How the L.A. of the Sixties Shaped My Art

How the L.A. of the Sixties Shaped My Art

Whenever I see a gray-haired, pony-tailed biker or eighteen year old John Denver-look-alike hippy, complete with backpack and guitar strung over his shoulder, I think back to the heyday both are attempting to relive, the late ‘60’s and early ‘70’s. Those were the years when we who were just coming out benefited as the first generation of homosexuals from the new won openness of the gay liberation movement. For me, that very formative, impressible time was spent not in NYC that I could practically see out my Jersey window, but a continent away in L.A. where I went to complete my master’s degree at the University of Southern California, a socially acceptable reason for an X-rated movie. You see, living at home (I went to a commuter college for my B.A.) had become impossible, with two well-meaning but overbearing parents who called out the cops if their boy wasn’t home by midnight. L.A. offered me not only freedom, but an unbridled opportunity to play the scene for the first time in my fresh gay life.

When we talk about the L.A. scene today, we think of Silver Lake, by extension Palm Springs, and, of course, West Hollywood. Ah, but before there was glitzy, pretty boy, overpriced West Hollywood, there was Hollywood, not the mythical Hollywood perpetuated even today by entertainment pundits, but a seedier version of the town that by the late ‘60’s was still pretty with its blocks of pastel colored garden apartments, but pretty like a sixty year old whore with a good Max Factor make-up job. I found it ironic that Hollywood as a municipality technically didn’t even exist, and was just a section of the City of Los Angeles. But my studio apartment off Melrose was cheap and, at most, a brisk twenty minute walk from the best of the scene of that day, an important consideration for someone who couldn’t afford a car and relied on L.A.’s joke of a bus service. (These were the pre-subway days.)

Now, in those days, before cell phones and iphones and’s, you met guys the old fashioned way, mainly in the bars and the baths (the latter of which I didn’t discover until I was back in NYC). One other approach, a path less taken, was the “male-seeking male” personals that only appeared in liberal, quasi-commie, anti-establishment, anti-LBJ pubs like the Los Angeles Free Press. You were assigned an anonymous “mailbox” by the newspaper that forwarded any responses (of course, unopened) to your real address. Heavens, there were no dick or bare ass shots up there for the world to gawk at (you hoped the guy would send you a pic of what he looked like, at least), just four lines and out, thank you ma’am. All by snail mail, which meant it often took weeks to cement a contact, versus the technological miracle of virtually instantaneous e-mail (so why do we go back and forth today with endless e-mails and still end up nowhere? Have things really changed?).

And just like today, guys, well, they lied. Sent pics taken at their Confirmation or descripts that had to be written while the guy was high on grass or LSD. Now I must confess I met some great sex partners, bless you, Free Press, but I also had my clunkers like the guy who told me he was 25 (when I was 22) and who I took two buses to rendezvous with at some gas station only to spot his toup from my seat on the bus. (Yes, I went through with it anyway. Young or old, when you’re horny, a dick is a dick.)

A neighbor in my very gay complex, Tommy, personified the new old Hollywood. A Cincinnati transplant and beautician by trade, he had been a wigmaker for one of the studios but had recently lost his job and was living on unemployment. His hobby? Collecting match covers from whatever club or cheap motel he had been in and covering his bathroom wall with them. He soon became my tour guide to the Hollyweird club scene.

There were plenty of bars to choose from in the Hollywood of the 70’s: levi, leather (mainly in Silver Lake), and nelly (they weren’t called twinks then), all filled with mostly young guys. Just like me. But the two clubs I remember most fondly were Gino’s (named for its owner), a dance bar on Melrose that I reminisce about every time I hear the Jackson Five’s “I Want You Back;” a super hit at the time; and The Farm, a ranch-motif bar with sawdust on its dance floor, where I fell in love with half a dozen handsome, rugged guys, again, young and hot, every time I went.

And after the bars closed, just about everybody ended up at Arthur’s Diner off Hollywood Boulevard which was almost as cruisy as the bars and sported more pretend women than the genuine article most nights.

But for those of you gay men under 30 who romanticize the ‘60’s, not everything was rosy. Remember, it was the height of the Vietnam War, and every one of us dreaded opening our mailboxes to find that love letter from Uncle Sam. I naively thought I would be exempted from the draft because I was continuing my education, but I was dead wrong. The prevailing notion at the time was that admitting you were a fag could mark you for life, career wise. But through a lesbian neighbor I made contact with a physician who got guys off, a libertarian who even resembled Timothy Leary. For a hefty fee, he morphed my nervous stomach syndrome into a full-fledged bleeding duodenal ulcer that earned me a 4-F. It’s still the best $800 I ever spent in my life.

So, why, you ask, did I ever leave this wet dream of a lifestyle, after getting my M.A. degree, for cold, bleak New York and my parents’ outstretched tentacles?

I was broke, living on Campbell Soup towards the end. To this day, I’ll never use Bank of America that, in those poverty-stricken days of my youth, charged me a fee every time I withdrew money from my quickly dwindling account.

I also suffered from the chicken or the egg syndrome. Without money, I couldn’t buy a car, and without a car, it was hard to land a decent paying job. Desperate to keep my long Beatles style hair, I even bought a short hair wig at a Hollywood novelty store for interviews. I finally managed to land a part-time gig in the basement of the now defunct Broadway Department Store on Hollywood Boulevard, not far from the still very much alive Roosevelt Hotel, gift-wrapping other people’s stuff. Not exactly a career goal for someone with two degrees.

I did apply for one job connected to the old Hollywood, the position of “title writer,” whatever the hell that meant, at glorious MGM. Taking the bus out to Culver City, however, by then ghettoized and resembling more a dingy warehouse district than the sacred home of the “dream factory,” my idealizations of a glamorous L.A. were abruptly blown, and not getting the job, I realized my own fantasy of living and working here was not to be.

My only real friend, out-of-work neighbor Tommy, left in desperation for his hometown in Ohio, hoping his old beauty shop would take him back. His sacred matchbook collection ended up on the curb in the garbage

Finally, Mother Nature reared her ugly head. Living in L.A., you get used to tremors anytime of the day or night. But when the earthquake of ‘71 hit, – my apartment was spared any serious damage but businesses like Broadway suffered broken windows and ruptured pipes, and a hospital in “The Valley” collapsed – I took it as a sign that it was time for this gay boy to head home. The rest, as they say, is history.

So, too, for me, was L.A.

Yet, in all my books, I have tried to recapture that easy, breezy lifestyle I once enjoyed for a brief blink of my life when responsibilities were someone else’s game.

How Writing Erotic Fiction Led to My Fifteen Minutes of Fame In Porn

How Writing Erotic Fiction Led to My Fifteen Minutes of Fame In Porn

Now posing in the nude can be oh-so-artsy or down-and-dirty smutty depending on who’s doing it and for what. My first plunge in exhibitionistic immortality came oddly enough from a fine arts doctoral student who reached out to me a few years ago down here in Fort Lauderdale where I live on the hook-up site, Daddyhunt, to pose nude for his photo project called “Guys in Their Living Space.” The best of the shoot would be displayed, wall mural size, along with those of a dozen other men, at a gallery in Miami’s new Art District as part of his doctoral dissertation.

The shoot took a few hours and Doug, tall, all ass and geeky, was purely professional about the whole thing, doing the shoot with me sprawled naked in my living room. No erections here, more like Michelangelo’s soft-cocked Adam.
The night of Doug’s exhibit, I dragged along one of my buddies who still didn’t believe what I had done. After pondering myself up on a wall, bigger than life, ten feet by six feet, and, well, getting self-aroused, I stepped back and quietly observed the reactions of my admirers, mostly retro-hippy collegiate types, with a sprinkling of older couples and smartly dressed yuppies. Surprisingly, the only other gay men in the room were those up on the wall, all with friends or lovers.

Only one man, an older guy, dressed in a blazer and slacks, actually recognized me as the man in the picture and coming up to me at the refreshment table quipped, “Nice tan, young man.” If he only knew I was probably older than he was.

A few years later, again at an age when most men – straight or gay – would be content to have their remote control for their TV in their lap, I went on the now defunct male escort site “Rentboy” to gain the hustler’s perspective of what it was it was like to be a man-for-hire. After all, I would use the hustler motif in two of my books, “Not in It For the love,” published by Totally Bound Press; and in my latest work, “Buy Guys,” published by Wilde City Press. Believe or not, that one month I was on the site, four men plunked down a hundred and fifty dollars to spend an hour with me.

And so, in a convoluted way, it was desire to experience what I would write about that led to my fifteen minutes of fame in porn. Chris, a producer for San Francisco-based Pantheon Productions that specializes in older men, bear and daddy porn, was canvassing for potential new talent for some planned shooting dates in Lauderdale, saw my RB ad, and e-mailed me, asking if I might be interested.

I only hesitated for two reasons and not that my high school English teacher would ever see the results: would I be able to perform, i.e., keep Mr. Peter up for a four hour shoot, Viagra or no Viagra; and not so much how much I’d make but when I’d get paid.

