My Memorial Day Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

My Memorial Day Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part II

Two nights later as I canvassed the websites to see if anybody loved me, Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a “Why don’t you come over?” I taught college and had an 8 a.m. class and Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me?

Who knew?

Who cared?

He was out of Elbow Grease and we spent the next hour rambling from all-night drug stores to a 24/7 porn shop on Dixie Highway which only had some small canisters left.

Lighting up in the car, we began another trip to Arousaland and it was that night that Mitch – or was it the G? – confessed he hadn’t enjoyed being with a man as much as he had with me in a very long time.

This time neither of us came.

As we walked out from his place to my car together an eternity later, he gestured to his new little compact Cooper sitting in the front lot that his parents had leased for their 42 year old only child. By 42, I was a vice president with quarter of a million in the bank and two houses.

“I’m a little pissed at them, though,” he whined, “I really wanted a convertible. After all, this is South Florida.”

“You don’t sound very grateful,” I said.

“Hey,” replied Mitch not at all defensive. “They made me the egocentric fuck I am today. It was always Mitchy you’re so handsome, Mitchy, you’re so great, Mitchy, you’re so smart. So why shouldn’t they get their Mitchy, their little boy, a convertible, huh?”

The cynical former New Yorker slash former public relations exec in me knew it would happen sooner or later if I continued these liaisons with a meth-head, beautiful as he was to me. Sure enough, a week later, early on a Saturday afternoon, after inviting me on line to his lair, Mitch followed my, “yea, why not,” with, “I’m out of stuff. Got any $$ so I get some for us?”

Usually, the “I’m not going to fall for this shit” side of me would have responded, “thanks but no thanks.” But, hell, I had gotten high twice on his dime so, I rationalized, I owed him, right? I left the hundred bucks in twenties in my mailbox while he went to meet his dealer in Miami and I took a nap. Our plan was to rendezvous around 9. When I didn’t hear from him by ten I figured I had been taken but decided to call him anyway.

“Sorry, he wasn’t ready with the shit,” Mitch explained, all apologetic. “I’ll be over at your place by 11. Promise.”

Now, call me paranoid, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable about letting a confirmed druggie know where I lived but I had been getting increasingly claustrophobic about his place. Besides, he didn’t want me to use Crisco when I fist fucked him on his air mattress since he claimed it smelled up his humble abode. My house, with central air, eliminated that logistical problem.

Mitch made good on his promise and we spent the night and most of the next day in Druggie Heaven. And the Crisco helped me go in deeper, so that by the end of that night Mitch had become a full-fledged fistee graduate.

While I instructed my lawn man that morning about some new palm tree plantings, Mitch catnapped. But I noticed that when all the stuff we had been taking wore off, my usually very animated and boisterous stud, my butch Chatty Cathy doll with a knot in his cord, became very quiet and subdued, almost shy.

“My generation needs drugs to have sex,” he explained. His observation made me feel old and superior all in the same moment. And when later he was leaving and asked if I wanted to keep what crystal was left – “after all, you paid for it,” – and I told him no, he was surprised.

“You mean you don’t need all this shit?”

“No,” I repeated, very matter of factly.

“You know something,” he said, grinning. “I admire you.”

I didn’t hear from Mitch again for over a week and figured that was that. Maybe he was disappointed that his hypnotic hold on me had not quite succeeded as he had hoped. Translation: transform me into a crackhead fuckbuddy just like him. Then, one o’clock one night, out of the blue, he called, explaining he had taken advantage of a freebie in Key West, courtesy of a couple he had known from his NYC days who had fought most of the weekend but kept him amply supplied in stuff. He wanted to see me, said he missed me, and could I come over now?

His hair was a mess. Apparently he had tried to buzz cut himself but with no second mirror the back of his head still had uneven blotches of hair, making him look like a cross between a slightly deranged, homeless guy and an inmate of a Nazi concentration camp. I pulled out his Oster and evened things out. Even then, just touching his head, my dick sprung to attention.

