Inside The Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

In The Mind of a Writer: My Characters are Real

I showed you how I used Danny, my wheel-chair lover, as the basis for the character Hylan in my novella, “Not in It For the Love.” Well, I guess Danny made such an impression on me and was so unique of all the guys I’ve known in my life that I decided to use him again, this time in my upcoming novella, “Buy Guys” available on Wilde City Press. It’s about two Jersey drifters, Pete and Blaze, who go down to Fort Lauderdale to lead what they mistakenly think will be free and breezy lives as male hustlers; the title, “Buy Guys” is the fiction website on which they post their guys-for-hire ad. In this episode from the book, Pete has lined up a client who thinks is just another old or homey or lonely or whacked-out guy willing to pay for sex. Ah, but not so fast…

When Pete texted back Vinnie who lived in Plantation on what he was looking for, his response was simple but cryptic:
“Somebody who isn’t judgmental.”

Was the guy some troll or ninety year toothless fuck on Viagra? Whatever. Two hundred fifty bucks was two hundred fifty bucks, and Pete’s job was making the guy happy regardless.
Pete could hear the bark of a dog from Vinnie’s apartment even before he knocked. A minute later, Vinnie opened the door.

He was in a wheelchair.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” said the forty-something Christian Bale look-alike with a wavy salt and pepper mop of hair and scruffy beard to the lumbering black lab at his side. He was wearing a white tank and gym shorts and his smooth body was a portrait in contrasts, massive arms and shoulders and bony, withered legs.

He looked up at Pete.

“You okay with me?”

“Fine, buddy, fine,” said Pete, unsure how he felt.

“The bedroom’s back here.” Vinnie swung his chair around as Sammy parted company and made himself comfortable on the living room sofa.

“Your money’s in an envelope on top of the dresser. You can count it if you like.”

“That’s fine,” said Pete who slipped off his sneaks and red T and dropped his running shorts.

“I like the jockstrap,” said Vinnie, nervously scanning his near naked visitor. “Hot. Keep it on.”

Vinnie parked his little chariot on the side of the bed, then lifted himself onto the mattress, and propped himself up on some pillows positioning his legs like they were appendages on a puppet. Then he reached for what looked like some aluminum smoke pipe on the bed stand.

“Want some?”

“What is it?”

“Medical marijuana. Helps ease my leg spasms.” He lit the lighter.

“You can get it here in Florida?”

“No, but I got a buddy in Colorado who brings me a shit load whenever he’s in town.”

Vinnie handed the pipe to Pete who, by now, was straddling Vinnie on the bed. He took a deep drag. The rush reminded him of the meth he had so loved back South of Market. And that had taken him down the wrong road more than once.

“Good shit, right?” smiled Vinnie as he took his turn. Then he placed the pipe back down on the bed stand and exhaled.

“I haven’t been with a guy for six months now, since the accident. But I’ve played with myself some and I know the plumbing’s still working, even if it takes a while. I just didn’t wanna try it with somebody, you know, a trick, till I knew for sure…”

“Well, don’t worry, Vinnie, I’ll be patient.”

“Besides, you remind me so much of Cliff, as soon as I saw your profile, I figured if anybody was gonna get me gonna it would be somebody like you.”

“Cliff an ex of yours?” said Pete, massaging Vinnie’s shoulders.

“He—he was my partner. He was killed in the accident.”

Pete stopped.

“I’m sorry.”

“He was humpy hairy little fucker just like you. We were together five years, were ready to buy a house together even, when some kid on his cellphone went through the red light. He came out of it without even a scratch, but Cliff was killed instantly and me, well…”

“Life is of the moment, right?” said Pete. “Let’s enjoy the moment we’ve got.”

Vinnie began rubbing Pete’s stiffening cock beneath his jock, but Pete was unsure what to do next. Was the guy wearing a Depends, did he have a catheter up his cock? Should he even touch him down there?

Then, without thinking another second, Pete enveloped Vinnie’s shoulders with his arms and rubbed their beards together, then kissed him, as Vinnie stroked the hairs on Pete’s chest and held his head ever closer. Pete could feel Vinnie’s stirring dick on his abs, pre-cum drops wetting the hairs around his belly button. Vinnie guided Pete’s hand down to his crotch. Pete pulled back Vinnie’s shorts, knelt down and sucked his cock, still soft but growing, then began tonguing, then softly sucking his big hairy sac.

As Vinnie turned to strip off his tank top, then his underwear, his naked butt came into view. His cheeks resembled two rotting melons, bruised and miss-shapened, a reality, Pete guessed, of literally sitting on your ass too much.

But Pete quickly refocused on the good, not just what he saw. Well-built shoulders, strong arms, great chest, handsome, manly face. But also what he felt.

And he knew for sure it wasn’t pity.

Vinnie turned out to be a great cocksucker as Pete stood over and straddled him, working his small yet super sensitive nips with his fingers, and after they had licked and sucked and kissed and took a few more drags, Vinnie reached down and began stroking himself, his dick finally rising to the occasion. A smile crossed his face like a thirteen year boy relishing his first erection.

“See what you’re doin’ to me, you hot fucker,” Vinnie murmured as he continued to stroke his cock and motioned Pete to stick his back in his mouth. A minute later Pete was down on his.

So a guy in a wheelchair could not only get a hard-on, thought Pete. He could even enjoy it.

Pete came like Vinnie wanted him to cum, Pete’s man juice dripping from his lips, and, seconds later, he climaxed too. Pete knew he had, not by what didn’t happen – some heavy duty spurting – but by the way he suddenly griped Pete tightly for those moments as he wildly stroked his dick into some kind of oblivion, then lay back, exhausted.

“Thanks buddy, thanks a lot,” said Vinnie, smiling broadly.

“See,” said Pete, as he hopped off the bed. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“Don’t forget your money,” said Vinnie gesturing to the envelope on top of the bureau as Pete got dressed.

“Forget it. Consider it compliments of the management.”

Pete was happy he was able to hold it together till he got back into the Bronco. Then he started crying, the first time in a very long time, and didn’t stop till he got back to the motel. It was almost ten.

“Was yours as bad as mine?” said Blaze, lying on the bed, naked, his wet hair glistening from the shower. “Shit, all the guy wanted to do was to blow me which would have been fine if he knew what he was doing. Hell, I think I got bite marks all over my dick. Don’t these backward married guys from Des Moines ever watch porn?”

“Mine was okay,” replied Pete, who was anxious to wash the day away too. “Nothing special.”

Tuesday: My Characters re Real – Mitch

Inside The Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

Inside The Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

I told you about my experiences, actually my on-again-off-again romance with Danny, a wheel-chair bound guy I met while summering in Pennsylvania. He made such an impression on me I used him in both one of my short stories, and as Hylan, one of the protagonists in my novella, “Not in it for the Love.” One major difference from the real Danny is that I made Hylan biracial.