You see, I had already been hustled by a local porn producer who when asked that question said payment would be forthcoming six to eight weeks after the shoot. Huh? And what if he snookered me? What was my recourse? Complain to the Better Business Bureau of Porn Distributors?

But Chris assured me I would be paid the day I did the shoot and that I could do a “solo” if I liked. I was still a bit gun shy till Chris added it would be just me and him and that he would provide all the arousal material I needed. With that he e-mailed over his pic. He was a youngish, tight bodied, handsome fucker complete with goatee, not some old, fat, leering troll as I imagined most porn directors to be. He apologized for not being hairy to which I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll do.”

On the day of my junket into the world of virtual sex, I reported to one of the local guesthouses by the beach where Chris had rented a suite. He met me at the door wearing only a pair of cargo shorts and was obviously pleased with my furry, equally shirtless body.

“Yep, you’re definitely daddy material,” he said with a sly smile.

After I signed my life away or I should say my images into residual-free perpetuity, we bantered around a screen name. Randy which I used on rentboy was already taken so we decided on Ray Andrews, my real first name and Andrew my middle name. I asked where Ray Andrews would surface, either or “Probably both,” he went on, stroking my crotch, “you fit ‘em both real well.” I wondered if guys still bought DVD’s with all the porn on the web, and Chris concurred that that end of the business had transitioned to streaming but there was still money to be made.

All that was left was the shoot.

We started with stills of me in a jockstrap and boots, first sprawled across a chair, my legs lasciviously spread, then posed against the wall. From all angles of course.

“Nice pouch, daddy,” Chris replied as he casually let his shorts drop to the floor in between snaps. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

Then came my own unveiling, and with this boyish 40 year old standing there naked in front of me, every so often pulling on his nice cut cock which was getting hard, I had no problems in the erection department. By the time we moved to the video, he was even coming over to give me an occasional lick or two in the right places. I knew it was all for the camera, but I can’t deny this aging faggot didn’t enjoy it.

It didn’t take much to get me close and I had to actually hold back a bit so Chris got his required ten minutes of footage, zooming in closer and closer, as cum finally cascaded over my dick and the camera lingered there like some photographer for National Geographic shooting a newly erupted volcano.

As I cleaned up, I asked Chris if he wanted me to give him some “relief” but he just gave me a kiss and said he was O.K. Spoken like a true porn coach.

“We usually pay by check but I was able get to the ATM. Cash OK?”

“No problem,” was my understated reply.

We parted cordially, he promised to look me up for a possible dynamic duo next time he was in town, and I didn’t bother to count the bills till I got back to my car. Because ATM’s only spit out twenties, he had actually overpaid me for the session – $260 instead of the $250 he had quoted when we were still in e-negotiations.

I looked at my watch. I had been with Chris for exactly 57 minutes.

The easiest money I ever made in my life.

As a kid, I thought movie stars never grew old and today I still think photography in all its forms is the closest thing we have to immortality. So if I’m lucky enough to live to ninety-seven, I guess there just may be some young boy out there in Cyberland still jerking off over my furry daddy bod, forever perpetualized in time one warm Lauderdale Tuesday afternoon in a room by the beach.

Researching “Buy Guys:” My One Month Career As A “Rentboy”

More About My Latest Book, “Buy Guys:” My One Month Career As A “Rentboy”

They say write about what you know, but if I was going to write erotic gay fiction about hustlers, as I did in “Not In It For the Love” and more recently, “Buy Guys,” well, logic would dictate I have to experience being one myself, right? So, at an age when most gay men are content to have the remote to their TV or DVD player in their lap, I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile on the now defunct

But honestly, would someone actually pay for me, even if time had been kind, to have sex with them?

A buddy once said to me that he found it pretty pathetic that somebody had to pay for sex. But I heartedly disagree. Sure, sex can be a wonderful exchange between two people, but why can’t it also be a commodity for those willing to 20150825_114753-1buy what they want, just like the newest tech toy or an Abercrombie and Fitch polo? Contrary to the notion that only losers pay for sex, there are plenty of good looking guys out there, busy with high power 24/7 careers or entwined in complicated personal lives, who just choose to take the expedient route. I’ve always been an advocate for making prostitution in this country legal and get over our collective Puritanical hang-ups. Make sure the boys and girls are disease free, and tax ‘em, baby.

“Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona, trying to create a market niche distinct from all the pretty boys, and I openly admitted I was over 40 in my ad (how much over 40 I conveniently left out), but rationalized that tidbit with the tagline, “but you did say you wanted a daddy, didn’t you?”

I low bowed my hourly rate to $150 so I’d have a better chance at scoring, given the stiff competition, and made myself “out only” – their place, not mine. Would-be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone #, and I used a Tracfone just for that so if or when I had any issue associated with my new career – as in being stalked, like I should have such problems – I could chuck the phone just like a drug dealer.

So what does it take to be a Rentboy, besides, of course, some alluring physical attributes (mine I hoped would be my still boyish looks and a tight compact furry body I worked hard at to maintain) and a lot of moxie?

(a) The ability to do it with just about anyone, and if you’re playing the top like me, you know dicks don’t lie, which I figured wouldn’t be a problem given some of the loser tricks I’ve had over the years. You just put yourself in a fantasy mode, right? I soon learned what kept your libido steaming was the fact the guy wanted you bad enough, he’d pay for you. I later read professional escorts need money in their eyesight even when they’re having recreational sex, like Pavlov’s dog.

(b) A feeling of super-superiority and super self-confidence, even if it’s all pretend.

(c) The absolute resistance to ask the guy what he looks like. Yes, you need to know what he’s looking for, but, again, those big bills on the night stand are what are supposed to arouse you,

not whether he looks like Woody Allen’s older brother.

When a week went by after posting my ad and I got no takers, I was convinced I had pushed the envelope too far, that I was a jerk for even thinking I could pull this off at my age, with all the twenty something, thirty something porn star quality meat that was vying for that same universe of hungry, lonely men. What was I trying to do? Make the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s oldest male hooker?

Ah, but my feelings of dejection were premature. At the beginning of my second week I got a hit, and by the end of the month I had had four guys pay me for sex: a social anthropologist and university professor in town to judge a doctoral dissertation; a vacationing retired dentist from Palm Springs; a farm boy cute, multimillionaire software developer from D.C. in town to close a deal and who wanted me to play “coach.” We spent the last twenty minutes of his hour talking about his mousey wife and two kids.

My last “client” was my greatest challenge, a big guy, as far away from my sexual preference as, well, a woman, but do him I did, thanks to a 100 mg, of Viagra and my determination to pass my male escort final exam.

So what did I learn from my month as a rentboy? That physicality and physical attraction defy and transcend social class, professional standing, race, and most of all, personal pride; and that while money can’t buy you love, it sure as hell can buy you one of the best fucks of your life.

BTW, my brief career as a rentboy led to a gig on a male porn site,, but that’s a story for another day.



How I Came Up With The Characters in “Buy Guys”

How I Came Up With The Characters in “Buy Guys”
Available on

A preferred locale for the moneyed retired, a vacation mecca for millions, and a prime international gay destination for both partying and living, sunny balmy Fort Lauderdale also attracts many young gay guys from Little Town, Nowhere, with no ambition or credentials, searching for a breezy lifestyle at some other guy’s expense.

So the protagonists of my new novella, “Buy Guys,” Blaze and Pete, two young, handsome drifters with nothing and nothing to lose, who leave dreary New Jersey to lead what they think will be easy lives as male prostitutes in sunny Fort Lauderdale, posting their profile on the fictitious male escort site, Buy Guys, are actually composites of many guys I met or bedded down with over the years. Pretty, often with a chip on their shoulder, but vapid, with no thought of the future, working at nowhere minimum wage jobs in between hustling some lonely gay man for a buck or drugs or both, or just “fucking around.” In fact, most of the sex my two guys experience as dicks for hire is based on experiences l had as a private citizen, shall we say, and as a Rentboy, which l played a month, to research my book. The retired dentist from Palm Springs, the naive Scottish tourist, and the Born Again gay boy who Blaze and Pete have as clients are guys I actually played with.

There are a number of other characters in “Buy Guys,” who play a more pivotal role in my story that are likewise drawn from real life, undiluted.

The Bimbo Boys, the two pall bearers Blaze knows from his funeral home job back in Jersey and who mysteriously reappear when my guys are down in Fort Lauderdale, are modeled after a pair of big, burly, furry partners who I met in Lauderdale while they were on vacation from Chicago. And like the Bimbo Boys, they were heavy fist fucking bottoms.

Then there’s Harry, the maître d’ at La Bella’s, a restaurant/bar on Lauderdale’s gay strip (modelled after an actual place, Tropics) frequented by retired, often wealthy old men and their potential younger paramours. An effeminate version of the rotund comedian, Jackie Gleason, Harry was modeled after Charlie, my old boss at the department store I worked at part time while going to college. It was Charlie who, on my twenty first birthday, took this then naive kid from the burbs to the seedy (now gone) West Village and my first gay bar, the Stonewall, yes, the Stonewall, a year before it was it raided and the whole Gay Revolution was put into motion. I learned that night that Charlie had been a drag queen headliner at clubs in the City and Jersey back in the fifties.