So how’s the Census job working out?” I asked.

“Oh, I gave that up – too much bullshit for too little dough. I’m on Rentboy.com now,” and he proceeded to pull up his ad.

“Italian Stallion?” I asked as I scanned it. “OK, but why are using Larry? That sounds so Brooklyn Jew. Why not Vito or Tony or Joey or something?”

“The name Larry worked for me back in New York,” he gloated. Then he opened his bureau and, reaching for his wallet, flashed a seemingly endless sea of bills.

“I could make a lot more back in NYC but there’s also a lot more competition. And hell, eight hundred bucks for one night ain’t bad, huh?”

We lit up again.

“You know,” he continued to ponder in one of his rare, less erratic moments, “I bet we could sell ourselves as a tag team and make some serious dough. There’s a lot of lonely guys out there looking for a dynamic duo like us. Hell, we could pass ourselves off as brothers. Shit, now that would be some gimmick.”

All I kept thinking was how I would make the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest guy to have the balls to attempt to sell his bod on Rentboy.

“Yea, but aren’t most of these guys looking to get fucked? I mean, how can you perform if you’re …?”

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

“Oh, I’m a total top to my johns but I tell them that, after all, I am 42 and sometimes the Snake ain’t up for biting, and they’re content to get fingered fucked or have me shove a dildo up their ass just as long as I’m the one doin’ the shovin’ and they can feel all this fur of mine against them.”

He stroked himself, then seamlessly moved his hand ever so lightly up my abs to my chest and looked me straight in the eye. “That’s why I know we could be a winning team.”

A few days later a far more frantic Mitch called me.

“Can you do me a favor?” he pleaded. “Can you loan me $50 so I can get to my parents? They’ll give me some dough once I’m up there and I’ll pay you right back.”

“But what happened to all that money you showed me the other night?”

“Ah, those fuckin’ Indians stole it all,” referring to the poker tables at the casino the Seminole Indians ran in Hollywood, “and my last two johns were no-shows.”

Suddenly the Daddy in me creped out.

“But Mitch, you gotta get your shit together. You’re an intelligent adult. You know that.”

“I know, I know – I will…” he replied, more to pacify me than attempt any moment of self-realization. “You’re beginning to sound like my father who keeps telling me to check out Gamblers Anonymous.”

I stuck twenty dollars in the mailbox, enough to fill the tank of his compact, and woke up to the reality that he was beyond redemption. That was about the only reason why I hadn’t fallen in love with him I kept telling myself, right?

I was just about ready to leave for L.A. Fitness the following afternoon when Mitch, unannounced, showed up in my driveway.

I told you I’d pay you back,” he said, laying the twenty dollar bill on my kitchen counter.

I never did get to the gym that day.

The conclusion tomorrow.

 

My Memorial Day Weekend Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part I

My Memorial Day Classic: Mitch, My Brother, My Clone – Part I

I only knew Mitch a few weeks out of my petty life but I know I will never forget him. In fact, I think of him more times without thinking than I wish I did. And it’s been eight years come this Memorial Day weekend that he left me for good.

One Saturday night at 2606, the now defunct leather bar in Tampa, I was stalked by a dissipated, bloated guy, probably younger than me. I tried to be polite with some non-committal small talk but each time I delicately got some distance between us, he popped up again to leer. Finally, inevitably, he went in for the kill.

“So buddy, what exactly are you waiting for?” he asked in a guttural, butchy tone.

Without hesitating, I blurted straight out: “Me.”

Well, Mitch, my sturdy little furry New York City Jew boy, was the closest “me” I think I’ll ever meet in my life.

I don’t quite remember who came on to whom on Manhunt that late Tuesday night, but there was no doubt his rough-hewn bearded face and naturally muscular, slightly stocky hairy body donned only in 501’s and a profile that emphasized, “looking for older, masculine hairy guys only – facial hair a must” caught the attention of my dick. That and the fact that, despite measurements that read “9 inches,” his screen name was “beefyhairybottom.”