So let me set-up the scene were Josh and Hylan first meet. Josh is a young, handsome Florida drifter and part-time hustler who is adopted by Bishop, a successful Wall Street investments broker, on one of his trips to the Keys, scouting motels for acquisition. He takes Josh back with him to New York to be his trophy boy, but allows him to bunk hop in the West Village gay scene of the late ’90s. For Josh, it’s all about the sex and the occasional money, that is, until one fateful Sunday night …

It was a hot, steamy Sunday afternoon in August. Perfect for strutting the Village’s Christopher Street catwalk. Bishop had fallen asleep on the sofa watching “From Here to Eternity” on TCM, and a couple of prospective hot web dates ended up going nowhere. Even my usually reliable “port in a storm” fuck buddies weren’t responding to my “hey, got some time?” e-mails. The guys down in the Village for the Dugout’s weekly beerbust would be spilling out onto the sidewalk and street soon, shirtless, sweaty and hungry for one last screw for the weekend, even if they tried to hide their appetites behind smug “don’t give a fuck” expressions.

I usually rode the subway down, less of a hassle with traffic and all, but I opted that night instead to take Bishop’s just leased new BMW out for a spin. It was parked in the basement garage in a space that cost more than most people’s rents. Although parking in the Village on Sundays was tight with all those out-of-town suburbies wanting to experience the City, I came to know the side streets where I could still find a space if I moved my ass.

I had made good time coming down the Westside Highway. At the first red light off the highway in the Village, I weaseled out of my sleeveless open shirt and was snaking through the Meat Market District when, a half a block from the Lure, that leather bar, this shirtless guy in a wheelchair sailed out of nowhere and sideswiped me.
My first reaction was – shit – Bishop was gonna kill me for banging up his precious car. Then I saw in the rear view mirror that the guy had been knocked out of his chariot onto the street and looked like he was pretty banged up. So I parked the car illegally by a pump and trotted over.

Even in his scruffed -up condition – he was dressed only in army fatigue shorts and sneaks, and his shoulder, knee, and forehead were all scrapped and bloody – even messed up as all that, I found him – well – beautiful, a word that, frankly, had never come into my head before about any guy. His body fur was thick and wiry like steel wool, and his tangled, scrambled hair and beard stuck out like one of those African natives in those old copies of National Geographic people threw out at the trailer park. Even laying there on the street, his body reminded me of that bronze statue of Zeus I had seen in the lobby at the U.N. on one of Bishop’s attempts to show me some big city culture. Not overblown like a gym bunny, he was built more like some primitive hunter, with muscles that meant something. Even if his withered legs didn’t quite match his bulked-up upper torso.

“I’m sorry, man, didn’t see you coming,” I tried to explain as I knelt down and stared into those ocean blue eyes. He had the strong, rugged features of a Midwestern white boy but I knew his coco tan didn’t come from a week in San Juan. A half breed as Momma would politely put it when she was sober. Like the kind of models I kept seeing in those store circulars and on TV, not white, not black, so they kinda fit everybody.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. I wasn’t looking,” he replied with the same kind of nerdy yet sexy voice I had heard on a few TV car commercials. “Could you help me get back to my place – I live just a few blocks from here – I’ll be OK.”

And that, folks, is how Hylan Jonathan Demarest, Ironsides as he called himself, sailed into my shitty two-by-four life.

I folded up his dented wheelchair in the trunk – Bishop’s baby had suffered only a minor scratch – draped a blanket left over from this past weekend’s beach outing at Riis Park onto the front passenger seat so no blood would get on the leather, and ever so gently lifted this hunk of man in. Even then, I was getting hard.

His chair, though a bit banged up, was still usable. I folded it up and once we got to his address, I placed him back in it and wheeled him to the commercial elevator of the warehouse building off Jane Street where his loft was.

Scratching at his door to greet us was Hylan’s big black lumbering motherfucker of a dog, Bosco, as furry as his master, who helped him, as he told me later, live. He sniffed the dry blood on Hylan’s knee and wimped a little but accepted me in a second. Guess he realized I was here to help, not hurt his handsome buddy.

Once in his place, almost as large as Bishop’s penthouse but stripped down to the bare essentials, Hylan wheeled himself over to the bathroom and gestured for me to help him get his shorts, jockey underwear and sneakers off. No bag on his side or diapers like Old Man Shanahan who lived a couple of trailers away from ours in Shady Isles and who I took care of once when his daughter couldn’t make it. Bosco, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable on Hylan’s king size bed.

I was getting so hard so quick my dick hurt, cramped in the crotch of my super tight jeans I wore when I was out cruising so my package looked even bigger. Funny, I always thought gimps couldn’t get it up anymore, but as he maneuvered his body with those powerful biceps into a plastic stool that sat in the shower stall, I could see he was getting aroused, too, the head of his uncut cock beginning to make a surprise unveiling. He told me later that his plumbing didn’t always work so fast, so I must have been doing something right. And even if he couldn’t really stand, I figured he was about my height or even a little taller, and definitely bigger where it really counted. I figured his piece was 9, even 10 inches and thick like a flashlight. Then he turned on the shower and braced himself under the water.

I quickly undressed, my aching dick bouncing off my abs, and joined him, gently washing his cuts as my fingers slowly caressed his broad furry shoulders. We said nothing, but when he gestured me to stand in front of him I knew what he wanted and I surrendered my stiff pole to his mouth. For the next five minutes he worshiped my cock with his tongue and his lips, all while the shower beat down on us like a waterfall. Then, just as I spurted my manload down his throat, he started twisting back and forth like he was having a fit, rolled his eyes, then slumped back into the chair. Nothing had shot out of that beautiful cock of his but I could tell in his own alien way that he had cum too.

If this had been one of my usual hit-and-run man encounters, I’d be heading to the door by now. Instead, we slowly dried one another off and I carried him back to the bed and lay next to him, all quiet like, with Bosco still on the bed, making us some weird kind of threesome. His butt was black and blue and his furry cheeks looked like two rotting melons – he told me later that’s what happened when you sit on your ass all the time – but somehow it didn’t bother me.

Then, without thinking about it, I turned to Hylan. And began kissing him. First on the lips, then trailing down his hairy, massive chest and furry six pack to his cock that, even limp, I still gagged on.

As we finished for the moment, his banged up wheelchair, leaning against the bathroom door, caught the corner of my eye.

“I’ll- I’ll pay to get that fixed,” I whispered.

“You sure you wanna do that?’ said Hylan, “After all, it was my fuck-up as much as yours.”

“No,” I replied, stroking his chest softly, “I’m OK.”

“Well, considering what you drive and what you wear,” said Hylan, tugging at the Rolex on my wrist, “my first guess was you’re a lawyer, or doctor or own your own business maybe.”

Then he stared down at my still hard cock, then back at me.

“But looking at that handsome baby face of yours, I’d say you’re just being kept.”

“Hell,” I replied with the same stupid ass grin I used to charm the girls in high school, “I’m just a backwoods Florida country boy city slickin’.”

I had spied a diploma from the University of Chicago on the wall when we came in.

“Class of 1996,” I quipped.

Hylan crawled between my legs and lay his head on my dick.

“My parents wanted me to go into medicine. My father is a civil rights attorney back in Chicago, my mother counsels troubled kids, but I was in my second year at Chicago U when I decided to switch majors to music.”

“So what happened?” I asked, stroking one of his hairy legs, thin and railly but still with a kiss of muscle left to want him all the more.

“Everybody automatically thinks I was in a car accident or was some crazy biker boy who crashed his motorcycle into a wall, but I can thank a bug for my wonderful wheelchair existence.”