It’s while at La Bella’s one night solo that Pete meets Mitch, the rugged, stocky, furry methhead paramour of Randall, a kingpin in the South Florida funeral home game, who pays Pete a thousand dollars to watch the two of them having sex. Mitch was actually a rugged, stocky, methhead buddy I met and bedded down with in Fort Lauderdale, who, BuyGuys_cvr Athough he held a CPA license, never practiced but instead led a checkered life as a sometime male escort, while cuddled by his wealthy West Palm Beach Jewish parents. A Tina addict/compulsive gambler, Mitch died when he fell asleep at the wheel of the compact car his parents had leased for him coming back from a drugfest weekend in the Keys.

John The Cop, a retired NYC detective now living the Good Life in Key West as a meth dealer and who has a brief but torrid affair with Pete is based on a cop named – yes, named John – who I knew from Pennsylvania’s Poconos where we both owned vacation homes. Tall, blond, handsome, affable John retired to Miami a few years after I left NYC for Fort Lauderdale, and we stayed in touch. Sadly, John died a few years after that when he was thrown off his motorcycle, his favorite mode of transportation, by a van making an illegal U turn, and his beloved bike was thrown up in the air and landed on him.

One of the clients Pete makes is wheelchair-bound Vinnie who is paralyzed in an auto accident in which his partner is killed and who is testing the waters with an impartial party like Pete to see if he can still have sex. Vinnie is a mirror image of a buddy, Danny, I befriended, again in PA, one summer who was paralyzed not due to an accident but the result of a rare spinal infection.

P.S.: Yea, a paralyzed guy can still have sex. Trust me.

I did say my characters are real, didn’t I?

Plotting “Buy Guys”

Plotting “Buy Guys”

“Buy Guys” is my latest piece of serious erotic gay fiction, available on

So l got these two handsome gay young guys from Jersey, short, stocky, furry Pete, and tall surfer boy Blaze, with nowhere jobs and nowhere futures who decide to drive down to sunny Fort Lauderdale to play male hustlers to frustrated locals, partying vacationers and wealthy retirees. The title, “Buy Guys,” comes from the name of the fictional escort site they use to advertise their talents, a rip-off of the now defunct But they soon see their dream of a breezy lifestyle turn into their own private existential nightmare.

BuyGuys_cvr AHey, l’m a Jersey boy, born and bred in Bergen County, in the extreme northeast sector of the state, a fart and a few heavy tolls from Manhattan. So it’s only natural l’d use the working class neighborhoods l grew up as locales for some of my fiction. “Buy Guys” begins in Garfield, New Jersey, where my lead characters, renting a flat in a two family house modeled after my grandparents’ where l spent my childhood, decide to try out a new life as paid escorts in the land of the moneyed gay retired, Fort Lauderdale. I’ve used contemporary Fort Lauderdale, my adopted home since 2002, as a setting for a good portion of my fiction as much for its breezy, “Forever Summer” environment as for its “throw caution to the wind” decadent gay lifestyle which offers a writer of erotic fiction endless possibilities.

The storyline, with its series of sexual escapades, was perfect for replicating the style of the book that has probably influenced me the most, Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn.” Considered America’s first true novel, it uses a rite of passage and episodic approach that enriches the plot with stories within the story, and explodes the opportunity for introducing new, fresh characters that help change the dimensions of your protagonist.

In my very first draft, l had one of my protagonists, methodical Pete, with a girlfriend who he doesn’t know he got pregnant until the end when he and cocky Blaze return from their adventures down South. But l soon dropped that storyline since l felt it was a distraction from the budding romance l wanted to develop between my two guys.

Now l can already predict your immediate knee jerk reaction to all this: pretty standard fare for male gay erotic fiction, huh?

But ripping off a technique from Alfred Hitchcock, famed movie director of such terror classics as “The Birds” and Psycho,” l came up with what Hitch called a “MacGuffin,” a plot device or hook. So what could have been a ho-hum boring fuckfest turned into a male version of “Thelma and Louise,” with my protagonists, who thought things would be easy, breezy, instead finding themselves running for their lives.

In the beginning when Blaze, who is trying to convince Pete to join him on this adventure, asks “What have we got to lose?” the answer should be “Everything.”

But if l told you more about my “MacGuffin” you wouldn’t buy my book now, would you?

One hint: it revolves around a Jersey funeral home where Blaze works at the beginning of my book as an all-around guy, and who discovers, quite by accident, the home isn’t just in the business of handling corpses. My first time experience with a funeral home was not when a family member died but came when I was twelve helping my mother clean a local home not far from us on Saturday mornings after the grieving families had departed with their loved one for the cemetery. My job was to vacuum up all those damn flower petals in the viewing rooms, and when Mom needed some more Windex or Ajax, I trotted down to the basement to the supply closet which happened to be in the embalming room with all those caskets lining the walls. No wonder to this day I have a somewhat warped view of death.

BTW, most of the sex my two guys experience as dicks for hire is based on experiences l had as a private citizen, shall we say, and as a Rentboy which l played a month to research my book.

Hey, anything for my art, right?

Inside The Mind Of a Writer: My Characters are Real

My Characters are Real: Tito as Marcos

I told you about my real life buddy Tito. In “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” my novel available on, he is reborn as Marcos. “Czar” is the story of Jonathan Antonucci, a 21 year old, barely out-the-closet gay man from suburban New York who overnight finds himself a multi-millionaire, thanks to a bequest by his late gay great uncle. Uncle Charlie has unexpectedly died of a heart attack, leaving him the sole owner of several of the most successful bars in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s gay ghetto. Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon visits his late uncle’s attorney who gives him the keys to Uncle Charlie’s beachfront condo, now his. It is there where he meets Marcos, one of his uncle’s fuck buddies, who becomes the first man in his life …

Jon’s mind was numb the whole twenty minutes it took the cab to bring him to the Excalibur. But before he went up to the condo, he stopped in the basement garage and jogged over to space 101 and Uncle Charlie’s pride and joy.

Now his.

Fondling the top of the tan roof, Jon began to cry, first quietly, then almost uncontrollably as if he were two all over again and heard Mom and Dad were gone. He was thankful no one was around to see him.

Here, Uncle Charlie had loved him, loved him enough to leave just about all he had to him and Jon had barely thought of the man all those years, even after, at thirteen, he realized he was gay too. He felt guilty and grateful all in the same moment, and pulled up his T-shirt to wipe his face before hitting the elevator button for the fifteenth floor.

With sliding glass doors stretching across its entire length and opening up to a huge terrace that overlooked the water, Unit 1512, furnished in some kind of high end Ikea look, seemed more like an ornate pier jutting out into the sky than an apartment.

Drained by the plane ride and all that had happened since, Jon tore off his sneaks, jeans and T-shirt, and realizing he was so high up no one could see in, threw his boxers over the tan and orange sofa and ran out to the terrace to let the sun bathe his naked body.

Just then, something that looked like a mirror underneath the sofa caught the sun and glistened back at him. He reached under and pulled it out.

It was a phone.

Jon tried to turn it on but the battery was gone. Glancing around, he eyed the charger cord on the top of the kitchen counter and plugged it in. Instantly the screen came alive and the chirp of a text message echoed through the room.

He pressed the retrieve icon.

“We still on for 10?” read the text apparently from the other party. There was no reply, Jon guessed, from Uncle Charlie. The message was dated 1:21 p.m. last Thursday, the same day Applebee had told Jon he had died.

He went to the message log, pulled up the number and pressed dial.

“Who’s this?” answered a deep male voice with a Spanish lilt.

“Who are you?”

“Are you calling from Charlie Antonucci’s cell phone?”

“Yes. I found it in his condo.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m his nephew, I mean his grand-nephew Jonathan Antonucci. Uncle Charlie’s lawyer had me fly down from New York.
I’m here because Uncle Charlie—he—he left me everything.”

Just saying the words out loud put Jon in a momentary trance of disbelief.

“Jonathan? Now I understand. Well, that’s great, I mean, Charlie and I were good friends, real close friends, and his heart attack, that was tough on all of us who knew him. He was such a good guy…”

“Thanks. I’m still in a state of shock. It’s all so overwhelming.”

“May I ask Jonathan how old you are?”

“Just turned twenty-one last July.”

“Listen, I’m Marcos, I got my own barber shop on Wilton Drive. If you like, I can close up early and come over and help you fill in the blanks, that is, if you think that might help you…”

“Yea, that would be great, please, yea, come over. It would be great to meet somebody who knew Uncle Charlie. You see, he was the black sheep of the family, Gramps, his brother, who raised me and my sister, could never accept that he—that he was gay. You say you were a close friend of his so I guess you must have known…”

“Jonathan, I’m gay too. Does that bother you?”

“No, not at all.” Jon stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. He had never told anyone about himself except for Ernie. But what it matter now?