I mapquest his address to a non-descript house off dingy 13th Street just a few blocks from Lauderdale’s leather hangout, the Ramrod, and drove over. Wishing to make a good first impression, I threw my tank top on my car seat and followed his instructions to walk to the rear to a small dilapidated guest house. I knocked on the splintered wooden door.

“Who is it?” shouted out a deep voice with that distinct New Yorkeese accent I knew so well, having spoken it myself most of my years.

I announced myself.

“It’s open,” he shouted back.

I walked through the foyer, if you could call the three feet that separated the door from the rest of his space a foyer, and parted the plastic shower curtains.

There he stood, naked except for a pair of leather boots, designer boots he would tell me later, a relic from his fat cat Manhattan days, holding a mini- blow torch of a butane lighter beneath the end of a glass pipe. He took a deep drag, blew the smoke out just as quickly, then reached out and carefully handed it to me. He had said nothing about partying either in his profile or in our e-mails but I grabbed onto it anyway. Our eyes – both cat eyes, green but with a flash of blue in the right light – met as I clutched the pipe tightly so not to drop it while he held the lighter beneath the bowl end and gestured for me to gently shift it back and forth.

“Suck it in but don’t hold it – the shit can crystallize in your lungs,” he cautioned, still staring into my soul. “Not a good thing.”

I dropped my shorts and stood naked, our faint six pack abs almost touching.

“Leave your boots on,” he whispered. “I like that.”

Except for the fact he was a bit taller than me at 5 foot eight and younger, I could have been staring at myself in the mirror. Buzzed cut, balding, scruffy beard, broad hairy shoulders, tight muscular arms, hairy chest and abs, thick thighs and calves, again all covered in fur, he was the idealization of manhood in my mind.

My brother.

My clone.

Even though he was Jewish and I was a Lutheran, we were both, I learned later, Slovak/Russian mutts with that hint of Mongolian in the slant of our eyes. We had the kind of bodies my so-called friends would chide me were made to lay down railroad ties until I retorted I made three times the money they did.

About the only obvious difference besides age was Mitch’s huge fat cock (versus my more conventional six and a half) and his super erratic behavior. He was jumping around and rambling on as if someone had shot a tube of Ben Gay up his beautifully furry, manly butt.

“You want another hit?” he asked.

I never searched out for the stuff but if a trick had some to share, well…

“Yea, but I want Mr. Peter to cooperate,” I replied, grabbing my semi-erect cock. “You know junk and hard dicks are alien enemies.”

“Don’t worry. I got Viagra. Want one?”

I had already taken 100 mgs, figuring I had to be up and ready to fuck the shit out of him, but accepted the generosity of this beautiful stranger and popped another. I wanted to make damn well sure I would keep “beefyhairybottom” happy.

His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before. Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.

Throughout all our carousing and stroking and kissing and licking one another’s armpits and sweaty matted bodies, Mitch continued to babble on almost incoherently, not so much because of the junk streaming through his veins but, as he admitted, because he suffered attention affective disorder and didn’t take his meds for fear they would fuck up his high. Yet despite his ungrammatical soundbites, I learned a lot that first night about my clone.

That he was 42, had grown up in Westchester – read comfortable – a graduate of NYU, with a CPA’s license he had never used, how his parents were snowbirds with a place in West Palm, and how he had avoided working at a real job like the plague while somehow living the highlife in a beautiful Chelsea duplex. He proudly pointed to the framed page hanging on his wall from New York magazine circa 1989 crowning him one of New York’s sexiest men (“I know had a lot more hair then, but I still look good, huh?”) and gloated how he had gone from one successful business venture to the next, his last selling designer sunglasses on line netting him an incredible $25,000 a month which, when he wasn’t smoking it away, he lost on the poker tables of Atlantic City. Bottom line: he had come down to South Florida with $300 to his name to be near mommy and daddy and their wallets, and where he could live cheap, as exemplified by his $500 a month apartment, the size of my walk-in closet, that, despite the hole in the wall, he prided himself in finding.

