Plotting “Buy Guys”

Plotting “Buy Guys”

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

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 Renboy.com. 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 amazon.com, 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.”

“Huh?”

“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.”

“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 amazon.com. “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?”

“Yep.”

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.

“Wow.”

“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?”

“Yea.”

“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

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 Amazon.com. “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?”

“Blaze.”

“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.

“Cool.”

“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…”

“Fuck!”

“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

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters Are Real

Inside The Mind of a Writer: My Characters Are Real

The Real Mitch

I only knew Mitch a few weeks out of my petty life but I know I will never forget him. In fact, I think of him more times without thinking than I wish I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I announced myself.

“It’s open,” he shouted back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

My brother.

My clone.

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

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

“You want another hit?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

His studio apartment was a penitentiary cell pigsty, furnished with thrift shop furniture rejects and littered with half empty Gatorade bottles and Twinky wrappers. He used the Gatorade to prepare some G for the both of us in a liquor glass – G was something new for even this seasoned boy – and after that, we moved to his air mattress, aimless music blaring from his pc perpetually set on his Manhunt inbox. I found it flattering that he had summoned me when, as he boasted later, he had gotten over 200 hits since arriving from New York just a few weeks before.

Lying there, slowly stroking his dark carpet of chest hair as he pulled incessantly on his fat, spongy dong, I felt myself slowing climbing that same staircase Mitch apparently had ascended hours before, to the top of Mount Perpetual Pleasure. There, hard dicks, the gold standard for so much of the less than satisfying sex I had had of late, were incidental.

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

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

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

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

Then came my moment of inspiration.

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

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

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

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

Brothers in spirit, brothers in flesh.

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

Sweaty and smeared with Elbow Grease, my boots still on, I stood up and slipped on my shorts.

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

Two nights later as I canvassed the websites to see if anybody loved me, Mitch beckoned me again on Manhunt with a

“Why don’t you come over?” I taught college and had an 8 a.m. class and Mitch mentioned he was starting his temporary Census job that same day but I followed his call like Odysseus and his men were wooed by the Sirens. Was it the drugs or was it Mitch seducing me?

Who knew?

Who cared?

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

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

This time neither of us came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We lit up again.

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

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

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

Mitch shrugged his usual arrogant Manhattan shrug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly the Daddy in me crepped out.

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

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

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

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

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

I never did get to the gym that day.

Memorial Day weekend was coming up, but while I looked forward to another all-nighter in High Land with Mitch, he had different plans –another escape to Key West and the battling lovers. But he was emphatic about connecting as soon as he got back and going to Sebastian, Lauderdale’s gay beach, that coming weekend.

I believed him.

That Thursday night, Mitch sent an e-mail – his last to me – on Manhunt. I had just posted some new provocative photos on my profile to show off my hard won gym body.

“Fucken awesome pics, bro.”

The following Tuesday came and went, Wednesday, Thursday. I e-mailed him on Manhunt, called his cell, even called his other cell number he used for Rentboy. No response. I passed his address twice, looking for his little car in the front lot. No car. In my gut I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe he had had a confrontation with his warring friends or a drug dealer or a john. Maybe he had somehow O.D.’ed ….

Finally, that Thursday night driving home, slightly plastered courtesy of Alibi’s three dollar Long Island iced teas, I decided I would stop at his place and this time knock on his door.

A voice yelled out to me as I began to walk back to the guest house. It was the landlord or property manager, a tall, skinny, thirty something, pleasant enough looking guy with a faint goatee.

“Looking for Mitch?” he asked politely.

I nodded.

“You a friend of his?” the man asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mitch is dead.”

“What – what happened?” I stammered, though surprised at myself that I was not entirely stunned by the news.

“I don’t know much but from what this friend of his from New York, an ex-lover I think, Todd, told me – his number was on Mitch’s cell so the cops called him – Mitch was driving back from Key West late Monday night and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Mitch had mentioned to me more than once how he had gone without sleeping or eating for days when he was on a perpetual crack/G/jerk-off binge.

Forty-two fucken years old and he was gone.

“His – his parents know?”

“Yea, they asked me to clear out his apartment and box up his belongings but there was a lot of stuff, a leather harness, leather vest, toys, drug paraphernalia, you know, I didn’t think they should see. You’re welcome to take what you like …”

I smiled my bleak thank you, turned around and drove home, happy I was dead ass drunk, happy that I had at least learned what had happened to him, happy that the super hadn’t told me what the accident had done to that beautiful body and beautiful face.

And yes, strangely at peace knowing he hadn’t just abandoned me.

A few nights later, I responded to Mitch’s last e-mail to me on Manhunt with a “thx hot man.”

That Saturday, when I went to Sebastian, I made sure to park in space #42. A month later, I became Rentboy.com’s oldest toyboy. And believe it or not, my first trick, a retired dentist in town from Palm Springs, asked if I had a twin brother to play tag team with me on his butthole.

Imagine that.

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 amazon.com. 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.”

“Bug?”

“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?
Whatever.

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