“I’m in the same boat you might say. I guess it runs in the family.”

“There are a lot worse things in life, believe me. Well, I can be over in about twenty minutes. I’ll call you from the lobby. You need to buzz me in.”

“You know where I’m at?”

“I know the place real well.”

Jon quickly scanned the foyer and saw the intercom.

“I know this sounds like an off-the-wall question,” asked Marcos, “but you haven’t showered yet, have you?”

“No,” answered Jon, a bit confused.

“Then don’t. Let’s just say I’m allergic to the smell of Dial soap.”

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

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

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

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

“I think the height I owe to my father,” said Jon.

“And the fur?” laughed Marcos.

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

Marcos glanced around.

“So Pete still with Herbie?”

“Yea, I plan to pick him up later.”

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

Jon grinned. “Wanna Coke?”

Marcos nodded.

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


“His two mini-doxies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Marcos’s face went beet red. Jon figured that he had realized what he had just said.

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

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

“You and Uncle Charlie,” Jon replied.

Marcos smirked.

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

“So you say you knew my uncle well?”

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

“Like the day he died.”

“Yea, we were supposed to get together that night for a nice man-to-man, down and dirty, long slow sweat session.
That’s my thing, you know, sweat and man scent. Just call me kinky. And Charlie enjoyed it too, told me when he was driving to my place, he’d turn up the windows on his Beemer and turn on the heat, in 80 degree weather mind you, just so he’d be nice and smelly for me.”

“So—so he had the heart attack here?”

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

“I wish I had stayed in touch all those years,” said Jon. “I think he would have been a good teacher for all this. I’m not like you guys who have seen it all. I’m a virgin to this life. All I’ve known is Manhunt and Growl’r and Scruff…”

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

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

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

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

“You mean like HIV?” said Marcos.

Jon nodded.

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

“You—you don’t look sick.”

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

“Was my uncle—was Charlie…”

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

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

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

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

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

Marcos stopped laughing and got all serious.

“I would never make fun of you, Jon.”

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

“You’re not afraid of me?”

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

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

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

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

“Come here, Jon, lay on me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I have permission to take that shower now, Teach?” asked Jon softly.

“I have a better idea,” replied Marcos and he suddenly sprang up, walked over to the living room and slipped his cargo shorts and floppies back on. “We’re hitting Sebastian.”


“The gay beach, it’s two minutes down the road.”

Jon rummaged through his bag for his levi cutoffs, stuck on his Nikes and followed Marcos to the door.

Just then he remembered Uncle Charlie’s pride and joy.

“Wait,” grabbing the keys from the kitchen counter where he had tossed them. “I’d like to take the Beemer out for a ride.”

“You mean The Emerald Stud,” said Marcos. “That’s what Charlie called it.” He walked over to what looked like a linen closet off the living room and grabbed a few bed sheets. “We wouldn’t want to ruin all that leather with our sweaty bodies, now would we?”

Learning about man-to-man sex wasn’t the only lesson Jon got that afternoon. Marcos also showed him how to pop the roof as the two of them sped down Sunrise Boulevard to A1A and the beach. They passed hotel after hotel, the streets filled with tourists, but Jon kept glancing out at the ocean. The waves were rough, just as he remembered as a kid when Gramps and Grannie took him and Sally to Seaside Heights. He had cried when he saw what Sandy had done to the town but now he was back there all over again.

Marcos gestured to a side street and some empty meters.

“I always come prepared,” said Marcos, reaching into his pocket for quarters.

It was another sunny breezy June day in November, and Sebastian was littered with men. The best looking ones made sure to instinctively stand up like erect dicks and swagger and stroke their abs or lather lotion over their chests as they chatted with their buddies, or on their smartphones or bobbed in the waves, all just to be desperately noticed among the sea of attractive clones, desired, lusted after, even ridiculed.

Anything but be ignored.

Three huge cargo ships dominated the horizon, but their white container sections resembled large sails, and as Marcos and Jon found an open spot away from the crowd, Jon imagined them Columbus’ Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria from Miss Fine’s fourth grade class, ready to explore a new world.

Just like Jon.

“So now that you’re a rich bar owner,” joked Marcos, “what are you gonna do with the rest of your life?”
“Well right now, all I want to do is get all this sweat off me,” and with that he jumped up and ran into the water.

Marcos was right behind.

Splashing around, Jon grabbed Marcos and tried to kiss him but Marcos turned away just as a huge wave carried them back to shore.

After that they said little to one another until Marcos mentioned that he had to get back to the shop. He had some evening customers coming over.

“Sure, Teach, sure.”

“I’ll see you at Eddie’s memorial for Charlie tomorrow,” said Marcos as they parted ways back at the condo. “Hope you learned something today, Sexy.”

“Yea,” replied Jon forcing a smile.

Maybe Ernie, his jerk-off buddy back home on Staten Island whom he had spent many hours mutually getting off on all those pretty men on their smartphones, was right.

Just stick to the apps.

Next: My Characters Are Real: George

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real

Inside the Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real -Tito

There’s this bedbuddy I know, Tito, a hot, short, thirty something Puerto Rican living down in Lauderdale with Latin bedroom eyes, wavy hair, a trim beard and the kind of tight, smooth, lightly muscular body that looks like it was sculpted.

So what makes Tito different from other guys I’ve played with? He likes his men sweaty and smelly, and lives not only for stenchy armpits but musty feet as well. And while I realize that this not everybody’s cup of tea, I’ve done Tito a few times, or should I say he’s done me, and have found both him and the experience super sensual.

I first met Tito about two years ago, where else but in one of the bathhouses, but was hesitant to give him the nod when he kept passing and staring into my room since he looked like a toughy who wanted to fuck the shit out of me.

But nod I did and the first thing he dived for after giving me a “hey bro” were my feet. Before long his tongue and nose were all over my body and I was mesmerized enough to get into it with him too. While we sucked one another’s twitching dicks – the arousal was supreme – sex was secondary to the sweat and scent and taste of one another’s bodies.

We exchanged numbers, and the next time I connected with him it was late one Friday and I was drunk, sloshed by one of the local bars’ three dollar ice teas, and Tito, or I should say his nose, could tell. After all, alcohol is excreted from your body through your pores and the smell of my drink on my breath and on my skin turned him off and

I was politely asked to leave. It was the first time I was rejected on account of not being raunchy enough.

We hadn’t been in touch for months when, out of the blue, up pops a message from Tito on bear411. You see, smelly or not, Tito also dug my fur. I cautioned him to let me know in advance if he wanted to connect so I didn’t wash, but wouldn’t you know it, the next time a week later when he texted me to come over I had just showered after a day of cleaning my house and working out at the gym when I would have been super ripe.

Then, one Sunday, after baking on the beach all day, I got a text from my sweat-obsessed buddy. “Wanna play? Haven’t cum in three days,”’ and after I responded “Sure,” his next question was, “Didn’t shower, did you?”

On my drive over to his apartment, I wanted to make sure I was Tito-ready. So, in South Florida temperatures hitting 90, I not only left my windows up without the ac on, I turned on the heat!

Now for all his kink, Tito is a very private person and he asked that I wear a shirt walking over from my car since he had “nosy neighbors.” I compiled but my T and shorts and smelly sneakers I had worn on the beach were off in a New York minute, Tito standing there in only his bikini underwear, and we were soon rolling around naked on his bed, licking almost every inch of one another’s flesh from armpits to chest to abs to the crack of our butts, in between sucking cock, of course. Not much was said.

We didn’t have to.

After almost an hour of tonguing and kissing and sniffing, Tito shot his load so high it hit my beard. But having had a nice guy the afternoon before, I wasn’t so concerned about cumming, just enjoying the moment.

After all, when you make love to a guy’s big toe in your mouth, everything else is old hat.

Thursday: Tito Reborn as Marcos.

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real – Shaw As Gil

I told of my real life encounter with one of the handsomest men I ever knew named Shaw. He eventually served as the basis for a character, Gil, in my novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” available on “Czar” is the story of Jonathan Antonucci, a 21 year old, barely out-the-closet gay man from suburban New York who overnight finds himself a multi-millionaire, thanks to a bequest by his late gay great uncle. Uncle Charlie has unexpectedly died of a heart attack, leaving him the sole owner of several of the most successful bars in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s gay ghetto. Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates. In this scene he meets Gil, manager of one of Uncle Charlie’s bars, the Gear Shaft,” modeled after Lauderdale’s infamous leather bar, the Ramrod …

The Gear Shaft was a mile from the heart of the Wilton Drive action in a dingier part of town and, from outside, the place looked like a shack. It reminded Jon of the Black Maria, that clumsy, boxy garage that Edison had built as the first movie studio which Jon had visited in West Orange as a kid on a class field trip.

The difference was this shack didn’t make movies but almost a million dollars a year.

The large wood door, out of some medieval castle with an oversize metal handle that was actually a pull down bar from a gym, was unlocked. A slightly beat up, fading green Ford Fiesta was the only car in the front lot besides his. He figured it was Gil’s.