As far as men went, he liked them about his height (“tall guys are goofy looking – most of the porn stars are short like us, anyway”), hairy, with facial hair, and in-shape bods. It was as if he were reciting my own private wet dream. He tapped my hard earned six pack, then his own. “It has less to do with the gym than with genes, believe me,” he concluded smugly.

As predicted, Mr. Peter was rather shy that night, though I did succeed in fucking Mitch for awhile before my hard-on succumbed to the stuff. But it almost didn’t matter. We rolled around in our mutual sweat, mouthing our pretty but pretty useless genitals when we weren’t yanking on them like two adolescent boys exploring their puberty dicks.

Then came my moment of inspiration.

“You ever get fisted?” I asked, eyeing his toy box to the side of the bed with its eclectic collection of dildos and not wanting to disappoint that hairy, manly butt of his.

“Once, back in New York, but the guy was too rough, didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Well,” I boasted, holding up my right hand, “a cast of this hand is in the Fist Fuckers Hall of Fame.”

With that, as he lay there facing me, I gently entered him, and we were both elevated to a new level of Endless Ecstasy. In the past, I had found fisting a guy as exciting as doing my laundry but it was different with Mitch. As he groaned and gyrated on the bed and I slowly went ever deeper, we became one.

Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.

In the end, what I thought would be a 47 minute quickie turned out to be an all-nighter. With the heavy shades drawn on his single window, it was hard to tell morning had arrived, whether we liked it or not. My sole focus now was to get off, but with all the shit I had smoked and slugged down, it seemed a miracle to get my dick up enough to finally squirt, stroking the heavy fur on Mitch’s chest and abs as my erotica while he faded into blissful oblivion. Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.

“You are one beautiful man,” I said, scanning him slowly from head to toe, never expecting to see him again. He smiled faintly, turned over and fell almost instantly to sleep as I walked out.

Part II, tomorrow.

Club Track Inspired By “For The Love of Samuel”

Club Track Inspired By “For The Love of Samuel”

In an unprecedented collaboration between two creative genuses, (okay, okay, I know what you’re saying, enough with the hyperboles, Ray) a multi-talented and handsome buddy of mine who goes by the name Ttable Whey has written a club music rack incorporating soundbites from the audiobook edition of my latest work of gay erotica, “For The Love Of Samuel.”

Here it is:

For more hip music by my buddy check out his website, Ttablewhey.bandcamp.com

For the ebook or audiobook edition of “For the Love of Samuel” check out Amazon; the audiobook edition is also on sale on Audible and i-Tunes.

For more info on me check out hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com

“Very Real and Very Sexy”…

“Very Real and Very Sexy” …

is how Amos Lassen, a leading critic of gay erotica, described the Audiobook Edition of my latest novel, “For The Love of Samuel, ” now out as an e-book and audiobook on Amazon and as an audiobook on Audible and i-Tunes. Yours truly is the narrator.

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.

In this audiobook sample, Billy has just put on the magical dog tag and is beginning his transformation from a 51 year aging gay man to a 21 year old young gay stallion. He decides to visit a local bath house in Manhattan he hadn’t been at in over a decade since he met his older lover and mentor Gus, now out of his life …

Much later, now in Fort Lauderdale where he plans to begin a new life, Billy meets the man who will become the love of his life in of all places the local leather bar, the Gearshaft, patterned after Lauderdale’s real life Ramrod:

“For The Love of Samuel” is now on sale in ebook and audiobook formats on Amazon; and on Audible and i-Tunes in its Audiobook edition. Or check it and my other works of serious gay eroica at hardcoregayeroticabyrpandews.com

Audiobook Version of My Erotic Gay Romance, “For The Love of Samuel” Now Out on Audible, i-Tunes and Amazon…

Audiobook Version of My Erotic Gay Romance, “For The Love of Samuel” Now Out on Audible, i-Tunes and Amazon…

… what Amos Lassen, a leading reviewer of gay erotica said made “Samuel seem very real and very sexy.” Narrated by me – who else – the author.