“A virus that hit my spinal cord. I won’t bore you with all the medical jargon, but it’s been three years now, just after I moved from Chicago. One Thursday I was jogging on the old West Side Highway, by that Sunday my legs were useless. The emergency room docs at St. Vincent’s knew what it was but there was nothing they could do for me except give me pain killers til there was nothing left to feel.”

“How, how did you stand it, dude?” I asked, rubbing his leg as if by some fucken magic I could make him whole again.

“I felt like doing myself in in the beginning but there are worse things that can happen to you, right? And having been a high school music teacher, I’m at least able to continue making a few bucks as a tutor, in between doing gigs at clubs here in the Village – I play a mean guitar – where I can show off some of my stuff.”

“You mean you write songs?”

He asked me to bring his wheelchair to the edge of the bed, then hopped in, and led me to a side corner off the bathroom where a tower of computer equipment and a keyboard glowed in the shadows.

“Let me show you,” and he brought up on the pc screen a song he had written and began playing it. “That’s why I moved to New York in the first place. If I’m ever gonna make it.”

I couldn’t resist stroking his chest and abs as he fiddled around with all those keys and knobs.

“So where did you get all this fur?” I whispered in his ear. My mind was on other things than music.

“From my mother,” he quipped, then laughed. He had a funny kind of laugh, round tones and all stagey like, like one of those laugh tracks on TV. “She’s from Argentina, Spanish and Italian blood. My grandfather and uncle are gorillas.”

“And that fucken humpy body, too?”

“A mix of both sides. My father was a gymnast in college, one of the first black men to make the team at his school, and I competed in swimming when I was at Chicago U., if that counts,” he replied, snuggling closer. “Now it’s just some weightlifting” – he gestured to the barbells lying on a table a few yards from his bed – “and wheeling myself around.”

He didn’t bring up fucking that first night and neither did I.

After all, there was always another time for that.

And we both knew there would be.

Back in bed we made love, kissing almost every inch of one another’s bodies a thousand times over, then dozed off till around 5 when Hylan nudged my shoulder.

“I know you have to leave but I wanna show you something first.”

I helped Hylan dress, then got him into his magic chariot and, leaving Bosco behind slumbering on the bed, down we went in the freight elevator back to the street.

“This way,” said Hylan, pointing to the river and the piers just a block or so away.

And once we got onto the piers, we stayed there, just us, my Hylan in his chariot and me standing proudly behind him, my hands firmly on his strong shoulders, watching the tease of a sunrise begin to light the skies.

Hylan reached up and grabbed my hand.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” mumbled Hylan, his eyes still fixated on the horizon.

“Waiting for you to find me,” I whispered back in his ear.

Another side of Danny.

Inside the Mind of a Writer: My Characters Are Real

Inside The Mind of A Writer: My Characters Are Real

Like most writers, I’ve based my characters either on alter egos of myself or composites of people I have known, and being an active gay man, I’ve known quite a few both socially and Biblically.

But there are a few characters who come to my books undiluted, and whom I used largely as I knew them in real life

So what I’d like to do over the next few weeks is to compare their real personas with their fictionalized ones: Danny, who I used as the basis for one of the protagonists in “Not In It for The Love,” and as a lead character in my short story, “Guilt Gift;”; Mitch, who became a secondary character in “Buy Guys”;  Tito, a secondary but very influential character in my novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,”; and Shaw, a pivotal character in the same book.

Let’s start with Danny – the real Danny.

“Lover” may be too strong a word to use with a guy I played with only a few times, but when we were together, Emotion eclipsed Physicality.

Not because Ironside – his screen name – alias Danny, a handsome 42 year old fucker, and a dead ringer for Christian Bale, was in a wheelchair, the result not of some accident but a degenerative viral spinal disease that left his legs useless appendages. For I soon discovered that all the stereotypical fallacies I had harbored about making it with a paralyzed guy were just that.

It was the summer of 2011 and I was up at my little getaway in rural Pennsylvania. With Rainbow Mountain Resort, our gay refuge, getting more straight with each season and some lousy bookstore miles away, the web and phone apps were my only hope for finding discrete dick. But I soon found that the listings were leaner than some Hollywood anorexic, though the guys were as picky and fucked up as everywhere else. Frauds, game players, or virtual sex buddies.

Then one night on bear 411 up popped Danny.

Though he was a good hour and a half away across the border in upstate New York, he was more than willing to meet me at a motel about half-way between him and me for a few hours one afternoon. Maybe distracted by his bearded face and muscular hairy chest pic, it wasn’t until I read his post a second time that I noticed the words “in a wheelchair but still agile and active.” I figured I’d beat him to the punch before he brought it up and e’d him as we finalized our plans: ”I see you’re disabled. NP.”

After all, I had had a Vietnam vet double amputee a couple of lifetimes ago in my youth and was not turned off by deformity, maybe because I had grown up with a grandfather who had lost his right arm in a factory mishap. But I was still curious how things would work with someone paralyzed, you know, down there. Even a guy who reassured me he took Cialis.

We rendezvoused in the motel parking lot, and from the driver’s side of his mini-van, he looked pretty much like his pics, a wavy, sexy salt and pepper mop of hair and scruffy beard to match. I got the room – wheelchair accessible – and went ahead to open the door when he appeared at the doorway in his chair with his service dog, a large black gentle Lab named Bosco, faithfully beside him, carrying his master’s bag in his teeth. I wished my three little mutts were half as well behaved as Bosco was.

Danny had mentioned in his message to me about being a little nervous meeting someone for sex and admitted now, as he used his massive arms and shoulders to position his body and withered rail legs onto the bed, that it had been awhile since he had been with a man. So, stripped down to my briefs, I opened the bottle of Merlot he had suggested I bring as he lit up some of his medical marijuana and shared a few drags with me. The grass was to soothe the pain of the occasional leg spasms he suffered despite or maybe because of his paralysis. I have to say the stuff was pretty potent and gave me a prolonged heavenly high without affecting me downstairs.

As we lay on the bed, me naked by now except for my sneakers and he, a good half Italian and half Irish boy in his white “Guinea” ( his word not mine) tank top, and black bikini underwear, I didn’t know what to do nor what to expect. Was he wearing a Depends, did he have a catheter up his cock? Should I attempt to grope his crotch?

But instead of continuing to dissect the situation, I just turned to him, enveloped his shoulders with my arms, and kissed him with a kiss that went on for the next ten minutes, as he stroked the hairs on my chest and I held his head ever closer to mine. I know he could feel my stirring cock against his chest, pre-cum drops wetting his tank.

Then he guided my hand down to his crotch. Yes, his dick was soft though still sensitive to my mouth – “Takes a while for my plumbing to work, but I don’t feel nervous anymore” – so I switched gears and began tonguing, then softly sucking his big hairy sac, something he found pleasurable.

As he turned to strip off his tank top, then his underwear, his naked butt came into view. His cheeks resembled two rotting melons, bruised and miss-shapenned, a reality of literally sitting on your ass too much he later explained.

But I quickly refocused on the good, not just what I saw – well-built shoulders, strong arms, great chest, handsome manly face – but also what I felt.

Was it the wine and the marijuana? Or just two guys with no agendas feeling good together?

