colonoscopy.

Now it’s true his sixty hour a week job as a high powered ad executive, has its moments. But there are other stress points Donnie can easily eliminate.

Just a month ago I witnessed some obnoxious jerks at Donnie’s pool party, who kept grabbing at his tits and crouch when he repeatedly told them to cool it. After they left he vowed they would never be invited again, but in hindsight he should have told them to “get the fuck out” the day of the party.

Or what about the meth head cutie and buddy of Donnie’s from Georgia who was invited to stay the weekend but ended up barricaded in his guest bedroom getting high instead of mingling. Had I been the host I would have told him that if he wanted to get high all alone he could do that much better – at home.

So I’m already working on the “Doing A Ray” curriculum which is telling assholes exactly what you think of them, sometimes punctuated by lots of shouting and the use of colorful New York vernacular.

In the meantime I’ve asked Donnie to do a demo the next time he is on a plane for work. The first passenger that pisses him off gets a loud “Go fuck yourself!” If the female attendant attempts to intervene, he’s to tell her to go fuck herself. And If it is a male attendant he is to grab him, throw him in the john and savagely gang rape him.

How I know he will be successful is when I get that call from his partner that he was escorted off the plane by the feds.

Remembering Dad

Remembering Dad

While gay guys are supposed to identify more with their mothers and I guess that was true in my case too, my confidence in being the gay man I am today came from my Dad. Gone now twenty years.

No, I never had sex with my dad nor did my Dad want sex with me. But there were moments during my adolescence that I wish he had.

Though plain featured Eastern European in the looks department (my grandparents were from Slovakia), not a giant of man at 5-7, not very interested in sports, a high school drop-out, and not very demonstrative, he nonetheless impressed me with his naturally masculine demeanor and hirsute, stocky – not sloppy – physique in the days when gyms were reserved for bodybuilders.

It was that body – seeing my dad naked as he emerged from the shower – that awakened my sexuality and gave me my first hard-ons when I turned 12 and I began to see him emerging in me, particularly the fur. Then, I felt self-conscious, but years later as I entered gay life, I wore it like a badge of honor for it was my fur – much like my dad’s in texture and abundance – that separated me from other guys, taller guys, handsomer guys and, even as I got older, placed me in a sought after league of my own.

Again my father was not the sterotypical sports freak dad and I must lay blame for my disinterest in competitive sports at his doorstep. True, not having those skills so associated with being male in American society caused me grief in high school – had my high school featured gymnastics or wrestling I would have excelled – but that failing was more than compensated by other, far more important virtues he instilled and cultivated in me – patience and imagination.

From my slightly psychotic mother, Russian in background (yes, I’m a Slavic pedigree), I inherited my wildness, short temper, and, yes, cynicism about people and life. Ah, but from my father I learned that listening got you further than shouting, a trait that served me well in my decades in public relations where learning how to get and give was paramount to success.

And while he never graduated high school and was a factory laborer all his life, with a brief stint in the Air Force where he bailed out over Nazi Europe and became a World War II hero in the process, I think if he had had the benefit of an education, he would have become an architect or engineer, someone destined to build things. He often helped me with those “hands-on” school projects where that knack to think outside the box was needed, and my curiosity about things and visual sense ( I still assemble thinks looking at the pictures, not reading the directions) blended well with my interest in reading I inherited by osmosis from my mother, an avid reader all her life.

Unlike with my mother, I rarely quarreled with my father – he was just not the quarreling kind – and I often wonder if his patience and holding back his frustrations with his wife, an unsettled and unsettling personality who often berated him, led to his early demise at 74 from a stroke. I blamed her for his death throughout the thirteen years she survived him, but now both of them are gone, lying side by side for eternity, and there is no use in crying over spilled milk.

I never discussed being gay with either of them nor did they ever really bring the subject up despite my disinterest in women. But I often wonder to this day how he would have reacted had he known or I placed whatever he might have thought squarely on the table.

Maybe, he might have just listened.

All I can tell you, incestuous as it may sound, I still subliminally remember my first sexual awakenings with my Dad every time I kiss a man.

Join Us At Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors Stonewall Gay Pride Festival This Saturday, June 16

Join Us At Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors Stonewall Gay Pride Festival This Saturday, June 16

GetOutAd (2)

If you shout back, “Fuck yea!” like you mean it, you’ll get a free USB with a sample chapter of the audiobook edition (narrated by me) of my latest work of gay erotica, “For The Love of Samuel.” It’s a story of love lost and love found, where an aging Manhattan gay man comes into possession of the dog tag of a long dead Civil War soldier which promises him eternal youth and a chance at meeting the live of his life. For more info and a free listen of some audiobook chapters,  check out:


I will be joined by my buddy who goes by Ttable Whey and who’ll be displaying – and selling – some of his unique digitized photo montage art as well as playing electronic music he writes including a club music track incorporating sound bites from my Audiobook Edition.