It was fun doing the recording and playing a ham as I enacted the various roles of my characters. I’ve listened to only a few audiobooks in the past,  but now having done one myself l see how you can add a certain zest and new reality to your words.  “For The Love of Samuel” is written in first person, present tense which means my character, Billy, is telling his story as it is happening to him – and you.

Says Amos Lassen in his review:

“There have been countless stories about the quest for youth and everlasting life making it difficult to find a new way to approach it and write about it. Here is where Andrew succeeds. He takes the facts that he has learned and converts them into fantasy and he gives us a very sexy story. It seems that there were certain dog tags that contained the life force of their long dead owners and when the tags were transferred to a new owner, the person returned to the age Samuel was when he lost his life.

We meet some very hot men who have some very hot sex but the reader must be ready to read fast because the novel is fast paced. I actually heard, and thoroughly enjoyed the audio version that made it all seem very real (and very sexy). However, it is not only the sex that keeps the story moving. Writer Andrews tells a good story in wonderful prose…

There are a lot of characters and the story changes directions a few times keeping us alert. This is one of those books that will stay with me for quite a while.”

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.

Here’s a sample from the audiobook version: Billy, the aging 51 year Manhattan gay man, has completed his transformation to a youthful 21 year old Billy thanks to the prowess of the magical dog tag of Samuel Evans, a long dead Civil War Soldier. Starting a new life in sunny Fort Lauderdale, Billy meets Dare, a 42 year disgraced ex New York City cop now working as a security guard at the leatherbar Billy gets a job at as a barback. The chemistry between them is immediate, and that night, Dare takes Billy back to his condo where they make love for the very first time …

“For The Love of Samuel” is available in ebook and audiobook editions on Amazon.com. For excerpts, other sample audiotracks and a club music track inspired by the book, check out: hardcoregayeroticabyrpandrews.com

 

 

Bits and Pieces

Bits and Pieces

You Go Girl!

One of my neighbors here in Fort Lauderdale, a former Brit, is a  vigorous anti-monarchist, and I agree Great Britain maintains its royal history more out of tourism than tradition. But you have to give credit to Meghan Markle for her feisty streak of independence and pride in being the child of an interracial marriage which she apparently exhibited since childhood, her calm under pressure attitude on life, and the fact she’s been a working girl, no”princess” in her former existence. I would just love to know how these two people, obviously so much in love, who lived on different continents in lives that couldn’t be more dichotomous actually met – and clicked.

Sort of like me and my lover where the chemistry between us is unmistakable despite the fact he’s old enough to be my son.

Go figure.

 

Social  Media and School Shootings

Changing gun laws is only cosmetic dressing on a systematic problem rooted in mental illness treatment, always being viewed as a step child to “real medicine” when it comes to insurance coverage, that and the apparent lack of common sense by parents who must have blinders on when it comes to not seeing their children’s mental health issues and leaving supervision of firearms in their homes plain sloppy.  As far as I’m concerned they’re accessories after the fact or actually the perpetrators, with their child the vehicle for committing such horrific acts.

But I think also contributing to this relatively new nightmare on the American scene is the platform social media like Facebook gives these kids.  I think it’s more than coincidence that these shootings have  increased, or in fact started at all at a time when social media  began to dominate our national psyche. Where your most secret thoughts can be posted for the world to see and feed in some individuals’ deep seated need to be noticed.