Jon walked into a dumpy looking bar all painted in black just like the outside, with old car parts, mufflers and fenders hanging from the ceiling. Behind the bar was an average height, well-built guy somewhere, Jon guessed, in his late thirties, with short cropped black hair and beard, wearing tight Levi’s and a black T that look like they had been sprayed painted on him.

But, oh, that handsome black Irish face. He and Ernie, Jon’s jerk-off buddy back East, used to judge guys’ looks and bodies like the two of them were commodity traders, tin for the losers, silver for up-and-comers, and gold for the stars that made them stiff in an instant.

This guy, he was platinum.

He was fiddling around with some glasses when he saw Jon and beamed a broad smile like a laser gun.

“Hey buddy,” he said, walking around to shake Jon’s hand, clutching it like he was lifting a barbell. “I’m Gil.”

First Marcos, one of Uncle Charlie’s fuck buddies, now Gil. Two beautiful men all in in less than twenty four hours. Jon couldn’t believe his luck.

“I know you probably heard this a hundred times by now…”

“Yea, I’m the spitting image of my uncle. Yea, I’ve heard it, but only about a dozen times.”

“Well, this is it, the golden shit hole as Charlie always called it,” Gil rattled on, “but it means a lot to the guys who come here. Believe it or not, this place is one of the last hot leather bars left in the country. We got our local boys, but the ones who love us the most are the tourists from all over the states and Europe, even Australia. You see, in most places, the leather scene guys like your uncle’s generation practically invented is dying faster than landline phones. Seems like the younger guys…”

“You mean guys my age.” added Jon.

Gil laughed. Jon was getting hard again and his PA was straining against his crotch.

“Well, the twenty and thirty somethings are into sports jock gear. They feel they look hot. But for guys like Charlie and me, leather is a life statement, not a fashion statement. It means you don’t take shit, like your sex rough, and live life on the edge. A lot of stand-up guy bars are losing that edge to twinks and their girlfriends ‘cause, in the end, it’s all about selling the booze. Charlie, though, saw it different, He bought the bar at a fire sale, the two daddies who owned the place were both sick and wanted out, and he was about ready to start a strict dress code on the weekends. If you weren’t wearing some kind of leather, you didn’t get in. Which would automatically cut out the girls and the toy boys.”

“You mean young kids like me again,” said Jon grinning.

“No, not you, buddy. I’m sure you look hot in leather.”

“Never got into it. You might say I’ve been content to just play the web and jerk off. At least up to now.”

Gil reached over and pulled up Jon’s T-shirt.

“Furry like your uncle. Yep, you’d look good in leather, buddy, damn good.”

“Well then you’re gonna have to outfit me sometime,” said Jon.

“If you don’t mind me asking, you a top?”

“You mean the guy who fucks? Well, I never thought about it. I mean, like I said, I’ve always played the web so…”

“In this life, in this town, you gotta decide what you are, what you want, a top or a bottom. Guys in the gray zone go nowhere.”

With that, Gil walked Jon around the bar to its pool table area with cartons of beer stacked practically to the ceiling, to the narrow outside patio bar which looked like a junkyard in the naked midday sunlight.

“At night, don’t matter how warm and sticky it gets, guys are packed out here shoulder to shoulder, grabbing crotches and nips, and a few other things, but we’ve got Bernie, our bouncer and one-man penis police, to watch they don’t turn this into a backroom. After all, you don’t wanna lose your liquor license just because two guys wanna get off.”

“So,” asked Jon, proud of his growing ballsiness, “did you and my uncle ever make it?” He remembered Gil’s name from the text messages on Uncle Charlie’s phone.

“Yea, we did,” replied Gil without skipping a beat as he showed Jon the back walk-in cold locker where they stored the beer for the night. “Hey, Charlie is, I mean, was a handsome older guy who sure as hell didn’t look or act like a guy in his sixties. But when we were on duty, we were all business.”

After another hour of talking inventory and staffing and mark-ups, Gil was talked out.

“Anything else I can show you for now?”

“Yea,” Jon laughed. “How I’d look in leather.”

“Why not? If you like, we can go to my place. It’s just around the corner. I’ve got plenty of shit you can try on til you find your look.”

They both left their cars, Jon’s BMW and Gil’s Fiesta, and walked over to Gil’s place which was on a cruddy looking street just behind the bar in a small dilapidated guest cottage hidden away in the back of a faded orange stuccoed ranch.

The studio apartment inside was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. It was as alien to Uncle Charlie’s lush condo as the Amazon Rain Forest was to the farthest frozen moon of Pluto.

Gil walked over to a closet, pulled back some shower curtains, grabbed a wad of black leather duds and threw them on his air mattress bed.

“Hey, boss, strip, will ya, so I can see what works best with your body type.”

Jon did so hesitantly but more than willingly. He almost never wore underwear and his semi-hard PA’ed cock popped out of his levis like a jack-in-the-box as soon as he lowered them.

Gil gave Jon’s cock a quick, adoring glance, then returned to sorting the pile of cowhide lying on his bed.

“Nice touch,” he quipped. “I thought you said you never did leather before.”

“Well, I mean…”

“Your PA and nose ring and all that sexy dark fur, just like Charlie’s, are a good start. But I wanna make you a real leather man, not just one of those twenty somethings who wear it to look hot,” and with that Gil stripped off his sprayed-on black T to reveal a very furry muscular chest, shoulders and defined veiny arms. As he turned to grab a piece off the bed, Gil glimpsed a large blue, red and green winged eagle tattoo sprawled against the full length of his powerful shoulder blades.

Gil raised Jon’s arms up in the air, then yanked some kind of corset-like contraption over his arms, pulled it snugly down over his shoulders and snapped it in place.

“What do you call this?” asked Jon, feeling confined, yet suddenly very aroused as the leather strips bonded to his body.

“A bulldog. But remember, it’s not how you look in it, it’s how’s you feel. Here, turn around.”

“Suddenly Jon was gazing in front of a cracked wall length mirror at himself. He always thought he was a bit chicken chested but this, this bulldog applied downward pressure in just the right places so his little boy nips popped out and his chest looked like he’d just done a thousand reps on one of those gym masters. His dick tingled like it did when Ernie suddenly discovered some new hairy daddy on Grinder.

“So how do you feel Boss?” asked Gil, “I mean really feel?”

“Like I could fuck half the men in Lauderdale right now,” blurted Jon.

“And kick the shit out of the rest of ‘em, huh?”


Gil tossed a black leather jockstrap on the floor in front of him.

“Slip this on.”

Jon was relieved to have something to cover up his quickly rising erection.

Gil walked over and adjusted the straps on the back, then gave Jon a playful slap on his right ass cheek.

“Those furry buns are the perfect added touch. I’d say you’re all ready for tonight.”

“Tonight?’ asked Jon puzzled. “But Mr. Applebee is holding that memorial reception tonight for my uncle at his place at 7…”

“You mean the Celebration of Life gig of Eddie’s? That’s what I’m talkin’ about Boss. I think you know now your uncle was a tried and true leather man and he would joke that he wanted everybody he knew to come to his wake as if they were headed for the Gear Shaft on a Saturday night. So…”

“So, no formal wear, no ties or button down shirts,” said Jon. He had planned on wearing his black jeans and a tan polo.

“No, maybe just a few thick heavy belts. Yes sir!”

For a micro second their eyes met, Jon staring at half naked Platinum Man, Gil at his young, near naked superior, then just as quickly, they both turned away.

“I need to get going,” announced Jon. “Got to get a nap in or I’ll end up falling asleep at Applebee’s, I mean Eddie’s, and I wouldn’t wanna be the party pooper.”

As he began to unsnap the harness, Gil, seeing him struggle, came over to help him.

“You can hold on to this if you like. You wear that tonight and I promise you’ll be adopted as somebody’s boy in twenty minutes.”

“Yea, but…”

“Yea, I know, it’s you, Rich Kid, who should be doin’ the adopting.”

At the Celebration of life for Charlie, Gil seduces Jon and brings him back to his place …

“So get comfortable,” said Gil as the two of them strolled into his studio, just as messy as the day before. “Gotta hit the head.”

Jon lay down on the air mattress, not knowing quite what to do or what to expect. All he knew is what he wanted.

The bathroom door was wide open and from his angle, Jon was able to see Gil in the vanity mirror. Pulling his mesh T off, he admired himself for a moment, then opened a drawer, pulled out what looked like a needle and stuck it very carefully in a vein of his arm. Jon watched the sudden rush on his face. Then as he turned to come out, Jon readjusted himself on the bed. Everything was so fast, Jon had no time to react to the moment. All that came immediately to his brain was the image Uncle Charlie had painted of his parents lying on that bed with needles sticking out of their arms.

Should he get up and leave?

Should he say anything?

Instead, Jon did nothing, waiting for the next cue from Gil.

“So you wanna smoke some stuff?” asked Gil casually as he reached over for a glass pipe. “You smoke before?”

“Grass, My j-o buddy Ernie and I would smoke a reefer before we started flipping through those profiles on Growl’r.”

