“His genius rests in his rare ability to weave deplorable criminal acts … into erotic patchwork, and render the balance tragic poetry. Andrews exposes the monster in the mirror when all the trappings of civility are stripped bare… you never see the dog standing in the road until you feel the bump of tires rolling over it. He arouses and embarrasses and makes you squirm. A truly unique and darkly gifted writer.” Noted GLBT writer, Fredryk Traynor, author of Bless the Thugs and Lil’ Chil’rins
Web-stalking, incest, revenge, abduction, murder, sadomasochism – and that’s just for starters in “Basic Butch,” a collection of contemporary tales of deceit and betrayal, with a heavy dose of erotica. They’re 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, the very un-Disney side of Orlando, 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 some of the darkest of life paths. In a word they get what they went after – then wished they never had. Available at www.amazon.com and www.glbpubs.com
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. 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 www.wordclay.com
|RP Andrews Is Erotic Gay Fiction … Dead Serious … On the Edge|
|Basic Butch||Adrift in the Land of Plenty|
|Here’s an excerpt from “Hooked,” one of the collection of short stories you’ll find in Basic Butch:||Here’s the introduction from RP Andrews’ new short novel, “Adrift in the Land of Plenty,“ the story of young Florida drifter Josh, whose body, brains and cocky attitude was all he had to offer the world:|
|Cover photo by www.SylvesterQ.com.|
Simon made sure he had enough provisions for the weekend. He had even brought the commode his old man had used only once before he died closer to his desk so he wouldn’t have to go all the way upstairs to take a piss. He pulled the drapes in his room so there would be no distractions and left the lights off in the front of the house so any trick-or-treaters would think no one was home. He left the answering machine on his phone off so whatever wrong number called—that’s usually all he got—would get a perpetual ring. He was determined to get to the bottom of his mystery web buddy if it took him all weekend.
Just then, he heard the rain they had been threatening all day suddenly hit the flat roof of the garage. Good. That would keep the little bastards home tonight for sure.
Simon had been web surfing for sex for a while now—ever since Geo died and he no longer went to the bars or could visit the baths. Along the way he had met a few hot numbers, Jersey boys like himself or an occasional out-of-towner, since most Manhattan faggots didn’t have cars. It didn’t take much to convince them to make the trip to Paramus—one came as far as Cherry Hill; after all, his nine inch uncut dick that he displayed proudly in his private photo files was worth the gas and the tolls on the Garden State or Turnpike, and his suitors were too impressed by his man-pole to question why he plowed them with all his clothes on. Just the two of them in this big lonely house, fucking away in the bed where he was made 27 years ago, before mom split for another guy, and dad, a constructor worker, got slammed by a crane.
Then, two weeks ago, it started happening. Whether he was on BuddyBear.com,
SlickDick.com, Jockstrap.com or Leatherman.com, suddenly this guy—“Tom”—appeared in all four of his e mails. All with the same pix—hot hairy chest and abs and a tease of a dick shot but no face and the same message, “Could show you a good time. A real good time.” Nothing else.
When he searched for the guy’s profile, it wasn’t there. It was almost as if someone had hacked the sites, had hacked his e-drops. And when he responded, asking for stats, like height, weight, age, dick size, and a face shot, he just got the same response. Faceless pix and the message. He tried deleting the guy’s e’s, but they reappeared. He contacted each site’s webmaster but they claimed nothing was wrong with the site and the guy wasn’t even registered.
Now yesterday, “Tom” was coming up as pop-ups every time he opened any one of the sites and no amount of pop-up blockers or deletes got rid of them.
Tonight, though, as he started making his endless rounds of the sites—some nights he’d visit them ten or twelve times between TV repeats and cold chicken from the frig—“Tom” didn’t show. In fact, his first e-guest for the evening was an old regular on SlickDick.com, that is if Mack, a 20 year old hairless bottom from Totowa, could be classified as “old.”
“Sure you don’t want to plow that ass of mine for Halloween?” he e’d with a new shot of those baby smooth melons, his muscular legs spread apart enough to show a dong that practically touched the floor. Funny how the guys with the biggest dicks wanted to get fucked the most.
Simon kept his fly unzipped and dick handy and gave it a couple of strokes but Mack was getting a bit tiresome and his worked-up hard-on quickly faded.
On BuddyBear.com, he had his typical share of “woofs” and “you’re a hot fuck!” from hungry guys anywhere and everywhere, places he’d never visit, tonight from Wheeling, West Virginia, Johnstown, PA, Palm Springs and even one from Berlin, his fifth international fan to date. After all, that chest of his had actually once deserved it even if the pix he posted were two years old. Thankfully, his buzz cut didn’t date them. Simon used to respond with a “thanx—much appreciated” but now he just deleted them. He had gotten his ego kick.
The rain had picked up and was hitting the window outside his desk hard like his stiff dick against his hand just before he stuck it in.
He was surprised to have a message waiting for him on Jockstrap.com—usually those faggy, conceited gym bunnies only looked—he knew that from the number of “admirers” who, according to the webmaster, had viewed his profile.
“Hey, bud, you got some hot pix there—and we’re practically neighbors,” read the e from Bobbie, a rusty bearded rebel boy type from Garfield. Slim with just a bit of chest and belly fuzz, a few pube hairs sticking out from his boxer shorts, and that stereotypical handsome Irish face and smile that didn’t quit. He wore a cap that read “Montana Mountain Man” but Simon didn’t think he was hiding any receding hairline.
Geo and he had shot those “hot pix” one night out of boredom with the $200 digital camera Geo had bought at Walmart just a few months before the accident.
“So just how neighborly would you like to get?” e’d Simon back with a butchy grin. He could feel his dick pressing against his half open fly.