He was a great cocksucker as I stood over and straddled him, working his small yet super sensitive nips with my fingers, and after we had licked and sucked and kissed and smoked for about an hour, all the while Bosco sprawled out peacefully on the adjoining twin bed, Danny reached down and began stroking his dick which was finally rising to the occasion. A smile crossed his face like a 13 year boy relishing his first erection.

“See what you’re doin’ to me, you hot fucker,” Danny murmured as he continued to stroke his cock and motioned me to stick mine back in his mouth. A minute later I was down on his.

So a guy in a wheelchair could not only get a hard-on. He could enjoy it too.

I came like he wanted me to cum, my man juice dripping from his lips, and he climaxed too. I knew he had, not by what didn’t happen – an ejaculation – but by the way he suddenly griped me tightly for those moments as he wildly stroked his dick into some kind of oblivion, then lay back, exhausted. I felt happy, happy I had shot and happy to see my handsome, muscular buddy happy too.

Afterwards, we chatted about life. He had been a high school music teacher until a sudden onset spinal infection left him paralyzed in the space of a weekend. Now he tutored students at home and did occasional gigs as a musician.

We even talked about getting together again before I went back to Florida, and about him coming down to Fort Lauderdale. When traveling, Bosco accompanied him on the plane and his wheelchair neatly folded to fit under his seat.

The following day I e-mailed Danny (a) to let him know I had had a great time, and (b) to make sure he knew I hadn’t been turned off by his affliction as so many guys he told me were. He returned my e-mail with a one page litany of what he wanted “Boss,” his new nickname for me, to do to him next time we connected.

We met actually twice more that summer – he liked the Viagra I gave him, really liked it – and we played truck stop buddies, with the caps and the boots and the tight T’s, Danny lying on the bed stroking his cock as I stood in front of him, shoving my cock down his throat or my butt in his face. He especially liked it when I held his hands down or tied them behind his back so that he’d have no choice but to play my sub-pup.

And after we had both had our physical release, we just lay there, our sweaty bodies sandwiched together.

What I came to love most about Danny in the few hours we shared, besides his handsome face and masculine aura,was his total absence of self-pity. He was a pragmatic guy, like me; if he needed help with something, he’d ask for it, but for the most part, he just dealt with his problem without fanfare. He was always upbeat.

He didn’t take me up on that offer to come down South (maybe it was just as well – my three little dogs would drive his dog nuts), and the following summer when I tried to reconnect, he was gone. Had he sold his house and moved to the West Coast or NYC where there were more play gigs as he had mentioned once to me between sucks and kisses?

We had had our Kodak moments together and, after all, loving in the fast lane is better than never having loved at all.

As the months passed. maybe to keep his spirit alive within me, I used Danny as the model for the wheelchair bound protagonist in my m/m erotic romantic thriller, “Not In It For The Love,” and as a secondary character in my soon-to-be published novella, “Buy Guys,” about two young drifters who try to make it as hustlers in Fort Lauderdale and find their plans backfire big time.

Then, suddenly last summer, back up in PA as I pondered some guy from Dubai who wanted to exchange pics with me on one of the phone apps, who popped up than that handsome rugged face and the message: “Hey Boss, you bringin’ the cuffs next Thursday?”

We got together at a local motel where, out of my element in homophobic rural America, I passed Danny off as my handicapped half-brother. Bosco dutifully carried his bag into the motel room and then promptly found a corner to curl up in while I said “hey man” to his master with a kiss that lasted a good five minutes.

Yes, the magic was still there.

In fact, we kissed most of the next hour and forty-five minutes away, that is when “Boss” wasn’t playing rough just as his truck stop buddy likes it, holding his muscular arms (Danny had apparently been buffing up since I saw him last) behind his head while I force-fed him my stiff cock. And once we smoked some of his medicinal weed, things got real intense. Heavy nip play, sniffing armpits, him eating my hairy butt while I got his dick happy with some tough ball tugging. Then we kissed and embraced some more.

No, it wasn’t the sexiest hard-core sex I’ve ever had (Danny still has some problems with his plumbing), but it certainly ranked up there as some of the most sensual. As if only two days, not two years had passed since we last held one another tight, the AC intentionally off, so there was plenty of stench and sweat on our hairy bodies to savor, feel and taste.

Danny has another trip planned the beginning of September to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, the epicenter of research into the rare spinal viral infection that left him paralyzed in the space of a weekend; in fact, he has become Johns Hopkins’ unofficial poster boy for the malady. And, yes, there is renewed hope that stem cell implantation may be the answer to nerve regeneration and his walking again.

Oh, besides hopefully getting together a few more times till Labor Day when I return to Fort Lauderdale, it looks like one of us will be taking a trip this fall – either Danny to my place (sliding glass doors open up to the patio area from every room of my house so he should be able to get around) or me to his, outside Poughkeepsie, upstate New York.

Hell, Jet Blue has non-stop flights between him and me, Danny likes to swim, and I got a nice heated in-ground pool in my screened in patio.

And if you think I’m gonna to keep my central air on, think again.

Next – Danny in Fiction

Inside The Mind Of A Writer: Plotting “Buy Guys”

Inside The Mind Of A Writer: Plotting “Buy Guys”

Okay, so l got these two handsome gay young guys from Jersey 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.

In my very first draft, l had one of them, 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.

The “Buy Guys” in the title refers to the fictional male escort website on which they advertise their talents. (I wonder, are pimps a thing of the past? I mean don’t today’s ladies of the night use the web too?)

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 have been “Everything.”

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

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, of course, to research my book.

Hey, anything for my art, right?


Inside The Mind of A Writer: Plotting “Not In For The Love”

Inside The Mind of A Writer: Plotting “Not In For The Love”

“Not In It For The Love:”

” A brillant story you can’t help but inhale whole non-stop till you reach the end … this is not your everyday romance, this is not your everyday fiction either. This story is like taking a peek out there in the lives of real people in the real world.”

MM Good Book Reviews

Three events converged in my percolating writer’s mind as the inspiration behind my romantic novel, “Not In It for The Love,” available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble: a vacation in Key Largo, entry point to the Florida Keys; my loveship with my Upstate New York wheelchair bound buddy, Vinnie; and my personal experience with 9/11.

It was 2008 and my partner and I, down for the winter at my home in Fort Lauderdale, decided to spend a few days in the Keys and booked an inexpensive motel on the water in Key Largo. Watching the handsome men serving us in the motel’s outdoor restaurant that jutted out to the sea, l wondered if any of them had left nowhere existences and perhaps, straight or gay, used their good looks as “sex therapists” to the mostly str8 couples l saw at the motel who looked pretty bored with one another.

Thus my inspiration for my protagonist, Josh, who leaves his drug addicted trailer park parents in North Florida to work at his Uncle Cappy’s motel in – you guessed it – Key Largo. It is there that Josh, unsure of his sexuality, comes out of the closet, has a brief affair with one of the motel’s humpy young workers, and learns how to make some real money by spicing up the sex lives of motel guests. It is also there that he meets Bishop, a wealthy Wall Street player, canvassing motels for possible acquisition by hotel conglomerates he represents, who “adopts” him and brings him back to NYC to be his trophy boy. Bishop is modeled after my partner G who, like the character, is a Middle Eastern American who worked on “The Street” most of his professional life.

