I write erotic gay fiction, mostly romance, for two damn good reasons. l’m a good writer, always have been; and l’ve had hundreds of sexual experiences to write about, and at age seventy have a more active sex life than a thirty year old Manhattan bachelor, which is unabashedly retold in my books. And l’ve brought both skills to play in my latest work of erotica, “For The Love Of Samuel,” a story of love lost and love found, set in contemporary New York City and Fort Lauderdale, that tells of one man’s quest for eternal youth and the love of his life, that my friends who l have read it say is the best thing l’ve ever done.
First on my writing skills: l skipped the usual college writing course after l submitted an essay to show l didn’t need it, but ironically got a “C” in the creative writing class l took instead. Maybe the prof had the hots for me, – ya think? – and when l showed no interest …
I made my living in the public relations and marketing game where writing good and writing fast were prerequisites for success; and when l retired fifteen years ago from crazy and cold New York City to hot and crazier Fort Lauderdale, l began writing fiction in earnest. Becoming a blogger which l began in 2010 and continue today, focusing on contemporary gay life, in “Confessions of A Straight Gay Man,” sharpened by thinking and writing skills even more to the point that, when l sit down with my tablet, the piece comes out almost done with little need for revision. The same is true with my fiction writing. After percolating in my head for almost two years, l wrote the fifty thousand three hundred word novel, “Samuel” in just two months.
Now they say write about what you know, so what did l know better than living life as a gay man, discreet when l lived and worked in NYC, and hell bent and fancy free as a retiree – is that an oxymoron? – here in sunny Lauderdale. In my sixties I became a paid male escort for a month – for my art of course – and was fascinated by the four guys that month – and no train wrecks – who put two hundred dollars down on the bureau to have my hirsute still in shape body; and like some star being discovered greasing cars, my escort web ad was seen by a porn producer in San Francisco who was coming to Lauderdale to shoot some fresh talent and persuaded exhibitionist me to do a solo. Two hundred sixty five dollars for pleasuring myself in front of a camera. To this day, five or six years later, l have out of towners come up to me in the bar and tell me how much they enjoyed my fifteen minutes of fame. “Hot” is their one word description. You know how millennials talk in monosyllables today.
And at an age when most gay men are content with a little porn or some action in the shadows at a bathhouse, l am reveling in my new second gay career as a daddy. No, not a sugar daddy who supports some young boy, but a confident, self-assured and still sexually alluring older man younger men want to bed down with. Should l complain? Two of my current loves with bodies by Michelangelo are 42 and 36, respectively, old enough to be my sons, and a third, equally handsome at 56, could be my younger brother. They and the constant flood of men who proposition me on the web – gees, do you think the Russians put something in the water? – keep me pretty damn busy and provide plenty of sexual experiences to write about. I’m no Nebraska housewife imagining two men in bed – with my stuff, you get the real deal. In fact, two of the lead characters in my new book, “For The Love of Samuel” are largely based on two of my current loves. I’ll probably be the only senior citizen to have “cause of death: sexual exhaustion” on his death certificate.
When people ask me to what do l attribute looking twenty years younger than my chronological age, l reply blithely, “Lots of booze, lots of drugs, and lots of sex,” with an emphasis on the last two, as you will see if you take a gander at ”For The Love Of Samuel.”
Billy Veleber, a 51 year old aging gay mam living in Manhattan, after a number of heartbreaks, decides to put on the dog tag of a Civil soldier given to him by Travis, a clerk in a thrift shop in Boystown, Chicago, who tells him it will give him eternal youth if he has had or has love in his life. The dog tag had been handed down for generations since it was given to Walt Whitman by a dying soldier he nursed in the Washington, D.C., Armory Hospital in 1862. Over the intervening weekend, Billy begins his transformation to 21, the same age as the soldier, Samuel Evans, whose dog tag he wears, died …
I leave the baths around five, and after a coma nap, a quick Smart Choice Fettuccini Alfredo 400 calorie dinner and a good hot shower – I notice with cocky satisfaction in the bedroom’s full length mirror that my love handles are history, my stomach is flatter, my receding hairline is unreceding, and most of the gray on my head and in my beard and and on – yes! – my chest is going or gone, I head over in my leather vest, no shirt, and levis and boots for The New Eagle off Tenth Avenue. It’s almost one – a.m. – but as one of my fuck buddies before Gus and even Jim, said, “That’s when they stop window shopping.”
Now it’s called The New Eagle because the old Eagle, along with the Spike and the Lure, the leather triumvirate of my youth and my years with Gus, were gone. They had become the victims of the real estate boom at the turn of the millennium, and had been brutally and sacrilegiously torn down for shiny, gleaming condos and spankingly clean baby carriages.
