Author: RP Andrews
Title: Buy Guys
Publisher: Wilde City Press
Release Date: December 16th, 2015
Genre: Male Erotic Gay Fiction
Tags: Erotic, Mystery/Suspense, Romantic, Thriller/Crime
Heat Level (1 being no sexual content, 5 being erotica): 5
Length: 25,000 words (novella)
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!”
My One Month Career as a Rentboy
They say write about what you know, but if I was going to write erotic gay fiction about hustlers, as I did in “Not In It For the Love” and more recently, “Buy Guys,” well, logic would dictate I have to experience being one myself, right? So, at an age when most gay men are content to have the remote to their TV or DVD player in their lap, I plunked down my fifty bucks of Visa dollars and posted a profile on the now defunct rentboy.com.
But honestly, would someone actually pay for me, even if time had been kind, to have sex with them?
A buddy once said to me that he found it pretty pathetic that somebody had to pay for sex. But I heartedly disagree. Sure, sex can be a wonderful exchange between two people, but why can’t it also be a commodity for those willing to buy what they want, just like the newest tech toy or an Abercrombie and Fitch polo? Contrary to the notion that only losers pay for sex, there are plenty of good looking guys out there, busy with high power 24/7 careers or entwined in complicated personal lives, who just choose to take the expedient route. I’ve always been an advocate for making prostitution in this country legal and get over our collective Puritanical hang-ups. Make sure the boys and girls are disease free, and tax ‘em, baby.
“Who’s your daddy?” was my on-screen persona, trying to create a market niche distinct from all the pretty boys, and I openly admitted I was over 40 in my ad (how much over 40 I conveniently left out), but rationalized that tidbit with the tagline, “but you did say you wanted a daddy, didn’t you?”
I low bowed my hourly rate to $150 so I’d have a better chance at scoring, given the stiff competition, and made myself “out only” – their place, not mine. Would-be clients could contact me either via email on the site or my cell phone #, and I used a Tracfone just for that so if or when I had any issue associated with my new career – as in being stalked, like I should have such problems - I could chuck the phone just like a drug dealer.
So what does it take to be a Rentboy, besides, of course, some alluring physical attributes (mine I hoped would be my still boyish looks and a tight compact furry body I worked hard at to maintain) and a lot of moxie?
(a) The ability to do it with just about anyone, and if you’re playing the top like me, you know dicks don’t lie, which I figured wouldn’t be a problem given some of the loser tricks I’ve had over the years. You just put yourself in a fantasy mode, right? I soon learned what kept your libido steaming was the fact the guy wanted you bad enough, he’d pay for you. I later read professional escorts need money in their eyesight even when they’re having recreational sex, like Pavlov’s dog.
(b) A feeling of super-superiority and super self-confidence, even if it’s all pretend.
(c) The absolute resistance to ask the guy what he looks like. Yes, you need to know what he’s looking for, but, again, those big bills on the night stand are what are supposed to arouse you, not whether he looks like Woody Allen’s older brother.
When a week went by after posting my ad and I got no takers, I was convinced I had pushed the envelope too far, that I was a jerk for even thinking I could pull this off at my age, with all the twenty something, thirty something porn star quality meat that was vying for that same universe of hungry, lonely men. What was I trying to do? Make the Guinness Book of Records as the world’s oldest male hooker?
Ah, but my feelings of dejection were premature. At the beginning of my second week I got a hit, and by the end of the month I had had four guys pay me for sex: a social anthropologist and university professor in town to judge a doctoral dissertation; a vacationing retired dentist from Palm Springs; a farm boy cute, multimillionaire software developer from D.C. in town to close a deal and who wanted me to play “coach.” We spent the last twenty minutes of his hour talking about his mousey wife and two kids.
My last “client” was my greatest challenge, a big guy, as far away from my sexual preference as, well, a woman, but do him I did, thanks to a 100 mg, of Viagra and my determination to pass my male escort final exam.
So what did I learn from my month as a rentboy? That physicality and physical attraction defy and transcend social class, professional standing, race, and most of all, personal pride; and that while money can’t buy you love, it sure as hell can buy you one of the best fucks of your life.
BTW, my brief career as a rentboy led to a gig on a male porn site, hotoldermale.com, but that’s a story for another day.
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.