Today I’m thrilled to have author RP Andrews stop by on his blog tour to give us his annual new year’s predictions! Below that, you’ll find his book blurb, excerpt, and a giveaway!
My Annual New Year’s Predictions by RP Andrews
Two thousand and sixteen will mark my sixth year as the blogger of “Confessions of a Str8 Gay Man.” Some guys over the years have labelled the name of my blog pretentious or judgmental, but I chose it since I try to write for the millions of gay men mainstream America never sees, not the attention whores glorified in gay media but just ordinary people living ordinary lives. The absurdities of our often over-the-top lifestyles to relationships to the social and political implications of living in a microcosm within mainstream America are all fair game for my pontifications, and I am often counter-culture to our self-appointed overly politically correct gurus and tell it like I see it, whether you agree or not.
About this time every year, I come up with my gay predictions where I attempt to be my sardonic best. Here are my predictions for 2016:
Now that gay marriage is legal everywhere, manufacturers of wedding favors will go hog wild. Low end weddings can choose condoms and dental dams with the couple’s names and wedding date inscribed, while those with more bucks may go for synthetic diamond studded cock rings, PA’s, or nose rings and his and his or hers and hers personal vibrators – batteries not included.
And where there’s marriage, can divorce be far behind? Enterprising attorneys specializing in gay separations and break-ups will get smart, form a coalition, and host a website where you can learn about the divorce laws in your state and chat with a number of attorneys who’ll take on your case.
And if you both love Fido, they’ll be a cloning center so you can both have him – for $20,000.
The STD rate will drop dramatically as more and more guys get their kicks virtually rather than in the flesh.
They’ll be a new vetting phone app to weed out hook-up site game players. It’ll be called “Jezebel” after a 1930’s film starring Bette Davis as a hypocritical southern belle. Enter the screen name of your suspected cad or anyone who’s shown an interest in you or you in him, and up will come the number of times he’s been blocked and on which sites, for what reasons, if noted, the age of the pics he posts, any fraudulent info that may have been uncovered (i.e., age, cock size, waist size and relationship status), how many times he’s been through drug rehab, and the ratio of total hits he receives vs. the number he responds to, often an indicator he’s all bullshit.
Another app will allow you to silently zap some guy in the gym who’s sitting on a piece of equipment you wanna get on while yapping on his phone so he instantly gets the runs and has to trot off to the men’s room.
Carpal tunnel syndrome will become the leading medical condition among young gays addicted to their smartphones and all those hook-up apps.
There will be an increase in brain tumors and tumors of the ear among gay boys for the same reasons as above. Earplugitis will spread quicker than herpes.
GPS driven apps like Scruff and Growl’r will automatically suggest to prospective couples who click while out on the town a place or places within a half mile radius where they can fuck around – or at least compare cocks – discreetly.
With circumcision out of fashion, and older guys finding more and more younger guys uncut, the sales of foreskin restoration kits will go through the roof.
The Kim Davis voodoo doll will be perfect for venting about pain-in-the-asses in your life. Simply write their name on the cross daggers (after all, she is a good, God-fearing Christian girl), included and spear any part of the Kim Davis doll anatomy you feel like. (Her mouth, breasts, crotch, and butt will have pre-drilled holes for ease at stabbing.) It may not solve your problems but hearing the doll scream bloody murder each time you stab it certainly will give you some calm.
Cait Jenner, who’s worth a hundred million dollars, will be funding the Cait Jenner Transgender Surgery Center where guys who wanna be girls and girls who wanna be guys can donate their penises or vaginas to someone who really wants one. Any excess penises lying around and of potentially marketable size will go to the Cait Jenner Penis Transplant Center where poorly endowed guys with bucks can have a second chance at being a stud.
As younger gays go retro-fem, RuPaul will create an online course on “Swishing It Up” for butch guys afraid they’ll soon be left out. Boundjocks.com will also offer a quick on-line “how to play butch” course should one of these youngins be forced to venture into rednecks territory.
A special division of Isis, in an additional capitalistic scheme for raising revenue for their terrorist pursuits, will provide a home grown radicalized hit man exclusively for freeloading twinks married to rich daddies who want to conveniently and quietly have the “old man” disappear for the price of an RSVP cruise and automatically inherit his dough as the guy’s legal spouse. Rich daddies can also use it to dispose of a twink or long-time partner they’ve become bored with. Fees tied to the old man’s tax bracket.
With bestiality the last true sexual frontier, guys who want to have Fido fuck them can order a “Doggie Dong” (small, medium and wicked) from Fort Troff, the online sex toy store, that they strap on their canines. Includes specially created dog treats to keep your doggie distracted while you use him for your own decadent pleasures.
Hey, we’re all overboard on pampering our pooches. It’s time they paid us back!
Pete, a young, gay handsome drifter, is convinced by his roommate Blaze to join him and leave dreary Jersey for sunny, sex-drenched Fort Lauderdale. Their mission is simple: make a free and easy living as male prostitutes on the escort site, Buy Guys. For a while things seem to go their way, but as Pete falls deeper in love with Blaze, he is drawn into a much more sinister scheme that eventually threatens to destroy them both.
It was just after seven in the morning when Pete got back to the house from his graveyard shift sweeping the factory floor at Brewers Screw and Fastener Company. After making himself a cup of coffee, Pete tiptoed into Blaze’s room and took a seat in the corner, quietly staring at his roommate asleep in all his naked glory, his smooth, melon butt jutting out from under the covers. Pete knew Bruno had been there tonight. The big brute was allergic to latex and the box of lamb skin condoms Blaze used when he fucked him was still on the bed stand.
