RP Andrews is the author of two pieces of serious erotic gay fiction, Basic Butch, published in the spring of 2008, and Adrift in the Land of Plenty, scheduled for publication this fall. Basic Butch is a book-length collection of edgy contemporary tales of deceit and betrayal, set in some of America’s leading gay venues, including Fort Lauderdale’s Wilton Manors and Sebastian Beach, New York City’s West Village and Chelsea, Chicago’s Halstead, Seattle’s Capitol Hill and Pike Street, Houston’s Montrose, and San Francisco’s South of Market. All feature characters – gay men and women – whose arrogant, aggressive natures lead them down life paths they wished they had never explored. Adrift in the Land of Plenty, a short novel, is a tale of deception, death and discovery as told through the eyes of Josh, a young South Florida drifter, whose body, brains, and cocky attitude are all he has to offer the world. It is Bishop, a successful Wall Street exec, who convinces Josh to come away with him and who introduces him to the good life of Manhattan and all Manhattan money can buy. Yet for Josh, sex remains a momentary pleasure or, more often, a commodity for sale, and killing – beginning with his own parents – an easy way to make problems go away. And when fellow loner Hylan finally enters his life, Josh realizes killing is only way for him to hold on to what matters most.
Available at www.amazon.com and other web outlets. |
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Basic Butch
Basic Butch, a collection of edgy, serious erotic gay short stories, follows characters whose aggressive, egocentric natures lead them down dangerous life paths they wished they had never explored. ...
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Adrift in the Land of Plenty
Adrift in the Land of Plenty is a tale of deception, death and discovery as told through the eyes of Josh, a young South Florida drifter, whose body, brains, and cocky attitude are all he has to offer the world. I...
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Gym Assholes
Top on my list in the gym asshole category are the cell phone addicts. They’re on a machine you want and it’s not that they’re taking a quick break between reps. No, they’re just sitting there, gabbing away to their clubbing partner, faghag girlfriend, mother, or some sucker who may actually be interested in that overpriced home they’ve been trying to unload for the past six months. All gyms should make it a rule – if you gotta make a call, do it off the gym floor. A close second are the chit chatters, you know those two guys who linger around a machine you’ve been wanting to get on for the past half hour, one on it but not doing anything, the other leaning against it in a sexy kind of pose. And God help you, if one’s trying to make the other. One time I clocked a conversation that went on for twenty minutes.Then there’s the asshole with a bod all the hours in the gym aren’t going to make a difference with who just has to get on the machine you’re on. He lurks there on the edge of your peripheral vision but enough to make sure you see him. There’s a least a dozen unoccupied devices of self-torture he can use, but, no, he has to use yours. Sometimes he’ll even quip, “Gonna be long?” to which I usually reply, “Sorry buddy. It’s gonna be awhile.” Or I kill myself and do an extra rep just to piss him off more. The “impress you, didn’t I?” guys do 30 pounds and two reps, then reset the machine to 150 to impress or intimidate the next guy up.The ones I love the best are the “Must Be Seen” boys, who mill around the gym looking busy to maximize their exposure, but leave a half hour or 45 minutes later not having done much at all. All this sweat and sacrifice and money and time – and assholes - just to snarl a man We can fool ourselves all we want into thinking it’s because we want to stay healthy but deep down we know we want to feel hot and confident and ready. I’m beginning to wonder if just whipping out my credit card once a month for the “deep massage therapist” of my choice in the back of one of the gay rags wouldn’t make more sense. One thing for sure - it would take the guilt trip out pigging out with a half gallon of pistachio ice cream.