In the crappy bathroom at the Spike they had stenciled on the black wall in cheap white paint, “Don’t flush for piss.” That said it all. I only hoped some gay historians had saved that piece of the wall before it too became history. Now all we have left is the hole on Tenth Avenue, what us hardcore leathermen sarcastically brand as Genuine “Vi-nel.”
I strut in, my goose-step no longer adopted but my own, and find the same Chatty Cathy cliques – different faces, same old shit – going on like the last time I was here with Gus just after we’d gotten back from our first class holiday excursion to Athens and Rome and a few weeks before his stroke.
In between the groupies are some of the oldest members of our clan, The Old Guard, usually alone because most of their cronies are already dead, and usually with enough keys hanging from their belts to rival a night watchman at the Chrysler Building, the fucken handkerchiefs hanging from their pockets, so Twentieth Century, or the best of them in faded, stretched out jock straps that should be on Antiques Road Show along with their owners. Yea it’s true, the older some of these guys got, the less they wore. For attention I guess.
Admired or ridiculed, it doesn’t matter; the greatest sin is to be ignored.
I order my nine dollar screwdriver with fifteen cents of vodka in it, and head up the stairs to the second level where just a year before Gus and I had had our leather marriage ceremony.
As I’m going up the stairs some twink in a super short Tux jacket, Bermuda shorts and floppies and one of those Abe Lincoln top hats – I guess he thinks he’s in the Garment District because anywhere else he’d be tire-ironed – and his angelic girl friend, a vision in pink, dressed in a fluffy chiffon skirt, low cut blouse and sneakers, are waltzing down the stairs. They give a funny stare but I stare them right back.
“You,” say I, pointing to the bitch, “don’t belong here.”
“You can’t discriminate against us, fucker,” replies her boyfriend who sounds like he shoots up with estrogen in the morning.
I give him a frumpy look back. Yea, buddy you’re right. The days when a leather bar could stop you from coming in if you weren’t dressed “in code” are over. With the leather scene fading faster than an Atlantic City “Wish You Were Here” postcard, it’s all about selling the liquor.
There’s less people upstairs, the same Chatty Cathy shit going on or guys on their fucken phones GPSing you but never making a move beyond that, when I see HIM.
He’s tall but not too tall, hairy but not a gorilla like me, older but not old, with an open leather camouflage vest showing a tight, lightly furry chest and six pack out of one of Men’s Fitness cover stories, “Dynamite Abs in Just Six Weeks!”, a scrawny beard and face of a felon who did hard labor, and leather gloves and biker’s cap to complete the whole Neo-Nazi look.
Plus a pair of furry, honey melon buns deliciously hanging from his chaps begging to be tongued.
He’s standing at the other end of the bar, surrounded by clones though he is far and away the pick of the litter. I lock my eyes on him like a laser for a good ten minutes but I get hardly a glance.
Now in the old days before Jim and Gus when I was free as a bird but as timid as a spinster, I would have just moved on. Oh, but this was the new Billy, the ballsy Billy. I walk over and stand two feet away from Mr. Hot Shit and his court jesters and just keep staring.
Finally I get his attention.
“You got a problem, bud?” he says returning the stare of a killer. His cronies do the same.
“Well, I’ve been cruising you for at least ten minutes now and I didn’t even get a fart back.”
“So what are you looking for, some fem, or fat boy, or maybe some tough guy with whips, chains and razors hanging from his belt?”
His buddies begin to little girl giggle, but not a muscle moves in Hotshit’s Stone Mountain face.
“I’m not into watching your pubic hairs grow in, buddy.”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Thirty, thirty two maybe.”
Fuck, dude, I’d suck your dick all night just for that. But I continue to play it cool.
“So you get your kicks changing some old man’s Depends, I guess.”
Now Hotshit is the only one that’s laughing.
“Okay, smart ass, buy me a beer.”
He follows me to the bar and after collecting our beers, we move to the other side and sit down on the wood bleachers.
“I gotta tell you buddy -”
“Billy, name’s Billy.”
“Hank, in from LA. Hell, Billy, you’re the first guy I’ve met in a long time that’s got balls for real.”
“Hey, I know what I want, so why waste one another’s time?”
“And you want me?”
“If you can deal with all this.” I glide my hand over the fur on my chest and abs when Hank puts his hand over mine and pushes it further down to my crotch.
“I dig the fur big time. And most younger guys are so used to deleting and blocking everybody, they don’t know how to talk, Christ, they don’t know how to fart in public. But you – you sound pretty mature for a kid old enough to be my son.”
“You don’t have to be old to have your shit together.”
Hank raises his razor chin. “So how old do you think I am, stud?”
Now with that hard core felon face, I took him for fifty but PR taught me to tell people what they wanna hear.
“Good answer,” he replies. “I’m 46.”
“l just threw a guy out younger than you,” I say smugly.