And why, damn it, such as with the underhanded advertising by sinister Russian-backed organizations out to dismantle our democratic process, didn’t Facebook algorithms and human spotters identify troubling precursors left on the FB pages of the Texas and Florida shooters that should have been reported to authorities and taken down.

Not worry if the shadow of my penis can be seen through my shorts which cost me 30 days in FB prison.

 

Five Days in the Hospital Is Not “Minor”

I have no ill will for the woman but l couldn’t care less that Melania whose name her husband misspelled in his tweet about her  miraculous recovery spent five days in the hospital for a “minor” kidney issue. But I find that a bit strange. l was out in three days following my lower back surgery and the next day after my shoulder surgery. To have spent five days in the hospital today is implying that her problem is hardly “minor.”

 

I Can’t Make This One Up Folks

A buddy of mine who’s shot himself up with Tina for decades has decided to be a “good boy,” well maybe a “better boy” and smoke the shit instead, but had hesitated since “it might discolor my teeth.”

Holy shit!

Family Albums

Family Albums

I’ll just spit it out: why the fuck are guys running pics on their hook-up website profiles that are decades old? As if misrepresentation and deceit weren’t enough, some draw attention to the fact that years have gone by posting one pic when they were a hot 25 or 35 and then a pic as they are today, 10 or even 20 years later. Who gives a fuck what you looked like then?

When I questioned a guy on this (he posted one pic he himself captioned “2000,” another, gray haired and wrinkled, which he admitted was already three years old), he called me a “rude fuck.”

Or when all a guy’s got is a face shot wearing a cowboy hat or baseball cap and you ask for some shirtless body shots ( I don’t need to see your dick or ass), he pleads the fifth: “I don’t have any other pictures?” I took all my pics – which are a few months old at most and updated every month or so – with my smartphone which he has to be on in order to have hit you up to begin with.

Jesus!

 

 

A Reprise of One of My “Go Ask Daddy” Advice Columns

A Reprise of One of My “Go Ask Daddy” Advice Columns

Buddy: After being solo for years, I’ve found a guy who’s on my wave length emotionally, sexually, the whole package. One problem: he’s still with his current partner of fifteen years but tells me they’re breaking up, though he also says they’re giving counseling one last shot. Should I hang in there or move on?

Daddy: Current partners can mess up the love waters, can’t they? Remember, what counts is what guys do, not what they tell you they’re gonna do. If you feel this guy is “The One,” tread cautiously but don’t start searching for those matching diamond studded cockrings just yet.

It’s up to you, NOT HIM, whether you want to continue fucking him, which can be fun, or whether that will only put you on some emotional roller coaster ride. If you haven’t been there yet, let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. So if a fuck ain’t worth the potential heartbreak, quietly distance yourself and wait to see what happens. Who knows, they may have been talking break-up for the last ten years and you’re just the latest in a line of jilted hopefuls. Guys together for more than a few years frequently have a lot of shared experiences (health issues, family dying, pets) and excess baggage (shared real estate, drug rehab relapses) that may actually get in the way of them ever really breaking up.

And how well do you know your beau? Maybe the other guy has been trying to wean him off a drug or alcohol habit and your beau wants to continue his merry ways. Or the other guy may be your beau’s “Sugar Daddy.” When to comes to a choice between love and money, money usually wins.

So tell your beau you’ll be happy to stay in touch but (a) you’re not going to be the sounding board for every little twist and turn in his current relationship angst, and (b) when he’s really ready to consider you in a serious way, well, that’s why God created smartphones.

Just remember, once a guy is out of a long term link-up, he frequently wants to go back on the market and sow his proverbial oats for the fifteenth time, not instantly get locked into another “marriage.” Maybe he’ll wake up and realize what you mean to him, or maybe not.

In the meantime, don’t pine like some prom girl and wait for that fateful text. Indiscriminate sex is good for the soul, and, who knows, you just might run into somebody who’s as free as a bird as you are, and like you is tired of all that excess data usage bills for those cockteasing apps.