I met Vinnie, wheelchair bound as a result of a rare viral spinal infection, while spending a summer up at our home in northeast PA. We rendezvoused a few times at a motel equal distance from both us and I fell immediately in love with my handsome stranger, not out of pity, but instead deeply moved by his resiliency and determination to enjoy life whatever shit was thrown at him. Vinnie and l have stayed in touch over the years and, as of this writing, he plans to sell his home in Poughkeepsie, New York, and relocate to Fort Lauderdale.

In my book, Vinnie became Hylan, the young interracial musician with whom Josh, playing the field in the Big Apple, and up to that point in my story, an opportunist when it came to having sex with men (thus my title, “Not In It For The Love”), falls deeply in love. Despite the fact they are both broke, Josh is determined to make it happen when 9/11 intervenes, changing their lives and Bishop’s forever.

I was the PR director for a hospital on Staten Island, NYC’s forgotten borough at the time and was there in lower Manhattan that fateful Tuesday for a system-wide meeting at St. Vincent’s, Manhattan, who we had merged with the year before. The description of what happens to Josh who is thrown into the whirlwind is based largely on my experiences that day. And I made 9/11 as the critical plot twist in my book.

It was also because I wanted to use my 9/11 experience that I decided to place my story in the NYC of the late nineties. The gay scene l describe in the book is of that era, a scene that has now largely disappeared.

Next: Plotting my novella, “Buy Guys.”

Inside The Mind Of A Writer: Plotting “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

Inside The Mind Of A Writer: Plotting “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

For me, coming up with ideas for a new book are like making old fashion percolated coffee. I let my ideas simmer for a while, sometimes months, even years. Then suddenly my ideas have percolated enough in my head and l’m ready to sit down at my laptop.

I’m not one of these formula writers who churn out a book every three months, mostly to pay the bills. God bless ’em but l like to think my books are unique and that means writing for myself first.

Besides having an image of my main characters fixed in my mind, l’ve already outlined my plot, scene by scene in a more cinegraphic approach, right to the last fade-out. Sure, things may and often do change as l get into my writing – l write my books chronologically so that l am living my story as it happens – but l must know the endpoint for my characters and their story before l commit one word to paper.

Okay, to my blank laptop screen.

I’ve lived – and played – in Fort Lauderdale since 2002 and a few years ago wanted to write a book that focused on its dark side as a gay guy who had seen and experienced much of it. I had, at the time, written my memoirs as a hirsute gay man and the dozen or so iconic furry men l had known in my life, thirty years in NYC, mostly in the now gone West Village leather/levi scene, and the last decade in sunny Lauderdale, and l wanted to use it somehow in my book.

But how?

That’s when l came up with the idea of bringing generations together through a gay nephew and his gay uncle who had been incognito for most of the nephew’s life. In my original beginnings of a draft l had the nephew growing up on Long Island and, questioning his sexuality, coming down to Fort Lauderdale for college and to distance himself from his well-meaning but overbearing parents. That was exactly what l did when, after graduating from a commuter college in Jersey while living at home and anxious to live my life as newly “out” young gay man, l fled to Los Angeles to complete my master’s degree at the University of Southern California. In reality, USC was a G rated cover story for what became an X-rated flick – my life as a unencumbered gay man in Hollywierd.

In my original draft, Uncle just happens to be one of Nephew’s professors. In a highly charged scene, the two connect in torrid sex right on the table of the faculty room. The nephew soon after moves into a secluded gay resort the uncle owns where they continue their affair.

Then suddenly Uncle dies mysteriously, the resort is ransacked by his employees, and nephew finds his memoirs on a USB drive.

If you’ve already raised your eyebrows, you know such a story almost glorifying incest would never see the light of day with gay publishers who, perhaps a bit overly sensitive and paranoid about the str8 world that thinks we’re weird, view incest along with child molestation and forced rape as absolute story no-no’s. l soon chucked that storyline.

But that didn’t mean l had to also discard the nephew/uncle angle. What l did instead was distance them time-wise and geographically and have the uncle already dead at the beginning of my story.

I chose Staten Island, the forgotten borough of NYC and so atypical of the rest of City with its suburban and even rural neighborhoods, as the place to start my story, and had my nephew character named Jonathan growing but in the same 1920’s vintage home G, my partner, and l owned with our dogs. Jon himself was modeled after a tall, skinny, furry, twenty something guy l had tricked with in Lauderdale. I liked not just his look but also his cocky attitude and used both in developing my character.

Uncle Charlie, the black sheep of the family who had moved to Lauderdale some years back and, while working as a college prof, bank rolled two bars that would become enormously successful in the burgeoning Lauderdale gay scene was, well, me, kinda, except for the black sheep and bar ownerships, that is. My memoirs of my life as a gay man in NYC and later Lauderdale, were integrated into the book with only minor editing.

The glue l used to bring my two characters together was death, or more specifically Uncle Charlie’s will. When “Czar” opens, twenty something Jon, living with his grandfather, Charles’ brother, who ostracized him from the family decades before when he discovered he was gay, learns the uncle he hardly knew has left him his entire estate.

Quitting his nowhere job at a fast food joint, Jon flies down to Lauderdale to take possession of Uncle Charlie’s beachfront condo and the two gay bars he owns, one of which is the town’s leather bar. And it is in the beachfront condo that Jon stumbles upon Charlie’s memoirs, stowed away on his laptop, and becomes fascinated by the life he had led and increasingly suspicious about the story that he had died of a heart attack.

Having played the leather scene most of my gay life, l wanted to use my book to bring home the reality that the scene is on life support as more and more members of my generation, the Baby Boomers, are hanging up their jock straps. Uncle Charlie is determined to hold onto a strict leather dress code for his bar, the Gearshaft, modelled after Lauderdale’s Ramrod, in an era where such a tradition is almost impossible to maintain and still stay in business. The excerpt l ran on September 15 of the Celebration of Life that Charlie’s leather buddies hold in his memory tells the sad tale of the aging of Leather America.

And while some readers criticized the use of drugs in my book, l could not write a story of the contemporary Lauderdale gay scene without incorporating the current meth scourge which, like it or not, has taken hold of our sub-culture.

In an example of art imitating life, l learned much later, long after my book had been published, that the twenty something kid l had used as the model for Jon had, indeed, been a hard core meth addict.

As l’ve said before, “Czar” is more a docudrama than a piece of fiction. Its characters are men l’ve known, its story largely one l’ve lived.

“The Czar of Wilton Drive” is published by Kokoro Press and available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble.

Next: Plotting “Not In It For The Love.”

Inside The Mind of A Writer: “Buy Guys”

Inside The Mind of A Writer: “Buy Guys”

Like “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” “Buy Guys,” my novella available on,  begins elsewhere (Jersey) but is swallowed up like my characters in Fort Lauderdale.

Blaze and Pete are two young, gay handsome drifters with nothing to lose who leave dreary Jersey for the sun and sex of Florida’s Fort Lauderdale. Their mission is simple: to make a free and easy living as male prostitutes; Buy Guys is the name of a fictional escort site on which they advertise their talents. For a while things seem to go their way until Blaze and Pete’s past sins come back to haunt and eventually threaten to destroy them.