“Same shit,” said Gil, holding a lighter under the glass globe of the pipe. “Just gives you a better high.”

Gil took a long puff, then handed the pipe over to Jon.

“Now move the globe back and forth a few times as I hold the lighter under it, take in a long puff, hold it in just a second or two, then let it out.”

Jon breathed in, then exhaled. Within seconds, a feeling of super-sensitivity enveloped him.


“I told you this stuff was better than grass.” Gil took a puff, placed the pipe down in an ashtray on a plastic patio table that served as a bed stand, then reached over and, as he pressed his lips against Jon’s, he exhaled into his mouth.

Jon fell flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he felt Gil’s fingers embrace every inch of him. It was as if an electric charge was pulsating through him wherever Gil touched, first stroking the hairs on his chest down to his abs, then his crotch. Then he lay on top of him and began rubbing their beards against one another in some ritual dance.

Gil was the most beautiful man he had ever seen and now he was his. Totally, completely, forever his.

Within minutes, Gil had slipped off his jeans and pulled off Jon’s so the two of them lay there naked.

“Want this off?” said Jon, tugging at his bulldog harness he was still wearing.

“No, buddy, leave it on. You are so hot, fucker, and I’m not saying that just because you’re my boss. You’re just like Charlie. Only better.”

“How, how can I be better. Uncle Charlie knew so much more about all of this than I do. I feel like some country hick.”

“You won’t after today,” said Gil who began eating him up like a piece of hard candy he had just unwrapped. Jon could feel Gil’s massive cut cock, bigger than even Growl’r’s Hairy Aussie’s, digging against his abs. Then, after playfully sliding Jon’s PA around in his fingers through his pierced hole, Gil stuck Jon’s hard dick in his mouth, savoring it like a slow melting ice pop. He moved to Jon’s ball sac, swallowing each ball one at a time, tugging on them as Jon felt Gil’s tongue as they lay nestled in his mouth. He raised Jon’s legs in the air and darted the tip of his tongue in and out of his butthole.

Jon was on another planet.

“Hairy butt, love that,” murmured Gil. He lowered Jon’s legs back to the bed and suddenly bolted up on his knees, his dick twitching up and down like some toll gate in holiday traffic.

“OK, boss, now show me what I taught you.”

Just then he reached for the pipe.

“Want some more?”

“Shit yea,” said Jon positioning himself so his face was inches from Gil’s naked manhood. Two puffs later, he was devouring Gil’s tool like as if he had been doing it for years.

Uncle Charlie would have been proud of his queer nephew. Ernie would have thought he was crazy.

But he noticed Gil starting to go soft in his mouth.

“Am I doing it right?”

“Perfect, Boss, just perfect, my dick feels won-der-ful.”

It was then that Jon noticed his own cock going down a bit. This had never happened to him before. Even though it felt ten feet long.

“I think it’s time for your advanced course in a little kink,” said Gil and he reached over to the side of the mattress to retrieve a length of cord which he tied around Jon’s balls and then his own. Only a few feet of cord separated their sacs, but ever so slowly he began to stand up on the bed.

“Fucken hot,” said Jon, five light years from earth by that point as he watched their balls giggle in midair.
Jon’s cock itched to spurt, though he was wondering where his erection was going. Gil untied the cord on his balls, lowered himself back down to the bed and took a heavy drag on the pipe, blowing the smoke directly on Jon’s cock.

Instantly, Jon felt the tingle throughout his tool and Gil immediately swallowed his cock for two minutes before sliding it into his hairy butt hole. With that Jon exploded inside Gil and they both lay on the bed, smelly and spent.

“So how ya feeling Boss?” asked Gil smugly licking the sweat off Jon’s chest.

“I don’t know—I—I’ve never felt this way before…”

“Next time I want you to tie me up while you fuck me.”

He pressed his mouth to Jon’s ear.

“Oh, and by the way, welcome to Fort Lauderdale.” Then he placed Jon’s still dripping cock in his hand and gave it a kiss.

For a while they just lay there, side by side, Jon’s eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, counting every water stain and dust mark. Usually after he came with Ernie, both of them would take a fifteen minute power nap. But now he felt like he could run the New York Marathon.

“Why don’t we hit your place? said Gil.

“But I’m fine right here…”

“I mean your other place, the Gear Shaft. It’s underwear night. Should be festive.”

Jon scanned the barren room. Gil got up, grabbed a package of Twinkies from the kitchen shelf, unwrapped it and tossed one to Jon.

“Gil, what were you doing in the bathroom when we first came in?”

Gil grinned like a kid caught by his mother jerking off.

“Whata ya mean?”

“I couldn’t help seeing you in the mirror—you were using a needle…”

“Slamming, boss, just slamming,” answered Gil matter-of-factly.

“What’s—what’s that?”

“You know the stuff we just smoked?”


“And how good it made you feel?”

“Sure, I’m still in fucken heaven. With you.”

“Well, if you use a microwave to liquefy it and then inject it into your arm, it works that much faster, that’s all. That’s slamming.”

Jon fiddled with his nose ring.

“So, you wanna give it a try? Make the way you feel now like a walk in the park compared to traveling to the moon.”

“But Gil, my folks, they—they died of a heroin overdose. They found them with the needles still in their arms…”

Gil started laughing uncontrollably.

“Shit, boss, it ain’t near anything like Big H. Hey, you ever take speed?”

“Sometimes, when I was out all night and had to work the following morning.”

“That’s all this is. Speed in the fast lane.” Gil ran his hand across Jon’s chest.

“So wanna give it a try before we hit the road?’

Jon gave a hesitant nod. All he thought as Gil was getting the stuff ready in the bathroom was how maybe he was one of those addictive personalities they talked about on Dr. Phil, that he had inherited his parents’ habit and was destined for this moment anyway. After all, if anyone could be an addict it was him. He didn’t have to work or worry about the money. He had all the money in the world now and wouldn’t have to work another day in his life.

“Make a fist,” said Gil as he looked for a vein. He hadn’t even finished injecting the liquid magic into his arm when a sudden, total rush of heat coursed throughout Jon’s body. It was like that sudden blast of heat Jon felt as he got off the plane in Fort Lauderdale airport. Only a thousand times squared.

Then he grabbed Gil tightly and began kissing him until their tongues had no place else to go.

“Hey lover,” murmured Gil.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” was all Jon could say as he fell to the bed. “Next time I want you to fuck me Gil, I want to know what it’s like to fucked by a man. I want you to stare into my eyes and fuck me…”

“You know I’m an obedient employee,” said Gil as he straddled Jon, grabbed his soft cock and paired it with his own, stroking them slowly in his hand. Then, still holding onto them, he leaned over and nestled his nose in Jon’s armpit and washed the stench away with his tongue.

“Fuck you Gil, fuck you,” Jon repeated over and over again. “Get on top of me,” and as Gil did, he dug his hands into the eagle tat on Gil’s back and held him against him like a vise.

All those years jerking off over guys’ pictures with his stupid, backward buddy when he could have had this.

This time it was Jon exploring Gil, his strong chest, firm abs and hairy thighs, then he mouthed his cock and balls for what seemed a lifetime, his own equipment tingling with each lick.

“Turn over, man.” he whispered.

Gil lay spread eagle, his powerful shoulder muscles pulsating in the dim light as Jon outstretched his arms across Gil’s hairy back and kissed his furry ass cheeks, gently, ever so gently guiding his nose, then his tongue deep into Gil’s warm butthole, matting the hairs around it.

“Beautiful, you—you are so beautiful,” Jon kept murmuring. “I can’t get enough of you, fucker. My beautiful, beautiful teacher. My beautiful, beautiful man.”


Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real


Shaw and I met – where else – but on one of the hook-up sites. It was almost two in the morning that first time. I had come home from another Tuesday underwear night at the Ramrod where I had slugged down four free rum and cokes in an hour in exchange for prancing around in my leather jock-strap and only went online when I got home out of my insatiable curiosity. When I saw his profile, a 5’10”, 180 pounds of, beefy hairy man, 39, mostly donned in leather, with dark hair and a ruggedly handsome, bearded face that would make any Hollywood scout whip out his casting couch, I hit him up as a joke, expecting no response.

Instead, he came back in seconds, mentioned he had seen me around and had wanted to hang with me for awhile. Huh.

Oh, and he wanted to do it now. Right now. My place.

I quick popped a Viagra, whisked out my leather harness and boots from my closet – he said that leather was a turn-on for him – and waited, with a pair of loose cut-offs and my leather jockstrap underneath, still expecting a no-show. Instead, what walked into my house 15 minutes later was one of the handsomest men I ever bedded down with.

His profile pics didn’t do him justice. He was all man, but not in a loud brassy way. Level headed sounding and bare chested, he didn’t need those chaps (with that beautiful, manly hairy butt hanging out) to make him Pure Hunk. He smiled broadly and gave me a kiss barely in the door.

“I’ve seen you around,” he murmured, “Ramrod, Clubhouse. In fact, I was just at the Clubhouse tonight. Supposed to be Leather Night, but Jesus …”

Clubhouse II was a bath house I had gone to religiously for years til it got tired and old, and Slammers opened.