Medical Marijuana Anyone?

Medical Marijuana Anyone?

Like I said in my blog a few weeks ago about my shoulder surgery, my major skeletal problem is not my shoulder but my collapsing spine which has left me with chronic lower back and neck pain and means floating from bed to recliner to sofa through the night and spending my first waking hours lying on a heating pad or ice pack (cold often works quicker and more effectively for me than heat) and waiting for my Advils to kick in. (A friend of mine, a healthcare professional, tells me taking Advil and Tylenol together is the equivalent of taking opiates without the druggie side effects. and he’s right.)

This past week I had two appointments. The first was with an arthritis specialist, who was two heads shorter than me with horn rimmed glasses and looked like a sophomore in high school. He ruled out rheumatoid arthritis though he still ordered blood work to make sure, and since an earlier bone density test had ruled out osteoarthritis, all he had in his magic bag when I told him no more drugs that knock you out, made you fall over, or leave your dick limp, were – you got it – the over the counters.

The other appointment was with a clinical psychologist who picked up the phone when l called the number in an ad in our local bar rag that shouted, “Medical Marijuana Now!” There are only eight diagnoses that allow you to get a script for MM, most of them disease-oriented like glaucoma, Lou Gehrig’s Disease or HIV,  and the slot most people – including me – end up in was Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. (I’m crazy so it’s not too far off from the truth.)

With this letter in tow, I will be visiting another office later this month to register for my state medical marijuana card that I need to actually buy the stuff. Despite the fact Broward County, Florida, where Fort Lauderdale is located, is one of the fastest growing counties in the fastest growing state in the country, the only two dispensaries currently around are south in Miami and north in Palm Beach County. You supposedly can buy it in various forms, pill, oil, vapor, even eatables (“Want a grass cookie, little boy?”), but contrary to what I had been told by others, some of these DO contain THC, the ingredient that gives you the high. So to paraphrase that old Leslie Gore song:

“It’s my party, and I’ll get high if I want to, high if  want to, high if I want to….  you would  be too if you had pain too.”

I remember once when I played with my Pennsylvania buddy Vinnie who had been left paralyzed from the waist down by a virus, we smoked some of his medical marijuana which gave us the same high as meth without killing your erection. (Ironically his paralysis has left him with occasional painful cramps in his otherwise useless legs.) He told me at the time he could order some from his doc in – where else –  California – and have it mailed right to my house.

Just last week, with my back pain driving me to suicide, I tested the waters again when a buddy who used medical marijuana for pain relief  let me take some puffs off his vapor cigarette which contained a marijuana oil cartridge. First you have to get over burning your throat, but once I got the hang of it I did feel significant relief. Placebo effect maybe, but my giggly persona was for real.

Now meth, better known by its street name Tina, will relieve my pain but it’s got a shitload of side effects including being illegal and costly, so I don’t envision getting scripts for medicinal meth anytime soon. And when I asked the physician’s assistant who works for my shoulder surgeon about medical marijuana, she looked at me as if I wanted to find where nearest shooting den for heroin junkies was. Moralizing I don’t need, thank you.

Of course, I’ll let you know how I make out once I get my legal status as an official MM user. But I’d also like hear from you.

Have you used medical marijuana to relieve pain?

Did it work?

Good For The Fucks!

Good For the Fucks!

Four men who brutally attacked a gay couple at last month’s Miami Gay Pride Festival were charged this weekend with a hate crime which is a first degree felony and carries a possible thirty year prison sentence. Hope the fuck their young butts – they’re all in their early twenties – are handed from one cell to the next while they’re doing time. It’s going to be pretty hard to escape conviction when the prosecution has surveillance camera video showing them in the act.

I’ve always said anybody who is so homophobic that he has to lash out in such an ugly manner has a problem with his own sexiality.

So boys, now you’ll have a chance at a some gay sex by default. Try it – who knows,  you just might like it!