In this excerpt, our two guys have just arrived in Lauderdale after days on Interstate 95…

It took them another two days and the weather got better the further south they went. Then suddenly when they hit Palm Beach County, they actually began to sweat. It was as if they had crossed an imaginary line.

The original plan was to spend a few days in a cheap motel until they could check the papers or Craig’s List for a room or studio. But after exiting 95 at Oakland Park Boulevard in Fort Lauderdale and aiming the Bronco east, they stumbled onto Cary’s Cosmos on Birch Road, just two blocks in from Sebastian Beach which, according to the “Gay Fort Lauderdale” guide on the net, was the town’s man sandbox. “Rent by the Day, Week or Month, Free Wifi” read the yellowed sign outside the faded blue and white stucco two story building with a fenced-in pool street-side. Rent by the week was great, but free wifi was a must for their game. Odd, thought Pete, that a place that looked, well, worn around the edges, should be right in the middle of a street lined with well-kept guesthouses and smart townhouses and huge, beach-front luxury hotels just a few blocks away. But Blaze was his usual smug self, acting like they had reservations and the place was the Hilton and had been just waiting for them to arrive.

The sun was wide, hot and high but the only one by the pool was a slim, small guy with a full head of gray hair and white penciled beard in a purple bikini who eyed the two of them like some coquette at a New Year’s party.

And there, behind the counter in the front office, was Cary himself to check them in. The little ID badge pinned to his baggy tank top didn’t make it hard to figure that out. A good six foot three, he resembled a breezy California surfer thirty years past his prime, with long blondish gray hair parted down the middle, a tanned moon face, and tank and baggy shorts that did a poor job at camouflaging his sagging tits and bloated belly.

Behind him on the wall was a huge fading color poster of some wild haired shirtless pretty boy blonde, complete with the obligatory smooth swimmers build, modeling a pair of Ralph Lauren shorts. The Polo logo stood out like Blaze’s morning woody.

“So how long?” he gruffed, a cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes glued to a newspaper lying on the counter.

“A week for now,” said Pete, looking at Money Bags Blaze to step up to the plate.

“A hundred and twenty five for the week, payable in advance—cash only.”

Blaze opened his wallet and counted out the twenties.

“Plus a hundred dollar deposit,’ added Cary.

“For what?” said Blaze, obviously pissed.

“Just in case you punch holes in the walls or try to yank out the toilet or walk away with the microwave and frige.”

Blaze pulled out five more bills as Pete grabbed the keys.

“By the way, who’s the dude?” said Pete gesturing to the poster.

“Me,” said Cary, his eyes still on the newspaper.

More pages obviously torn from magazines sporting a more youthful Cary hung in cheap frames on the walls of their room. Gucci, Abercrombie & Fitch, Ralph Lauren. Apparently he had modeled for the best of them.

In another life.

Blaze decided to stay in the room and work on their Buy Guys web ad. “The sooner we get some money comin’ in, the better.”

Pete, on the other hand, couldn’t resist the beckoning of the sun and the pool.

“Go ‘head,” said Blaze opening his bags. “I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can tell me what you think.”

The old guy in the bikini was still out there sunning himself, ass up on the lounge, when Pete emerged, barefoot, wearing just his Levis that hung nicely around his waist so that the very top of his ass crack showed. Hey, you never know, he thought to himself as the old man caught his eye and smiled.

“I’m Fred,” said the guy.


“So, Pete, on vacation?”

“Actually me and my buddy, we decided it was time to leave the cold North and find jobs down here. Maybe construction, or bartending, who knows?”

“Where up North?” said Fred, coyfully playing with his sunglasses.


“Small world. I’m from Smithtown, Long Island. Been here for two weeks but going back tomorrow.”

“And so what do you do in Smithtown, Fred?”

“Oh, I’m a tax accountant. Been vacationing down here at Cary’s place for about ten years now, he’s cheap and right by the beach. I come down when things are quiet business-wise, but I’m not quite ready to take the plunge, you know, move down here permanently. So many Long Islanders work in the City, I get to prepare city income taxes, state income taxes, plus the federal. Lucrative, you know?”

“Sure,” said Pete who didn’t remember the last time he filed taxes. Fred reminded Pete of Jimmy who lived a few blocks from where he grew up and who spoke slow and deliberate as if we wanted to make sure he got every word exactly right.

“Down here with no state or local taxes, all you got are the feds, so I lose out right from the get-go.”

“I see what you mean,” said Pete, rubbing his hairy chest. “So, since you’ve been coming here for a while, what’s with all these pictures?”

“You mean Cary’s ads when he was a hot shot model? Well, I guess we egomaniacs never get enough of ourselves.”

What the fuck was he talking about, thought Pete. All he saw was an old man. Okay, he wasn’t fat and sloppy like most guys his age, but he had a leathery tan and stretch marks peeking out from the edge of his bikini. He figured him sixty, maybe older.

“Cary was one of New York’s hottest male models in the seventies and eighties,” Fred said like he was reciting a Wikipedia biog, “every designer wanted him and he was the sometime boyfriend of half of them and—well, I’m not talking out of school, Cary would tell you himself after a couple of martinis—he made the money and drank and snorted it away just as fast till a new crop of pretty boys took his place in the limelight and all he had left was enough to buy this place. That was just before I started coming down. He was hoping to make a killing when the boom hit, and a few developers actually talked to him about buying up the property and knocking this place down to build some upscale high rise condo-hotel complex. Then came the bust and well, here we are.”

Suddenly the sun went in.

“Time to take my mid-day nap,” said Fred rising up. Then he giggled like a schoolgirl. “Wanna join me?”

It was the entrée Pete had been waiting for. Maybe he and Blaze wouldn’t need that Buy Guys ad up to start making some dough. He stood up from the chair and instinctively rubbed his crotch.

“Sure, if you don’t mind not getting any sleep.”

”You have to admit,” said Fred as he closed the door of room 23 behind them and pulled the window drapes shut. “I get the best of them.”

“Whatya mean?” said Pete, unzipping his Levis and dropping them to the floor. He had no underwear on.

“I mean, when you’re hot like me, you only expect to get the best and well, look, you certainly got the goods,” said Fred, who walked over and began stroking Pete’s chest as he felt his furry butt from behind.

“I know guys like you love bare backing,” he went on, placing Pete’s hand on his crotch, “and I got a big one.”

“I’m a top,” said Pete, pulling away. “I don’t get fucked.”

“Oh, Okay,” said Fred with a condescending smile, “you can suck my dick then. As long as you swallow too.”

“Hold it,” said Pete. “We haven’t talked price yet.”

Fred fell into a corner chair.

“Are you saying you expect me to pay you?”

Pete said nothing and just glared back at him.

“Hey, I never had to pay for it and, sure as hell, I ain’t paying for it now,” said Fred, dropping the glib smile. “I got guys younger than you begging for this Daddy dick. Hell, you should be paying me. Besides, I take it back. You ain’t that hot.”

“Just because you old fucks pop a Viagra doesn’t make you a stud,” said Pete as he pulled up his Levis. “I think you’ve fallen for your own hype.”

He slammed the door behind him so hard he could hear one of Cary’s pictures fall off the wall.

“Strike one,” mumbled Pete as he walked into their room.

Blaze was sitting on the bed with the laptop. He didn’t look happy.