Mike art 1

You can find his art at:

mike art 2

And his music which includes DJ tracks at: and

It should be a fun afternoon. See you there!

The One Guy Who Did More For Me Than Anyone Else ln My Life

The One Guy Who Did More For Me Than Anyone Else ln My Life

His name is Lonnie and though I’ve known him less than a few years, he was the one person above all others, including my ex-partner of 46 years and my fair weather friends, who came through when I needed someone the most.

I met Lonnie, a nurse practitioner who travels across the U.S. monitoring drug trials for the phamas, through a mutual friend Billy Splenda. We hit it off instantly. Two nerds who have our shit together sexually with a twisted, sarcastic view on life. But Lonnie has also got caregiver in his DNA, and when he heard I was having shoulder surgery he instantly offered to re-arrange his work schedule so he would be free to stay with me, as he put it, “to drug you up so much I’ll pimp your ass out and you won’t even know it.” (Still waiting, Lonnie, still waiting.)

Seriously, he took me the morning of my surgery and stayed with me through Preop where, while everyone else was shitting bricks on what was going to happen to them next, we laughed and joked right to the moment they wheeled me into the OR.

And we had a lot to laugh about, like the swishy nurse assistant who remembered me from my back surgery two years before and shaved my left shoulder and upper chest area with a leering glimmer in his eyes (“I forgot how hairy you are..” ). If I ever entertained going for transgender surgery they’d have to tack on an extra five grand just to laser off all my gorilla fur.

Or when the intake nurse kept asking me about ailments I didn’t have, then realized she was looking for a woman.


In recovery, I woke right up and, they tell me, entertained the staff like a standup comedian while Lonnie waited for me up in my room. If I had been able to get a private room which are at a premium, he would have even arranged to have a recliner brought to my room so he could be there all night just in case.

While I had had grave trepidations about the surgery, everything went like clockwork. But instead of taking me straight home the following day after I was discharged and putting me to bed with a hot tottie (or knocking me out like he promised so he could start pimping our my tight hairy hole), Lonnie swung through Wilton Manors, Lauderdale,’s gay ghetto, where we hit thrift shop row, I bought a six foot bright pink metal flamingo to add to my patio’s collection and we had lunch at a new trendy outdoor Greek restaurant. Later, without even a nap, we hit the Ramrod, our leather bar, shaking our booties on its tiny dance floor to the wee hours of the morning.

So much for convalescence. My surgeon, a cute guy who resembled Houdini, would have flipped out.

We repeated the party circuit Saturday, and Sunday hit Hunters, Lauderdale’s most popular dance bar frequented by gays and str8s alike, where we boogied to its Studio 54 disco tracks all night. Playing my bodyguard, Lonnie made sure people steered clear of my sling – the shoulder variety.

After all, I had just had major surgery 48 hours before.

A bamboo devotee with a virtual rain forest at his home in St. Augustine, Lonnie took me Monday to the largest bamboo nursery in South Florida located in Palm Beach where I bought a half dozen varieties that Lonnie planted around my house, his humble beginnings as a Texas farm boy pretty much in evidence.

While I enjoy living alone, I had so grown so use to Lonnie’s company, entertaining me with his one liners, funny patient/doctor tales and a totally warped sense of humor totally in sync with mine, that I didn’t need my Percocets, and when he finally left that Wednesday I was kinda lost.

Look up the word “friend” in the dictionary and you’ll find Lonnie’s ruggedly handsome face.

Smiling as always.

Attention Whores

Attention Whores

attention whore (noun): an individual with an exhibitionist streak often rooted in low self esteem who will do practically anything to attract the notice of others. While ideally that notice should generate a positive response, the main objective of an attention whore is to get noticed, positively or negatively.

I should know. I’m an attention whore, always have been, rooted in a terrible adolescence where l was singled out as the class nerd, an experience that left being permanently emotionally scarred. To shove the shit right back in their face, I was a straight A student in high school and maintained a 4.0 average in college and graduate school, all while working part-time. I was a Type A all of my working years, driven by my determination to be lauded and recognized, and in gay life my need, no, my hunger for attention – more than the sex – led me to prance around wherever l could shirtless. For you see, l discovered early that the thick fur that enveloped my sturdy little frame and had caused me embarrassment in my high school locker room was my claim to fame in a world built on physicality.

A natural born iconoclast, l always went against the grain, doing papers in school on th atypical subjects, creating my own inhouse ad agency for the healthcare system l served at as its communications director when everybody else hired an agency instead; and when guys in the leather bars l frequented in the now gone West Village of the 1980’s-90’s New York, or in Chicago or L. A. or here in Fort Lauderdale would wear jeans and a harness on a Saturday night, l opted for a singlet, no shirt or designer underwear.