“High maintenance. Wanted it all the time. Hey, what do I look like, some fucking machine?”
“You must be pretty tough.” He smiles for the first time since we connected, a tough guy’s, controlled, but a smile nonetheless.
“Yea, I’m a trust fund baby, do what I wanna do, when I wanna do it, with whoever I wanna do it with.”
It’s refreshing to create whatever past the moment calls for when you know, chances are, you’ll never see the guy again.
“And you?” I ask. “You’re not one of these aging hotties who live off those of us with money are you?” This time I place my hand on his chest, rubbing it slowly back and forth from nipple to nipple. He’s got a nice succulent set.
“You know something,” with his own smart ass grin. “I’m going to really enjoy hearing you howl while I fuck you.”
I get up, pat my ass for his benefit, then sit down again.
“This ain’t yours yet.”
“Okay, fair enough.” He takes my hand, places it on his crotch, a respectable bulge at that. “I’m a set designer in Hollyweird, between gigs which is why I decided go visit New York and see some old buddies …”
“…who you’re free loading off of.”
“If you mean, I’m staying with one of them the answer is yes.”
“Current trans-coastal lover, present or former fuck buddy, auditioning sugar daddy, which is it?”
“None of the above. Just a buddy’s couch and a lumpy one at that.”
“Well then, that makes it easy.” I get down off the bleachers and wait for him to follow. He does.
“Remember.” He taps on the chrome and leather armband on his bulging left bicep.
“So two tops can have fun,” I say matter of factly, taping on my neoprene version, also on my not quite as bulging as his left bicep. “Who ends up on the bottom bunk is a matter of luck and timing.”
New Yorker and aging gay man Billy Veleber who abhors growing old has lost Jim, his former meth head lover, to his habit, and Gus, the older man in his life and mentor, to despair, when he is confronted with the chance to become 21 all over again, through the magical prowess of the dog tag of a long dead Civil War soldier, Samuel Evans. Young again, Billy abandons Manhattan for Fort Lauderdale where he meets Dare, the love of his life, whose clever quick rich venture first bonds them, then threatens to end their idyllic lives together forever. Billy also faces the reality of having to tell Dare the truth about himself.
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Meet the Author
RP Andrews spent most of his life in New York City as a public relations executive before relocating to Fort Lauderdale in 2002, where he enjoyed a brief second career teaching writing at a local university.
All his works of erotic gay fiction and non-fiction are available at amazon.com.
His first work of erotic gay fiction, a collection of edgy short stories called “Basic Butch,” was originally published by San Francisco-based GLBT Publishers in 2008. Basic Butch features characters who go down life paths that, in the end, they wish they had never explored.
His latest works of serious gay fiction include:
“The Czar of Wilton Drive,” the story of Jonathan Antonucci, a twenty-one-year- old, barely-out-the-closet gay man from suburban New York who overnight finds himself a multimillionaire, thanks to a bequest by his late gay 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, making Jonathan the Czar of Wilton Drive.
Flying down to Lauderdale to claim his bequest, Jon encounters Uncle Charlie’s dubious friends and business associates, and is immediately submerged in Lauderdale’s scene of unbridled sex and heavy drugs. He also discovers his great uncle’s memoirs which reveal truths not only about Jon’s own past but also what may have really happened to his uncle. In the end, Jon is torn between avenging Uncle Charlie’s death or loving the man responsible for it.
“Not In It For The Love,” set at the turn of the new millennium. Josh, a young street-smart Florida drifter is snatched from his dead-end existence as a male hustler in a cheap Key Largo motel by Bishop, a Wall Street power broker who sets him up as his trophy boy in Manhattan society. There, Josh, after leading a promiscuous lifestyle within New York City’s gay sub-culture, meets Hylan, a young, bi-racial, down-on-his luck, wheelchair-bound musician who awakens in Josh what love can be between two men. But their chance at happiness and the lives of those around them are forever changed by 9/11.
“Buy Guys,” published in 2015, is the story of Blaze and Pete, two handsome young drifters with nothing and nothing to lose. Blaze convinces Pete, who is falling in love with him, to leave dreary New Jersey and lead free and easy lives as male prostitutes in sunny Fort Lauderdale. Blaze, however, soon pulls Pete into a much larger, more dangerous scheme, a scheme that eventually threatens to destroy them both.
RP Andrews’ daily social commentary blog on gay life in America has been running since 2010 at str8gayconfessions.com, and a second edition collection of these commentaries is available as an e-book on amazon.com. Confessions of a Str8Gay Man is RP Andrews’ unvarnished, unorthodox views of Modern Gay America which are often counter to today’s political correct gay media.
In addition, there is “Furry Man’s Journal,” his erotic memoirs as a hirsute gay man as told through his experiences with the dozen iconic men in his life.
For more info, visit eroticgayromancebyrpandrews.com.
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