“Yea, I know, pretty pitiful, huh,” I replied, gesturing him to follow me to the back bedroom. I still didn’t believe this was all going to happen.

I plopped down on the setae (perfect for sucking a guy’s cock) across from the bed as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Like I said,” he murmured, “I’ve been wanting to make it with you for – well, for years. But I didn’t think you were interested in me …”

“Well, if I never looked your way, it was probably because I thought you were out of my league.”

“You’re kidding,” he said, standing in front of me, his leathered crotch practically in my face. “You are beautiful. Love the fur, love the face, love the body.”

I sniffed his crouch deeply, and then gave it a playful kiss.

“So why don’t we get down to the essentials and see what all the fuss is about?” I said, peeling off my shorts.

“Sure,” he said, unbuckling his chaps, “just one thing, mind if I take a hit?”

I shrugged my shoulders and played blasé as he pulled a thin clear plastic needle from his knapsack and shot himself in the arm.

Just like that.

“Just some Tina but it works faster this way – you want?”

“No, otherwise Mr. Peter” – I touched my rising dick – “ain’t gonna keep that hairy butt of yours happy.”

“Don’t worry,“ he smiled back. “ I’m happy already.”

A moment and he was down on his knees sucking my cock through my jockstrap which I flung to the floor ten seconds later.

“Fucken beautiful dick, man,” as he gently stroked my furry abs and chest and I softly pulled on his hairy nips and stroked his beefy, lightly furry chest.

“Like that Daddy Dick?” I prompted.

“Love that Daddy Dick,” he replied, softly kissing the cockhead. “That Daddy Dick’s my God tonight.”

Though my dick was hard, I knew it was not at its full potential, as I waited for that little click in my head to tell me my Viagra had kicked into overdrive, but that didn’t happen.

Not because of any deficiencies in the Furry Adonis in front of me, that was for sure, but probably the liquor I had consumed like an alcoholic trying to break some Ramrod Underwear Night Record less than an hour before.

“Let me suck your cock,” I said, gesturing Shaw to stand up. I rightly figured all my sucking wasn’t going to do much good with Girl Tina coursing through his veins. But I persevered for a few more minutes, then, bouncing my cock on my hand, asked the inevitable question every Top asks His Bottom.

“Want this Daddy Dick, boy?”

Without another word spoken, he got on his stomach, that broad shouldered lightly fuzzy back before me and that beefy, fury butt in my face as I tongued his hole and he moaned – like a man – “Fucken A, Dad, Fucken A.” Then I stood up, satisfied Mr. Peter was ready, pulled his butt close to me and entered him.

He seemed to like it – like it a lot, but I was just not happy with my performance and wish we had connected three hours ago, not now in the middle of the night with a liter of Bacardi in me. But I plowed him for a good half hour, in between tonguing his hole and he sucking my dick til we both lay quiet and sweaty on the bed.

“Sorry, man, all those free drinks at Ramrod zapped me.”

“Man, are you kidding, you were great. I wanna do it again with you, buddy.”

“At a civilized hour,” I added. “By the way, can you get those shots for the dick, you know the kind that keep those porn stars up and at it. I’ll – I’ll pay you ….”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Good, ‘cause next time I wanna plow you all night.”

Thursday: Shaw reborn as Gil

Inside the Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

Inside the Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

Mitch Reborn

I told you about my brief but powerful relationship with a meth head named Mitch. Years later, I gave Mitch a rebirth as a secondary character – by the same name – in my novella “Buy Guys,” available on “Buy Guys” is the story of two Jersey drifters, Pete and Blaze, who go down to Fort Lauderdale to lead free and breezy lives as male hustlers; the title “Buy Guys” refers to the fictional website on which they post their escort ad. But Blaze, the wilder of the duo, has a more sinister scheme in mind: to extort a drug smuggling ring operating through the funeral home he worked at while back in Jersey that uses South Florida as its base. In this scene, Blaze is out serving a client while Pete checks out La Bella’s, modeled after an actual restaurant-bar in Lauderdale where wealthy old men pair off with younger guys looking for a “daddy” to support them. It is here where he encounters just such an unlikely pairing that he and Blaze had seen on the beach …

Pete was there for twenty minutes, nursing his screwdriver, and was about to check his phone a second time to make sure he hadn’t missed a message from Blaze when he saw them. Or, more like, they saw him. That dynamic duo from Sebastian, the tall old guy and his younger fuzzy companion. The old man stared at him expressionless but Fuzzy gave Pete a smirky grin and gestured to join them in their booth.

What the fuck thought Pete as he smiled broadly, nodded, and walked over.

“So where’s your partner in crime? We haven’t seen the two of you on the beach in a while,” said Fuzzy in strong New Yorkese. He looked older close-up, probably pushing forty. Balding, he had the rough, tough face of a boxer, with a big ethnic nose and a dark, neatly trimmed beard.

“Blaze’s coming a bit later. He had something he had to do but I thought he’d be here by now.”

“I’m Mitch,” said Fuzzy, shaking Pete’s hand, “and this is Randall.” Mitch’s palm was sweaty.
Randall looked late sixties, maybe seventy, blotchy complexion, thin bloodless lips, dead gray eyes, short steely gray hair slicked down and parted down the middle, and a large mole smack in the middle of his forehead. Unlike Mitch who wore an open purple polo shirt with plenty of dark chest hair peeking out, Randall was dressed all formal like, green sports jacket, white dress shirt and a gold tie.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” asked Randall in a low, polished voice.

“No, again I was waiting for…”

“Well, have dinner with us. When your friend, what’s his name again?”


“Yes, when Blaze gets here, he can always catch up.”

Mitch, who kept fidgeting in his seat and tapping his fingers on the table like a drummer, held up his empty water glass, then looked at Randall’s. ”Mind if I drink yours till that damn waiter comes with more? I’m dyin’ here.”

Randall nodded.

“So what part of Jersey you from?” said Mitch all smiles again after guzzling down half the glass. There was sweat on his forehead.

“Bergen County. But how did you guess?”

“Hey I’m grew up in Marine Park, Brooklyn. But our high school wrestling team competed tri-state and I had a lot of buddies from Jersey. You can take the guy out of New York or Jersey but you can’t take the New York or Jersey out of the guy.”

“You and Blaze seem to be newcomers to Sebastian,” said Randall. “The two of you been here in Fort Lauderdale long?”

“Just over a month. We decided to say goodbye to the cold and lead the good life down here.”

“Doing what?” said Randall matter-of-factly. “I mean, did you have jobs lined up before you left?”

“No, not exactly.” said Pete, a bit defensive.

“Quit grilling the guy, Ran,” said Mitch, a tinge annoyed. “You think everyone has a family business like you to just fall into?”

“Family business?” said Pete.

“Yes, I’m a fourth generation mortician. My family owns a chain of over twenty funeral homes across the Northeast and a few down South.”

“Actually, my buddy worked for a Forest Rest Funeral Home back in Fair Lawn.”

“That’s one of ours,” said Randall, reaching for a roll.

“In other words, Pete,” cracked Mitch, “modest Randall here is trying to tell you he’s loaded.”

“You didn’t complain when I renewed the lease on your Cooper convertible, did you?”

“Let me see if I can find that fucken waiter,” grumbled Mitch who bolted up out of the booth.

Randall sat back and took a sip of his martini. “Such an impatient boy.”

“You don’t by chance have a home of your family’s down here that could use two young able bodied men, huh?” laughed Pete.

For a second Pete wondered if Randall, with his connection with Blaze’s old place and knowing what Blaze had told him about the drug smuggling shit really going on, might be more than just a retired body snatcher. But the thought went out of his head as quickly as it had come in.

“Well, we do have a home in West Palm Beach, but I don’t have a clue what’s going on there. I’ve been out of the active side of the business for almost ten years now, leading the good life as you call it.”

Pete smiled politely, glancing down at his phone. It was almost eight. And nothing from Blaze.

“You know, I do have a suggestion how you can make some money very quickly, in fact, tonight that is, if you’re up for it.”

Didn’t Mitch give him enough to earn the Cooper, thought Pete.

“And what do you have in mind?”

“Nothing very elaborate. I’d just like you to come back with us and fuck my partner here while I watch.”

So that was their game, thought Pete.

“Well, if you think I’m the man for the job.”

“Oh, I’m certain, in fact, I know Mitch would enjoy it very much. He’s told me countless times how he found the two of you, but especially you, shall we say, arousable material. Not that I keep Mitch on a short leash. I turned 71 in March and I’m a realist. But I’d rather settle for being a silent observer than have him off on his wild ways unchaperoned.”

“I assume I’ll be paid in more than just a prime ribs dinner,” said Pete.

“One thousand dollars. In cash of course. That’s more than fair for an hour’s work by a prime specimen of manhood like you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yep,” said Pete, playing it cool. He took another sip of his screwdriver. “And what if Blaze shows or I hear from him?”

“He can always join in and I’ll double my remittance.”