Just to be different, just to be noticed.

It was rather late in life – yes, not until my sixties –  that l got over my low self esteem and had confidence in myself and let the rest of the world be damned. Like one ex fuck buddy told me in a huff, “You’re the only guy I know that says it like it is and doesn’t give a fuck what people think.”

Yet old habits die hard, and l continue my exhitionist behavior long after it was “appropriate” (for a 70 year old faggot) because, well, once an attention whore, always an attention whore.

Just recently l was walking over to our local dance club, Hunters, in a  of pair of short shorts that showed off my muscular hairy legs, when l overheard a twink a few yards behind me say in a low voice to his cohorts, referring obviously to me: “l wouldn’t wear shorts that short in public.”

I slowed up just enough so they would catch up to me, then with a smile that would turn a pit in hell artic, l buzzed back, all folksy, “You think these are short? You should see the ones I wear when I go to the supermarket.”


In my latest work of erotic fiction, “For The Love of Samuel,” my protagonist Billy Veleber, once an aging Manhattan gay man, now gradually becoming young again thanks to the magical powers of a long dead Civil War soldier’s dog tag, visits the new Eagle, what is left of the City’s once colorful leather scene. There he encounters…

“In between the groupies are some of the oldest members of our clan,The Old Guard, usually alone because most of their cronies are already dead,  and usually with enough keys hanging from their belts to rival a night watchman at the Chrysler Building, the fucken handkerchiefs hanging from their pockets, so Twentieth Century, or the best of them in faded, stretched out jock straps that should be on Antiques Road Show along with their owners. Yea it’s true, the older some of these guys got, the less they wore. For attention l guess.

Admired or ridiculed, it doesn’t matter; the greatest sin is to be ignored.”




The Supreme Court “Wedding Cake” Decision: We Dodged The Bullet

The Supreme Court “Wedding Cake” Decision:
We Dodged The Bullet

It could have turned out horribly different with the Court deciding to side on those who would use their religious beliefs to discriminate against us, as Trump’s people wanted, which could have brought an end to our fight for full civil rights.

But although the majority of the justices gave the narrow win to the baker who refused to make a wedding cake for a gay couple because men getting married was against the Bible, they emphasized the importance that civil rights, the rights of everyone of us, usurp any one individual’s religious rights.

As Justice Kennedy wrote in the ruling, “such objections do not allow business owners and other actors in the economy and in society to deny protected persons equal access to goods and services under a neutral and generally applicable public accommodations law.”

So why did the Court rule in favor of baker then? Because when the case went before the liberal Colorado Civil Rights Commission, one commission member scolded the baker for rejecting the gay couple’s request for a wedding cake on religious grounds, an argument he said had been used to justify slavery, the Holocaust and all sorts of other discrimination.

Interesting enough this was the second ruling in which Gorsuch, the conservative justice appointed by Trump, sided with the liberal members of the Court.

But though we may have dodged the bullet, only a minority of the states – 22 – have laws forbidding businesses from discriminating based on sexual orientation. Federal law does not.

And guess who runs the White House and Congress right now.

Medical Marijuana Anyone? Now That I Was Diagnosed As Crazy, What Next?

Medical Marijuana Anyone? Now That I was Diagnosed As Crazy, What Next?

One thing I’ve learned is that medical marijuana is one budding industry with a lot of money grabbers.

As last l left this, l had gotten my letter (or l should say bought my letter) from the clinical psychologist who diagnosed me with PTSD, the only non-medical condition of the eight which right now allow you to get a script for medical marijuana.

Well last week, my checkbook again in hand, l visited the local office which validates the diagnosis and assists in applying online for your Medical Marijuana card, issued by the State Health Department, which is your entree to purchasing stuff.

As soon as l said traditional medicine had failed me which is why l was looking into MM, the staff sounded more liberal than a pity party for Hillary. The doctor asked about my symptoms and l repeated the required script like a parrot (anxiety, depression, sleeplessness, body pain) and then added a little pizazz. After all l am a fiction writer and told the doc that my PTSD was the result of a homophobic incident in which a gang of thugs nearly beat the shit out of me coming out of a New York bar. ( Not true. I could blame my PTSD on being brought up by my psychotic, bipolar, Napoleonic mother, but she’s been dead for twelve years.)

They confirmed that while you could order medicinals for delivery, there weren’t currently any dispensaries in Broward County (Fort Lauderdale is the county seat). That’s because dispensaries must be located x feet from a school zone and apparently we got a lot of ‘em. Even with all of us gay men and women here in one of the queerest counties in the U.S., str8’s apparently are still doing a lot of fucking.

The office forwarded me by email a link to the state registry application which seemed to ask for the very same info the office had and then charged me another seventy five dollars to process my app that in turn would lead to my card. (Which by the way needs to be renewed annually.)

