Title: For the Love of Samuel
Author: RP Andrews
Publisher: Self-Published
Release Date: 11/20/2017
Heat Level: 5 - Erotica
Pairing: Male/Male, Male/Male Menage
Length: 50,500
Genre: Romance, Erotica, Fantasy, eroic gay romance, erotic gay fiction
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Synopsis
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.Excerpt
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.
Period.
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.
Fuck!
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.”
“And…”
“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.
And squeezes.
“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.
“Forty.”
“Good answer,” he replies. “I’m 46.”
“l just threw a guy out younger than you," I say smugly.
“Oh?”
“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.”
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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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