“Fine by me.”

“Good, we can leave now if you like. Unless, of course, you’re hungry…”

“No, but what about Mitch. Maybe he’d like to have his dinner first?” said Pete. Mitch was still nowhere in sight.

“The only thing Mitch wants right now besides a nice butch guy like you fucking him is another hit of his beloved meth which he’s probably mainlining in the restroom or the car as we speak.”

And with that, Randall slugged down the rest of his martini, threw a twenty on the table and gestured for Pete to follow him.

The sweaty palms, the tapping fingers, the insatiable thirst. Pete should have figured it out. After all, he had been there more than a few times himself.

And Randall obviously knew his boy well. When they got to the lot, Mitch was sitting in the Acura, the ac on full blast, with a broad grin on his face, giving Pete his full attention.

Merry Fucken Christmas, Fuzzy, thought Pete to himself.

Pete followed Randall’s Acura to their place, Ran’s place, in one of those high rises right off the beach. The condo, on the twenty-first floor, was warehouse huge with a wrap-round terrace on all sides and a view of twinkling Lauderdale on one side and the infinite dark of the ocean on the other.

“Let me change into something more comfortable while you boys get better acquainted,” said Ran who disappeared into the rear of the apartment as Mitch gestured Pete to follow him to his bedroom which faced the ocean side.

The first thing Mitch reached for after stripping down to nothing was his glass pipe on the bed stand. He crouched down on his mattress.

“Want some?” he asked searching for his butane lighter.

It had been more than a year since Pete had had a hit. There wasn’t a day since then that he hadn’t wanted it and he was actually happy there was no one around he could get it from to start him down that endless road to nowhere again. But now…

“Not yet,” said Pete. ”In a little while, it’s just I want to make sure my cock is hard and happy for you.”

“How thoughtful of you,” laughed Mitch. “Now get your fucken clothes off. I wanna get high right now on all that fur.”

With the two of them naked, Pete could see how they could be taken for brothers. About the same height, both stocky and covered with dark, luxurious hair, only ten years and Mitch’s receding hairline separated them.

“I always said if I found my clone I’d tie him up and never leave the bedroom,” said Mitch having sex with Pete’s burly body with his brown eyes. “But I know damn well Ran has no rope in the place. ‘Fraid he might hang himself.”

“Where is he anyway?” asked Pete. “He’s the one who said he wanted to watch.”

“Oh, he’s probably baking in his sauna right now. Soothes his old man arthritis.”

“Sauna? He’s got his own sauna?”

“Oh, yea, in the guest room. All the comforts of home. And more. In the morning, he’ll spend fifteen or twenty minutes in his little isolation booth while I’m still snoozing to de-crick all those aging bones. Otherwise, he’d practically be in a wheel chair.”

Mitch flicked on the lighter.

“But fuck him. We don’t need an audience to have fun, do we?” He dropped the magic crystal in the pipe and held the lighter beneath the globe till it had turned to molten magic, then took a deep drag and exhaled.

“Ah,” he moaned, “after a good hit, everything else in life is a flopped TV pilot.”

“Is this you?” said Pete pointing to a cover of New York magazine. It was dated 1994, and on it was a younger Mitch with a healthy manicured mop. Across read the banner, “Meet one of New York’s sexiest guys.”

“Yea, you know, they’d run that spread every year about the sexiest men in the City and I was still at NYU and one of their scouts spotted me, so…” He rubbed his hand playfully over his balding head. “Even without all this, I still look good, don’t I?” he quipped.

“Can’t you tell?” said Pete looking down at his own stiff seven inches. He could see Mitch’s tool was one of those fat beer can cocks but with the Tina streaming through his veins, it just lay there between his legs like a newborn kitten.

Pete crawled up on the bed so the two of them were crouched on their knees almost nose to nose.

“Hey, here’s a bonus even before I test how good that tool of yours is,” said Mitch and he reached into a drawer in the bed stand, pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses and stuck them on Pete.

Pete glanced over to the bureau mirror.


“I used to sell these back in Chelsea on line for a hundred and fifty bucks apiece.”

Pete took them off and placed them gently back on the bed stand like they were a piece of fragile china.

“A hundred and fifty bucks? People actually paid you that?”

“Sure,” said Mitch, taking another drag on the pipe. This time, Pete took his turn.

“Just one puff,” he said, “like I need to get any hornier.”

“We do wanna put on a good show for the old man, don’t we?”

“So how did you meet him?”

“Well, like I was saying, I was selling those sunglasses on line making twenty five G’s a month…”


“Yep, living the high life of an upscale faggot in Chelsea when it was still a solid gay ghetto. And snorting or smoking most of it away. I mean my good Jewish parents—you Jewish?”

“No, German and Irish,” said Pete.

“Well, you look like you could be, Jewish I mean,” rattled on Mitch. “As I was saying, my good Jewish parents sent me to NYU, where I got my CPA, but after practicing a couple of years I was bored out of my gore, and by that time I was on the Meth Express, looking for an easy way to make money. Online retail was getting big, so first I sold slinky lingerie and underwear, then knock-off watches, and finally hit pay dirt with the shades.”

“Okay, and… ”

“And, just before everything crashed with the bust, I was on a RSVP cruise solo out of Miami where I met Ran who was retired and already down here looking for a companion. I was just about broke and ready to move back with my folks in fucken Marine Park, but where the hell is a Manhattan meth head gonna get his candy in shit’s heaven? And all Ran really wanted was a trophy boy. He tells me he had been something of a stud till just a few years ago but, after his prostate surgery, sex for him became a spectator sport. I wasn’t joking about him not having any rope in the place. If he didn’t have me and my playmates to watch I think he would have done himself in.”

Mitch lowered himself on his stomach so his firm, hairy butt was in Pete’s sighting and Pete’s crotch in his face as he ever so lovingly began to kiss his stiff cock.

And you, handsome?”

“Me, just a drifter with shit to show for it. It was Blaze who came up with the idea of coming down here and us living off horny, rich retired old men.”

“Which is why you were at Bella’s tonight, prospecting, huh, buddy?”

“Something like that,” said Pete.

“You guys lovers?”

Pete thought a second on how to answer, but said nothing.

Suddenly, Mitch started tonguing the back of Pete’s shaft. “Curtain going up. Ran’s coming.”

A moment later, Ran emerged in an open silk bath robe and a martini in his hand. His thin, pale body fit his age and his cock, a thick one that hung halfway down his thigh, was as soft as butter. He said nothing and planted himself in a corner chair just across from the bed.

It was the best seat in the house.

Pete petted the hairy cheeks of Mitch’s butt, as Mitch sucked his cock, making sure as much of it was visible for Ran’s private viewing. Ran sat expressionless, occasionally sipping his drink, saying nothing, and not even touching himself. But his dead gray eyes never wandered a millimeter from the main event.

Mitch got up, then lay back, propped a pillow under his back and another under his head, his furry muscular legs outspread, and his furry hole a few inches off the bed, aimed in Pete’s direction.

Pete glanced around for some lube. Just then, Ran reached under his chair into a box, pulled out a small plastic bottle of K-Y and threw it on the bed just inches from Pete. Pete nodded, lathered up his cock, still happy and hard, and shoved it deep into Mitch’s butthole.

“Shit,” he murmured, moving closer till his ass cheeks hit Pete’s pubes. “Now that’s what I call a good fuck.”
Mitch reached up, pulling on Pete’s nips as Pete reached over and pulled on Mitch’s, all the while thrusting his cock back and forth in rhythm with the loud click of the Grandfather clock in the living room.

Ran remained motionless.

Mitch flipped over and Pete continued to fuck him from behind, stroking the rich fur on his cheeks as he shoved himself deep and high inside his hairy buddy, Again and again and again.

Without breaking Pete’s beat, Mitch reached over for his pipe and lighter, took another heavy drag, then, exhaling, delicately handed it up to Pete who sucked in the smoke Mitch had just let out, and took two more drags of his own.

By now, he had no doubt that the drug had taken over his body. And his mind. Here he was, fucking his twin brother who loved every inch of his big hard cock. Pete knelt down, his dick still deep inside Mitch, and began to savagely kiss him.

And when the meth had eventually done its dirty deed, and Pete could see his dick going limp, though it felt like he could fuck half the guys on Sebastian Beach at high noon, Ran again, playing stage manager, pulled out a thick black, veiny dildo from the magic box beneath his chair. Pete used it on Mitch in between shoving his own dick in Mitch’s hole.

Exhausted and showered in his own sweat and Mitch’s, Pete fell to the bed as Mitch turned over on his side.

“Your money’s on the table in the foyer,” Ron said quietly as he got up and left the room.

It was after two. Mitch had drifted into sleep but Pete, his sensitive dick limp, wanted to cum but he knew, having spent many a meth-saturated night back South of Market, that that would be mission impossible.

Just then, it hit him. His phone, which had been sitting in the back pocket of his jeans on the floor beside the bed, hadn’t made a peep the whole night.

Where the fuck was Blaze?

Next – My Characters Are Real: Shaw