Posted on 1/2/2009
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The Gym
Ah, the gym! I used to belong to a totally gay one. Now I go to one that’s mixed but neither sexual orientation has a monopoly on eye candy, homophobia and assholes. As for the eye candy, what’s there to say? You can OD on it – and that goes for the hot, 20 inch waist gals too. Although there are some guys who prance around who think their hot even if their belly’s in the Panhandle and their ass is in New Orleans. Which brings me to the homophobia. Rampant and as thick as sweat on a crunch board. Straight guys are afraid to look at another guy for fear the guy will think he’s queer and coming on to him, and gay guys don’t look so they don’t have to deal with rejection or make some poor slob think he’s being wooed. It’s as if everyone has blinders on. So in the end, we sport that vacant, “I don’t give a fuck” stoic stare when in reality what we want to do is grab the guy by the balls, shove him down on that crunch board and fuck the shit out of him right there in broad daylight. Plus, everyone is trying to out-butch one another with that same gym jock trot, whether they’re six foot two and built like a brick shit house or five foot two and Woody Allen’s younger brother. You know the trot I mean, slow and easy with the hips, butt out, shoulders up ( after all you worked on ‘em so show ‘em off) and those muscular, veiny arms just hanging there. Oh, with that stoic vacant look to make it complete. Or that optional pulling up of the T-shirt to casually show off those killer abs.Next Week: Gym Assholes
Posted on 12/26/2008
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Mirror, Mirror On the Wall
No bullshit. I’m taken for ten, fifteen years younger than my driver’s license tells me so, even by people I’ve known for years, and I ain’t complaining. I didn’t over-party in my twenties and thirties, or do drugs (give me a strong drink over a joint any day), and I guess a good gene pool was also on my side. When my very happily married sister had her first baby at 25, the nurses in the hospital mistook her for an unwed teenage mother.Still, I wish I had all my predecessors’ good fortune like my grandmother on my dad’s side who had three gray hairs in her head when she died at 86. Unfortunately, I’m the first one out there when Walgreen’s or CVS runs a sale on Just for Men. Funny how all the medium brown’s are cleaned out first. But vanity of vanities, at 40 I decided to try collagen, then all the rage. Working for a hospital, I made sure I went to a plastic surgeon NOT affiliated with my place, but, in the end, the injections were done by some therapist or second class flunkey. And I was never impressed by the results. Fast forward X years. I no longer work professionally full-time and I still get my decent share of men, thank you very much. So the only reason I can give for deciding to give cosmetic surgery another try in these waning days of my gay career was pure vanity. It wasn’t the buffed, shirtless guy in their ad in a local gay mag that attracted me as much as the “second vial of Botox half off.” I had some extra interest income I could use to pay off one of my credit cards or shoot up my face. I decided on the latter.The offices just off the beach were what I expected from as glossy a profession as plastic surgery. My “consultant,” no spring chicken and proud of all the work she had had done on herself, stared at my face intently as I rattled off for her all my petty, childish “needs.” Ah, we’re so honest with people we’ll never meet again. The fine lines around the eyes, the deepening crevices on the forehead, the sagging skin under my eyes. I told her I didn’t want to go under the knife. Could any of these new injectables I kept hearing about – “juva” this and “refresha” that - do the trick?She was equally honest – with a smile. She explained that Botox was still the gold standard and would do wonders for the fine lines and brow. (Funny how something that could kill you could also make you look young. The James Dean syndrome I guess.) But there wasn’t much they could do for the bags (which are fat pockets) under the eyes without surgery, though Juvaderm could lift everything up to, at least, lessen the sag. All for $1500 after the discount. The price was right (even if the shit only lasts 6 months to a year) and I was pleasantly surprised to hear there was at least something they could do for those bags. So I scheduled my appointment for the following Thursday. I didn’t think much about my upcoming encounter with Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth until the day before my appointment when suddenly visions of all those horror movies from the thirties rushed into my brain. What if something went wrong and I ended up worst than I started? Shouldn’t I thank my lucky stars I looked younger than my years and not tempt fate? No matter what they did, I’d never look 25 again – nor did I want to. I was ready to whip out my cell phone and cancel the appointment all the way that morning to the surgeon but walked into my role as if it were all happening to some one else. I actually waited in the private room longer than it took to do the whole procedure which, unlike my collagen episode, was performed by a real live plastic surgeon, a pleasant sort of a guy, very patient and understanding, explaining every step of the way as he poked at my face. How with men, killing too much brow line looks ridiculous, so only half strength Botox was used there. After that, he moved on with the Juvaderm for those sags. .Just a few pinches and it was over. Both my consultant and the doctor explained that the Botox would take a few days to show its full effect, but that the results of the Juvaderm were immediate. So was the slight bruising and swelling on my face from all that prodding which took a good week to disappear. (Thank God for large framed glasses.) But I have to admit I was pleased with the results the moment I walked into the bathroom at home and stared at myself coldly for the first time since leaving the surgeon. I had fought off looking into the rear view mirror the whole way. Those fine lines were almost gone and my eyes definitely looked refreshed and without all that “Sudden Change” I had been using by the quart the last few years. Since I don’t know many people in Lauderdale well (even after living here 6 years, but that’s material for another blog), there was no one to give me some indication that all this had been worth it. Nor was I snaring any better quality tricks than I had had before my little procedure. No, the validation of sorts came a few months later when I flew back to New York for my nephew’s wedding, and my sister, five years my junior, upon seeing me for the first time in almost a year, exclaimed, “Shit you don’t look a day over 50!”