It had been three months since Pete saw Blaze’s ad for a roommate – “masculine gay preferred” – on Craig’s List, and for Pete the timing couldn’t have been better. They hit it off over coffee at Starbucks, Blaze, the tall, slim, smooth, clean-shaven dirty blond, Pete, short, burly, bearded, dark and furry just about everywhere. Though they were both total tops, Pete felt an immediate attraction to his new surfer boy buddy and was happy when Blaze suggested that three-ways might be fun and set one up that same night with an old fuck buddy of his. Pete never let on the real fun for him was watching Blaze in action.
When he was sixteen, Pete’s crazy dad, who had beaten him up since he was a kid, suffocated his pill-popping mother with a Walmart plastic bag in a drunken rage and was now rotting for the rest of his life in Trenton State Prison. No foster home for him, Pete hitched rides with truckers he blew for food till he got to San Francisco where, grabbing a room off Harrison, South of Market, he worked the window at Blow Buddies, played bouncer at the Lone Star Saloon, was a sometime-escort to rich old fucks on the hills, and drifted in and out of a meth habit—twice. The last time he slammed was that weekend in Seattle. After what happened there, he stopped cold turkey and swore to himself that he would never touch the stuff again.
Then last August, out of the blue he heard from his father’s brother, twice-divorced Uncle Walt, who lived in Lyndhurst, New Jersey in a small clapboard house not far from where Pete had grown up. Seems Walt, a three-pack-a-day man, was dying of lung cancer and wanted Pete to come back and take care of him, wipe his ass, change his piss-stained sheets, and feed him like a baby, and for that, Pete would get the old man’s house, a fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance payout, and his 2004 Ford Bronco.
Only, after Walt kicked, Pete learned the house had a reverse mortgage on it and the bank owned it now, and the insurance policy was as real as his last trick on meth back in San Francisco.
At least the Bronco worked.
At Walt’s funeral, Pete ran into one of his old Garfield High chums, a security guard at Brewer’s who got him the job, and a week after that, just as he was being kicked out of his uncle’s house, along came Blaze’s ad.
Pete had been sitting in Blaze’s room for about twenty minutes when the dirty blond woke up. It was time to tell him the bad news.
“The fuckin’ rumor’s true.”
“Whatya mean?” said Blaze, turning over to show off his morning woody. Pete had seen it dozens of times before, but it was still, well, pretty. A nice seven inches, cut. Just like his.
“The rumor about Walmart buying up the factory to build a supercenter. They posted the notice at the time clock. The place is shutting up the end of the month, which means Friday.”
Blaze rolled out of bed and walked over to the bathroom a few yards away to take his overdue piss. “Well, then, it’s time,” he yelled as he relieved himself, “I mean, that is, if you wanna come with me.”
“Come with you where?” said Pete, still sitting in the corner of Blaze’s room.
Blaze walked back in. “To warm, sunny Lauderdale where we can play whores for hire.” He grabbed his silver and gold ID bracelet with his initials, BET for Blaze Eliot Talbot, from on top of his dresser and put it on his left wrist. “The place is loaded with lonely old retired gay guys with dough who’ll just eat us up.”
“You’re— You’re nuts—no, delusional,” said Pete, thinking this was all a joke.
“Hey, I checked it out on the web,” replied Blaze, scratching his pubes. “There’s even a site and a phone app called Buy Guys where we can sell what we got.”
“But, I—I don’t know…”
“You told me you fucked guys for money back in SF, didn’t you?”
“And I had a guy keep me in Manhattan for almost five years.”
“Till you said he kicked you out on the street for some younger blond bimbo.”
“His fuckin’ loss. Hope the shits get AIDS,” said Blaze, grabbing his Samsung from the bed stand.
“So we were both pay boys, so?”
“So, we both know nothing makes the cock harder than a stack of twenties on the bureau. Or keys to his Lexus.”
Then he moved in closer and stared at Pete, straight on.
“Listen, I was meaning to talk to you about this for a while, but now your little setback is the kick in the ass we both need to make it happen. You think I wanna keep fuckin’ Lardass forever just to save a few bucks on the rent?”
After Sydney kicked Blaze out of his Upper West Side condo, Blaze, who grew up in Totowa, decided to come back to his roots and grabbed a job as a driver and catch-all man for Bruno and his Forest Rest Funeral Home in upscale Fair Lawn. Married with three kids, Bruno took a liking to his dirty blond assistant, gave him a place to live in the lower apartment of the two-family house in Garfield he inherited from his mother, and took half off the rent if Blaze would fuck his fat, furry ass whenever Bruno felt like it.
“Let me show you what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about,” said Blaze, pulling up the Buy Guys app on his phone and handing it over to Pete, who began flipping through profile after profile of the young, hung, and beautiful.
“And we’re gonna compete against all these pretty boys?” said Pete, laughing.
“Take your fuckin’ clothes off and come over here,” instructed Blaze with a dare in his voice as he walked over to his dresser with the large mirror. Blaze was two years younger than Pete, twenty-five versus twenty-seven, but Pete felt he was always the one who needed somebody to show him the way. Right then, that somebody was Blaze.
“Now, did you ever see two hotter dudes in your life?” laughed Blaze. Both their dicks were getting hard.
Pete smirked back at the two of them in the mirror.
“And we got a gimmick the rest of those little boys ain’t got,” said Blaze. “We can bill ourselves as a team. The dynamic duo!”
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 and barnesandnoble.com and selected publisher websites.
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. From Kokoro Press.
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. From Totally Bound Press.
Buy Guys, his latest novella published by Wilde City Press, is the story of Blaze and Pete, two young, handsome 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, posting their profile on the male escort site, Buy Guys. 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 rpandrewsgayfiction.com on your laptop; or gay-erotic-fiction.com on your tablet or smartphone.
$10.00 gift card to your favourite eBook retailer!