Fortunately l won’t have to wait till l get the card to benefit from the potential miracle powers of weed. Not only did those friends of mine who let me try their vapor cig filled with MM oil send me one gratis because they give a shit; my regeneration doc who plants my testosterone pellets in my buttocks to reawaken my libidio could sell me CDS oil made of hemp – just two hundred dollars for a chance at a miracle.

So here l am using MaryJane, which believe it or not l had never tried during my college days, not to get high but try to rid myself of the demons that rake my body with arthritis every morning.

Whether all this is any good or any better than good old Advil, well the jury is still out…

Another Reprise of My “Go Ask Daddy” Columns

Another Reprise of My “Go Ask Daddy” Columns

Buddy: I’m an older guy, financially comfortable and retired, who after my wife of forty years died of breast cancer, decided to follow my heart and lead a gay existence. Recently I met a man almost twenty years my junior, on SS Disability because he’s HIV positive – which doesn’t bother me – and who works occasionally as a DJ at the bar where we first met. Well, we fell in love, deeply in love, and since he sleeps on his brother’s couch in the flophouse side of town and I have a roomy condo on the right side of town, he’s asked if he could move in with me which sounds great. The only problem is I learned from some of his buddies at the bar that he’s a meth head. When I confronted him with this, he admitted he had been hooked but was clean now.

After nearly a lifetime of denying who I am and now finding this beautiful guy who says he loves me, nothing means more to me than to have him with me. Do you think I’m foolish letting him move in?

Daddy: Fuck yea! I mean, what is he bringing to the table, huh? You’re the one with the condo and the money and probably a nice BMW, right? And what has he got? A disability check, some needle marks and yea, maybe a great ass. So he’s a good fuck – so, fuck him. Don’t have him move in with you! At least not until he earns your trust which means telling him to find a real job (just because he’s on Disability doesn’t mean he can’t work) and find his own place even if it’s a one room flat in somebody’s house. Then maybe in three or six months you can consider him being a roommate with benefits.

If he can’t do that much, he’s a loser looking for Easy Street – meaning you.

And if you can’t tell whether he’s still using, look for some of the telltale signs when he’s with you – in and out of bed. Profuse sweating, a Chatty Cathy mouth, jumpy behavior, no appetite, insomnia and the need to carry bottled water around like it was oxygen.

If any of this is evident, it’s not you he loves – it’s the meth. Ditch him and ditch him quick before you end up in the ditch yourself.


Mixed Messsages

Mixed Messages

I was at pool party last week, chatting with a few guys l hadn’t met before, and eventually our chatter led to our respective on again, off again love lives. Having abruptly ended one “affair” earlier this spring after three years and a dozen red flags that should have told me to pull the plug sooner, l felt like some wise sage as l heard them spin their respective, eerily familiar tales. Both were younger than me by a decade or more, but what the fuck, my lover, maybe the only true lover I’ve ever had in my shitty little life – and I call him that because he says he loves me as much as I love him – is almost thirty years my junior, so who’s counting?


The first was a horse vet, 51, who had frequent business with a pet vet who happened to own horses. Pet Vet liked playing footsie with Horse Vet as well as other parts of his anatomy but kept saying he was not into relationships. Yet Horse Vet kept hoping, wondering if all that foot play was more than just horse play. P.S.: Horse Vet had a string of young guys as playmates who he fell for but who as soon as they fell for someone closer to their age left him.


The other guy, 48, an upstate cop, was into older guys and had been having fabulous sex with a 61 year old teacher for over two years who never seemed to want to go beyond the bedroom with their relationship. Cop, however, somehow hoped things would change. Then last week Teacher, who had moved from Cleveland five years ago, suddenly announced with enthusiasm that he was returning to Cleveland where he felt “more comfortable.”


Mixed messages? Or do we only believe the message we want to hear and not the one that says the truth? That all these two guys wanted was as my old secretary who left her husband and grandchildren for our hospital CEO who did the same was “a romp in the hay with honey on it,” not Godiva chocolates on Valentine’s Day.


While I’ve toyed with the idea about having a mob buddy of mine break both his legs for using me, l had plenty of red flags that should have alerted me that the guy l saw for three years viewed me as his free standby rentboy, available when he wanted it, and had no intentions of running off to Vegas and getting married by an Elvis Presley imitator who happened to be a midget. Or even exchanging diamond studded platinum cock rings.


So what’s the lesson be learned from this trio of bad luck stories? Listen with your brain, not your dick or, worse, your heart. No matter how lovey-dovey a guy gets, if he implies or outright says he doesn’t want to get connected and nothing changes to the contrary, believe him and  instead as Joan Didion titled her novel about crazy sixties’ L.A.  “play it as it lays.”


Or as us brazen New Yorkers would put it, get the fuck out.