Posted on 12/21/2008
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Mindfuckers
(mind’fuck’er) noun: a gay man who comes on to another, leads him into believing he’s interested in copulating, then at the last moment, drops out of sight like he was abducted by aliens. Most prevalent on sex websites where cyberspace provides the perfect cover. Naïve, shitty little me. Tired of the chance encounters in the bars and the baths, and being a logical, pragmatic sort of a guy, I turned to the sex sites figuring that’s where people were meeting. You post who you are and like, they post who they are and like and there’s a match-up. Right? Not exactly. Even though I’ll do a periodic sweep like my Spyware program of local listings and put out feelers to guys I think could have a mutual interest, I rarely get any responses. So in the end, you’re left with the universe of guys who happen to be on when you’re on. No better than the bars. That’s why after coming from a night out, I’ll check my e-mail to see who loves me, then go to bed, and, guaranteed, the following morning I’ll have half a dozen hits, 1:45 am, 2: 10 am, 2:30 am from the “:I want it now boys:” – “wanna fuck?” Or better:“My back door will be open. The lights will be off. I’ll be butt naked on my sofa. I want you to come over to me, and without saying a word, fuck me til you breed me, then I want you to leave.”Romantic, ain’t it? But the full trials and tribulations of a cyber sex addict like me – yea, I admit it - would fill a dozen blogs. What I want to talk about now are the above defined “mindfuckers.” They come in several varieties. The low end boys are those who keep sending you those cryptic e-mails, winks or gropes every so often, and when you ask when they’re interested in connecting, you get an evasive “cool.” What the fuck is “cool” supposed to mean?But these minor leaguers are just a bore, The group that should have their balls cut off in public at some mall – or better yet a leather bar – are the guys I classify as the Super Mindfuckers. They come on to you big time, (“You sure you don’t model for Colt?”), you negotiate a date, they even say they’re on their way and then – they never show. No call. No e-mail. Nothin’ You planned your day, you re-arranged your schedule, you took a shower, you even popped your $20 tab of Viagara – and they don’t show. Worst yet are the Mindfuckers Supremo – those that do show, then feign disinterest. Like the one nerd who promised me the blow job of my life. It was a Tuesday night so, what the fuck, why not. The red flag should have gone up in my head when he asked to meet him in the parking lot of a local mall. But I was horny by now. Even as I drove over, I had visions he’d pull away just as pulled up. But no, I got out my SUV, he got of his and we walked in one another’s direction. He was nerdier than his pix but a mouth is a mouth, and after all, it was a Tuesday. I outstretched my hand to shake his and introduce myself when he said, “Gee I’m sorry - I don’t think this is going to work out.”NOT WORK OUT? HUH? My pix are pretty explicit. I am out there like dog shit on a sidewalk. And while I may not be God’s gift to Gaydom, I still turn heads and go to the gym 3X a week. Woody Allen’s younger brother I ain’t.There were some suburban shoppers nearby wheeling their cart of food to their car but I didn’t give a shit. I still went off like a lunatic.“You hauled me over and now you’re the one not interested, you nerdy little queen?”With that, he ran into his car, locked the door, and swept away. Lucky for me since in another milli-second I would have bashed his head against the door, then regretted it. And by the time I got home, he had blocked me so I couldn’t even tirade into cyberspace.Then there was the gym-bod hottie who set up a time, called to say he was on his way, and an hour later was still online where I left him. My knee jerk reaction was to block him, but I didn’t and, believe or not, a week later, the same fuck e’s me. “Got some time later today?” (Yes, this is all true folks!)Ah, bestowed with one of those golden opportunities you often don’t get in life, I seized the moment.“Listen, last week when you said you were on your way, then never showed, I found you were still online when you were supposed to be at my place. So after giving you an extra half hour, I left for the local sex club where I met a hot humpy couple from Toronto and we fucked the night away. (I actually did meet such a dynamic duo, only not that night.) So, I guess I have you to thank for that. But please I don’t need people who waste my time. Your credibility with me is in the sewer. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s even your pix or are you really some 4’6” horn-rimmed glasses geek.”His response to me was just two words .I’m sure you can guess what they were – but those two words spoke volumes. I had caught him at his own game, Then I blocked the fuck.The bigger question is what motivates people to play these games. Are they insecure with their own sexuality? Or are they so shit on in their real life and no-nothing jobs – I can see that buxom boss towering over them at the jewelry counter at Macy’s now – that this is their only way to exert power over others. Well, playing amateur psychiatrist ain’t going to help my sex life, so from now on, if some one says they’re on their way, they’re not getting my exact street address until I see they’re car parked in front of my neighbor’s house. Then let ‘em call me on their cell and I’ll give ‘em the right address. After all, 50 mg. of Viagara is a terrible thing to waste.
Posted on 12/6/2008
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Why I Hate The Holidays
When I chat with an acquaintance (usually at a bar or sex club) and try to be polite and ask him what he’s doing for Thanksgiving or Christmas, I usually get the pat answer, “Oh, I’m spending it with family and/or friends.” Well, all my family is gone (except for a sibling back in New York), and my partner decided he wanted to spend the winter at our home in PA instead of coming down here this year for the winter. (I know, fucked-up.) And friends? Why, friends are as hard to make in sex-obsessed Lauderdale as finding a 40 degree day (but that’s for another blog). So, this holiday, I’m all alone, trying my best to ignore all the warm and fuzzy family propaganda we are besieged with on all sides. You know, the stereotypical family around the table carving the turkey or trimming the tree, all to push that stuffing, plasma TV’s, or a luxury car under the tree. Even when my other half was around, we didn’t do much but eat a big meal – he’s a great cook – and feel like two stuffed pigs afterwards. Even putting up a tree was a hassle. One of the downsides of being gay, you say? Well, frankly, I think some of the people who tell me they’ve got somewhere to go are bullshit artists. Talk to the Census Bureau – most Americans live alone, and according to other surveys, count 2 or 3 people at most as true friends. But I think why all that warm and fuzzy stuff bothers me the most is because it reminds me of the days when the holidays were exactly that for me – sort of. When all the aunts and uncles and grandparents were still alive and around the holiday table, getting drunk on cheap wine or brandy. My sister and I for many years were the only kids in the family, so we got special treatment, especially around Christmas. Then the other less pleasant memories of those idyllic days rush back into my mind and suddenly my mythical holidays become just that. First, my sister and I were programmed to act like toy soldiers and never speak unless spoken to. Worst, living with my mother, who usually hosted these family shindigs, was like constantly walking on egg shells. You never knew what would set her off. Looking back at it now, I’m convinced she was definitely manic depressive, with a little Napoleonic complex thrown in. So, we’d all be at the dining room table, my sainted father, always a master at PR, making nice with everyone, when my mother’s sister – ten years her junior and a cat – would suddenly throw out a dagger of a remark intentionally to edge Moms on. Bingo! I’m surprised one year the turkey or ham didn’t end up on the carpet. Now, as I said, everyone’s dead and gone, my sister’s back in New York with her own kids grandkids and hubby. And me? This Thanksgiving, I’m here in Lauderdale in my bikini, on my patio, by my pool, with my three dogs, enjoying my Marie Callender’s honey roasted turkey dinner, and contemplating all the hot men from across the country and around the world in town for the weekend.And loving every moment of my solitude. Just no holiday music on the radio huh?
Posted on 11/27/2008
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