I write erotic gay fiction, mostly romance, for two damn good reasons. I’m a good writer, always have been; and I’ve had hundreds of sexual experiences to
write about, and at age seventy have a more active sex life than a thirty year old Manhattan bachelor, which is unabashedly retold in my books.

First on my writing skills: I skipped the usual college writing course after I submitted an essay to show I didn’t need it, but ironically got a “C” in the creative writing class l took instead. Maybe the prof had the hots for me, – ya think? – and when l showed no interest …

I made my living in the public relations and marketing game where writing good and writing fast were prerequisites for success; and when I retired fifteen years ago from crazy and cold New York City to hot and crazier Fort Lauderdale, I began writing fiction in earnest. Becoming a blogger which I began in 2010 and continue today, focusing on contemporary gay life, in “Confessions of A Straight Gay Man,” sharpened by thinking and writing skills even more to the point that, when I sit down with my tablet, the piece comes out almost done with little need for revision. The same is true with my fiction writing. After percolating in my head for almost two years, I wrote the fifty thousand three hundred word novel, “Samuel” in just two months.

Now they say write about what you know, so what did I know better than living life as a gay man, discreet when I lived and worked in NYC, and hell bent and fancy free as a retiree – is that an oxymoron? – here in sunny Lauderdale. In my sixties I became a paid male escort for a month – for my art of course – and was fascinated by the four guys that month – and no train wrecks – who put two hundred dollars down on the bureau to have my hirsute still in shape body; and like some star being discovered greasing cars, my escort web ad was seen by a porn producer in San Francisco who was coming to Lauderdale to shoot some fresh talent and persuaded exhibitionist me to do a solo. Two hundred sixty five dollars for pleasuring myself in front of a camera. To this day, five or six years later, I have out of towners come up to me in the bar and tell me how much they enjoyed my fifteen minutes of fame. “Hot” is their one word description. You know how millennials talk in monosyllables today.

And at an age when most gay men are content with a little porn or some action in the shadows at a bathhouse, I am reveling in my new second gay career as a daddy. No, not a sugar daddy who supports some young boy, but a confident, self-assured and still sexually alluring older man younger men want to bed down with. Should I complain? Two of my current loves with bodies by Michelangelo are 42 and 36, respectively, old enough to be my sons, and a third, equally handsome at 56, could be my younger brother. They and the constant flood of men who proposition me on the web – gees, do you think the Russians put something in the water? – keep me pretty damn busy and provide plenty of sexual experiences to write about. I’m no Nebraska housewife imagining two men in bed – with my stuff, you get the real deal. I’ll probably be the only senior citizen to have “cause of death: sexual exhaustion” on his death certificate.

When people ask me to what do I attribute looking twenty years younger than my chronological age, I reply blithely, “Lots of booze, lots of drugs, and lots of sex,” with an emphasis on the last two, as you will see if you take a gander at any of my books.

But hey, only bad boys know how to write great erotic gay romance.

So come and be bad with me.

You know you wanna.

RP Andrews