“First, fabulous Cary’s wifi keeps going in and out, then the god damn site says you can’t talk about actually offering sex …”

“Hey Blaze, even you know prostitution is illegal. You got to beat around the bush.”

“Okay, but now I can’t close the deal ’cause they want to be paid by credit card and my Visa card is maxed out.”

“Don’t look at me, my credit’s in the sewer.”

Blaze closed the lid of the laptop and hid it under some clothes in the drawer just to be safe.

“Listen, I remember us passing a CVS on AIA when we were checking out the beach. Let’s walk up there, I’ll buy one of those prepaid jobs and we can see what Sebastian is all about at the same time.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“By the way, how was the pool?”

“Peachy, just peachy.”

Author’s Notes: Blaze and Pete are modeled after the handsome men with not much going for themselves except for their looks that I’ve encountered and even slept with over the years. Fred is a mirror image of a seventy year old egotistical friend of mine who left his wife of forty years to play the gay blade in Lauderdale.

As for me, I researched my book by becoming a male hustler at my very advanced age on for one month. Though I couldn’t pay my bills on the money I made, four guys that month put the stack of twenties on the bureau for an hour with their furry daddy which is how I marketed myself to stand out against the sea of smooth pretty boys. When buddies of mine asked how I could “keep it up,” my response was simple: “The guy wants you bad enough he ‘ll pay for you. That’s the turn-on.”

Next: Plotting My Books

Inside The Mind Of a Writer: “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

Inside The Mind Of a Writer: “The Czar of Wilton Drive”

“This is one of those reads that just takes you along and dominates you as you read and you do not have to think about anything but getting lost in the story.”

Amos Lassen Reviews

While a good portion of it takes place in New York City, my novel “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” available on Amazon Barnes and Noble, is pure Lauderdale. I know. I lived most of it.

“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 on Wilton Drive in Wilton Manors, Fort Lauderdale’s gay ghetto; hence the title.

Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates, and is immediately submerged in Lauderdale’s scene of unbridled sex and heavy drugs. He also discovers his great uncle’s memoirs which reveal truths not only about Jon’s own past but also what may have really happened to his uncle.

In this excerpt from the book, Jon goes to attend a Celebration of Life for his late uncle hosted at the home of his attorney, Edward Applebee; Charlie in his will had requested that everyone dress in leather. Up to this point Jon has had a sweaty session with one of Uncle Charlie’s fuck buddies, Marcos, and has been introduced to the leather scene his uncle so loved by humpy Gil, the manager of the Gearshaft, the leather bar Jon inherited, who outfits him for tonight …

Eddie Applebee had said to be at his home off Victoria Park Road around seven but Jon decided not to leave the beach condo til 7:30. After all, while the Celebration of Life was for Uncle Charlie, Jon knew he was the real guest of honor, and he wanted to make sure everyone knew that too when he walked in. No more was he Jonathan Antonucci, Perkins waiter. He was Jonathan Antonucci, Czar of Wilton Drive.
Every oversize Spanish tiled ranch house on the block looked like it was worth at least a million bucks as Jon pulled up to Applebee’s and parked his BMW on the street. Applebee’s circular driveway was already loaded and there were cars, two Lexuses and a Landrover, on the lawn.

Jon’s first reaction as he walked in was how old everyone was. Hell, he knew most of them were Uncle Charlie’s age, give or take, but Charlie looked so vibrant and sexy and with it in all those dirty pictures of himself on his Samsung. These guys were old, tired, overweight, bald, wrinkled, and those that had leather on were wearing their harnesses like they were brasseries. One fat fuck who resembled an albino Buddha had the balls to walk around in a leather thong, his ass cheeks each the size of a watermelon.

“I’m Freddie, Eddie’s partner,” greeted the short, boney guy with a hillbilly beard and long stringy hair like some hippy that had been buried in 1969, then dug up. He was shirtless with a red armband on his right bicep, and his rib cage pressed through his leathery abs.

“So you’re the Folsom in Applebee and Folsom.”

“Aren’t you the astute young man?” replied Freddie dryly. A moment later, Eddie, who looked like an aging football player who had stopped taking his steroids and was dressed in chaps and a leather vest that stuck out like wings came over and gave Jon a hug.

“Let me take you around. Everybody is dying to meet you.”

As they entered the huge living room that overlooked the patio, the canal, and a boatless dock, the poster side picture of Uncle Charlie sitting on an easel by the fireplace immediately caught Jon’s eye. Charlie was decked out in his leather, wearing the same kind of harness Gil had outfitted Jon with. Only, hell, even though he must have been over sixty when that picture was taken, Charlie looked like most of these guys’ younger brother.

“Guess Gil told you Charlie, always the non-conformist, wanted his wake to be festive,” quipped Eddie. “He hated suits.”

“Yep, I know,” replied Jon, and with that he stripped off his tan polo shirt and slipped it through a belt loop on his jeans. He had heeded Gil’s advice and had decided to wear the bulldog after all.

For one golden moment, all the chit-chat ceased and just about everyone in the room turned to gawk. No lascivious smiles, just expressionless stares.

“Yes,” said Eddie with an admiring gaze, “if you weren’t blood, Charlie might have kept you.”

Jon smiled smugly. He knew he almost had.

In the crowd, there were Charlie’s partners in the Climax, seventy-five year old Bill whose walker was painted black, and his forty something other half Mel who resembled an aging Anthony Perkins who Jon remembered seeing in Psycho III on TV. He later learned Mel was being kept by Bill and was a co-partner in name only to screw IRS. Then there were a few former fuck buddies from Charlie’s New York days, now retired in sunny Florida, plus two beer distributors, Charlie’s accountant, Harry, the absent minded professor type wearing a tight, light gray rubber shirt and pants with a yellow stripe down the side, and a few obvious bar-fly, fair weather friends who were there to be nice and sponge off Eddie’s smorgasbord.

All pretty boring.

Jon could tell how a few of them were itching to paw his hairy chest but, after all, even if this was an upside-down Alice in Wonderland wake, Jon guessed there had to be some respect shown for the dead.

It was then that he caught a glimpse of Gil and Marcos chatting on the outside patio. As Eddie left him to make Bill and Mel drinks, Jon used the chance to see his two hot men.


“So how’s our favorite boy?” said Marcos with that sexy smile of his, who with his tan cargo pants and orange tank looked overdressed. Gil, on the other hand, had a black mesh T on that showed his hairy pecs off well, and boots and leather shorts. Oh, those hairy humpy legs of his.

“Still a bit bewildered,” said Jon.

“Welcome to Fort Lauderdale,” replied Marcos.

“So you guys come together? You’re not a couple are you?” asked Jon, not wanting to know.

“Nay, Eddie and I are practically neighbors,” said Marcos, laughing. “I could have walked here, but Gil’s clunker’s acting up again, so I offered to give him a ride over.”

With that, he gave Gil a nod, walked up and whispered in Jon’s ear, “Remember, sweat is good for the soul,” and went back inside.

“So what do you think of Charlie’s buddies?” asked Gil, gesturing Jon to sit beside him.

“Strange. I mean what gives with that rubber suit on Harry…”

“Latex,” corrected Gil.

“And that red armband Freddie is wearing…”

“He likes to get fisted. You know what that is?”

“Yea,” replied Jon. He could thank Uncle Charlie’s memours he had been reading off his laptop for that.

“Right on, bro, I mean Boss.”

“Well, there’s still a lot you have to teach me about this scene—this leather scene.”

Gil laughed.

“You have to admit I made a big hit with your bulldog here,” said Jon, pulling on one of its rings.

“I’d say so, and by the way, that’s the exact same harness your uncle was wearing when they took that picture of him at last year’s Leather Ball.”

“You mean he wore this?”

“Yea, so I guess besides being blood you got some of his DNA on you too.”

Gil grabbed his bottle of Coors Light from the patio table and took a slug.

“Listen, why don’t we ditch this gig and go back to my place where I can educate you some more?”

Jon’s cock, stiff from the moment he saw Gil and Marcos on the patio, definitely had a mind of its own.

“With or without my leather on?”

“Keep it on,” said Gil, getting up. “Though you sure as hell don’t need it.”

Why, he didn’t know, but Jon was hoping for some reaction from the first man he had ever laid with in his life who was standing at the bar chitchatting with the Albino Buddha. But Marcos didn’t even glance their way.

So just how did Marcos and Gil know one another? From the Gear Shaft? A threesome with Charlie? Or was he right, were they they’re own twosome, despite the fact they denied it?

Jon bid Applebee a thanks and good-bye, and by the time he and Gil had gotten to the door he could see from the living room’s panoramic bay window Marcos speeding away in his silver Lexus.

“So get comfortable,” said Gil as the two of them strolled into his studio, just as messy as the day before when Gil had him try on some leather outfits. “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.

Author’s Notes: In the book I attempted to illustrate the aging of the leather scene which I was a part of it at the height of its popularity in the seventies, eighties and nineties; Jon’s introduction to meth, also known by its street name, “Tina,” by Gil is indicative of the meth epidemic now going in in the gay community.

Next: An excerpt from my novella, “Buy Guys.”

Inside The Mind of A Writer: Florida as My Second Most Favorite Locale

Inside The Mind of A Writer: Florida as My Second Most Favorite Locale

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.

Lauderdale plays a pivotal role in my novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” available from Kokoro Press, Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Jonathan, a closeted naive kid from suburban New York City, is left two of Lauderdale’s most successful gar bars on Wilton Manors Drive by his late uncle, ostracized by Jon’s family for being gay. Flying down to assume his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s questionable leather friends and is immediately immersed in the town’s promiscuous and drug infested sub-culture. Stumbling upon Uncle Charlie’s memoirs stowed away on his laptop, Jon soon realizes that his uncle’s untimely death from a heart attack was just a cover story for a meth overdose.

Lauderdale is also the destination for the two broke Jersey gay guys who play the protagonists in my new novella, “Buy Guys,” to be published early next year by Wilde City Press. Blaze and Pete’s objective is to live the free and easy lifestyle of male hustlers – Buy Guys is the name of a fictional escort site on which they advertise their talents – but they soon find themselves engulfed in their own very real, private nightmare.


Inside The Mind Of a Writer: Real Life Experiences That Shaped My Art

Inside The Mind Of a Writer: Real Life Experiences That Shaped My Art

My Sorry Life As a Druggie Kinda Wannabe: II

I had smoked or snorted crystal meth a few times with so-so tricks who wooed me with their stash (as I would woo guys years later) and who were transformed into the loves of my life when we got high. Again, our dicks became useless, but unlike coke or poppers, the high was smooth and sustainable, and made your entire body one highly sensual organ. But I never sought out the stuff until I met Shaw.

Shaw was that hairy stud who I based my character Gil in “The Czar of Wilton Drive” on, the guy with the incredibly handsome black Irish looks and a smile and personality that could convince you to jump off a bridge, who I met on one of the hook-up sites. That first night, he mainlined right in my bedroom, and by the time we met again, I was ready. Here I had silently laughed at my beach buddy Trig for shooting up heroin and here I was, a former Sunday school teacher, hospital executive and college prof, trusting a guy who was virtually a complete stranger to “dart” me, mesmerized both by his male beauty, his infectious smile, and what I had seen slamming Lady M had done for him.

“You got good veins,” he complemented me as he tightened a belt around my forearm.

“I guess working out does have its virtues,” I laughed.

He instructed me to make a fist for a second, then relax.

The immediate reaction was intensive heat running throughout my body, then a total tsunami of utter euphoria. In fact, I shouted “Fuck!” so loud that first time, Shaw gently cautioned me to lower my voice so I wouldn’t wake up the people in the apartment next door. (“These bedroom walls are paper thin,” he quipped.)

Smoking was like kindergarten, slamming like getting your Ph.D.

Now picture this scene: two hairy naked men, high on one another and now high on junk. So what if he was a bottom and I was a top and my Daddy Dick was making an exit?

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said and I honestly think he meant it. The pure sensuality of the moment as he oh so very, very slowly rubbed his black kid gloves across my chest and we kissed was worth a thousand erections.

At about one that night, after two hours of sensual sex like I had never had in my life, Shaw abruptly left, saying he needed to pick up a buddy at the airport flying in from Australia. Trolling the websites a bit later, I found he had changed his post to “Two total bottoms looking for hot tops,” but no matter. I had had my fun.

After futilely trying to cum, then to sleep (I learned later Benadryl would knock you out), I spent the day cleaning my house and going to the gym. I was still grinding my teeth at six o’clock that night and drinking bottled water like I had been on the Mohave Desert.

Shaw and I got together a few more times – including a once-in-a-lifetime threesome – then lost touch, which strangely is something I’m actually grateful for. He easily could have been my Satan in the wilderness. And I’m no Jesus. In fact, the last time we slammed, he was surprised how relatively calm I was compared to that first wild time.

Was I getting hooked too?

Then again every time since I’ve smoked the shit with another guy, it’s been my feeble attempt to replicate that first time with Shaw, one of the truly handsomest men I’ve ever known in my checkered gay life.

Now, for all its evils, and there are plenty – that you can google – about the only good thing I can say about meth besides the high is that unlike alcohol whose effects you can’t mask, intellectually you can alter your behavior with Lady M if you need to: talk slower, watch your speed and be extra attentive to the road when driving….

But also being, I think, a rational pragmatist, I can see how it can be, ah, so addictive, equating it with total hot sex, though ironically, when you’re on it, you rarely end up cumming.

Crazy, ain’t it?

And at the cost of two hundred fifty bucks for a glassine envelope the size of a packet of Splenda, M can take you down the primrose path of self-ruination quicker than the Titanic sunk. That’s why I’ve met several guys over the last few years who boasted dealing the shit and making three to five thousand dollars a week, only to end up totally broke, living in some flophouse, and looking for another puff from my pipe.

I remember once at his place, Shaw pulled out a Glad bag of junk you could stuff a steak in. There had to be as much as five grand’s worth sitting there conveniently by his bed.

Today, while I have a small stash hidden away in one of the tiny thread drawers of my grandmother’s antique Singer sewing machine, I’ve convinced myself it’s there for that occasional hairy hottie who needs a bit of an extra incentive to come over.

Hey, if anybody could become a meth head, it’s me. I’m retired, have no job I have to go to, am financially comfortable and so have plenty of play money for candy.

But I know better.


Next: My Favorite Locales