“Well, you up to trickin’ AND treatin’ tonite?”
“Got any ass shots to share?” e’d Simon.
“Sure—give me ten—I’ll send them over for your very private inspection, sir.” He could almost see him standing at attention at his pc.
“You know, I’m a top,” typed Simon.
“I sure fucken hope so!” replied the kid
Simon was dripping. This would probably end up like so many other encounters—a lot of dirty talk and dirty pix but no cigar—but what the fuck—he was half way there already.
Just then, what sounded like an army began banging on the door and ringing the bell non-stop. He waited a few minutes, hoping they would give up. But they didn’t.
“Better make it quick before my man meat explodes,” Simon e’d back, then got up to get the door.
He looked at the three teenagers—all males, seventeen, eighteen he guessed—dressed in jeans and pullovers whose only costumes were some cheap drugstore masks around their necks. They looked more like potential hold-up boys than candy grabbers. The rain had let up.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be trick or treating?” said Simon with a pissed off, what-the-fuck-are-you-bothering-me-for look.
“Man, just give us some stuff and mind your own business,” grunted the shortest of the three who was still a good six foot.
“Why don’t you just go back and fuck your girlfriends,” said Simon, reaching from behind for the doorknob. Suddenly the tallest one grabbed his wrist. Simon pushed him off, then, with a haughty air of self-confidence on his face, lifted up his T-shirt clear to his throat and faced the trio head-on. They all looked dazed like deers in front of the headlights. The middle one turned around and began throwing up in the bushes on the side of the house.
“Christ, what the fuck happened to you?” said the shorter one, unable to turn away.
“The same thing that’ll happen to you if you don’t get the fuck out of here—NOW!”
And with that Simon slammed the door, breathed deeply, and double locked it.
When he got back to his laptop, He was there. Tom. Same cockteasy pix with no face. Only there was something different.
His message had changed.
“Ready for me to show you a good time?”
© RP Andrews
Right now I’m looking out my attic window and it’s just begun to rain lightly. I’ve been watching and waiting for Hylan for over an hour. I don’t know how much longer I can hold off calling 911. He was supposed to be here when it all happened – not to give me moral support, but just be here. Now it’s over and here I’m alone with Mildred fresh dead downstairs.
I never thought I’d get all mushy over a guy – not with all the cold-hearted, hard-dicked fucking around I did. Mushy enough to kill so maybe, just maybe, we might make a go of it. And, no, this wasn’t my first time, but it was my first time for a buddy.
So how did this hot Southern rebel boy end up in this god forsaken corner of the world called Port Jervis Nowhere, New York, with poor Bishop’s bitchy mother on the floor flat dead downstairs?
It’s a long story but I won’t take long telling it.
By the way you can call me Josh. My god-given name is Jonas but Josh has always worked for me.
Momma, Daddie, and me didn’t have much of a life living in Shady Isle Trailer Park, Homestead, Florida, just south of Miami. Both of them were ex-druggies – maybe that’s the reason I never touched any stuff later on even when I had the opportunity. By the time I came around, they had switched to alcohol. Momma was addicted to soaps and Daddie, who worked as a clerk at the local Ace Hardware, was either yelling or piss-assed drunk.
Unlike most of my friends who spent their time at the local strip mall arcade, I made a few bucks doing odd jobs around the trailer park, that is when I wasn’t reading old issues of Time or Newsweek I’d pick out of the garbage. So I might not be book smart as they say, but I thought I knew a lot more than how to handle a video game console.
My older sister Beth got married at sixteen to a migrant worker just to get away. I was planning to escape the following spring just as soon as I got my high school diploma. After that I thought I’d even go back to school, get my associates degree and do something with my life. At least I had Homer, my crazy-quilt half breed of a dog I had since I was eleven. He was coming with me – together we’d make it all right somehow.
Then one night Daddie got pissed at me when he caught me drinking his last bottle of Bud. But he didn’t take it out on me like he usually did. Instead, he kicked Homer hard, opened the trailer door and let him run out. That’s the last time I saw my dog.
Two nights later, after I was sure Momma and Daddie were dead away drunk and asleep, I lit one of those kerosene lanterns we kept around for hurricane season, tipped it over next to their bedroom, and jammed the trailer door lock so you couldn’t open it from the inside. I gave it a few minutes, then ran over to our neighbors, the Allisters, for help. By the time the fire trucks came it was too late. They hadn’t burned up like I hoped, but the smoke got them any way. The Allisters took me in while they searched out Aunt Helen, my mother’s Bible-Belt bitch sister, who lived in Alabama.
Funny, a week later, Andrew – Hurricane Andrew - hit and flattened Shady Isle like we were a bunch of paper boxes left out in the rain. Me and the Allisters somehow survived. But had I known that damn storm was coming, I wouldn’t have wasted all that kerosene.
Aunt Helen wired me the money to bury Momma and Daddie. But I never did find Homer. Sure as hell if I had found that scrawny mutt’s carcass I would have used Aunt Helen’s dough to bury him and the hell with kin.
After that I had two options – go live with Aunt Helen or hightail it to Dad’s brother, Cappy, who managed a small, cheap motel, the Mira Vista, in Key Largo, where I could work as a waiter at its outdoor restaurant on the pier.
I chose the water.
I hadn’t seen Uncle Sylvester since grammar school – family called him Cappy ‘cause he had been in the Navy on some submarine – but he hadn’t changed much. Short and wiry like Daddie – I guess I got the tall genes from my Momma’s side - he smoked Winston Salems non-stop and carried a cigarette pack size transistor radio on his belt with the earplug practically glued in his ear. What he was listening to I never did find out. He wasn’t much for conversation but I could see he was glad to see I had survived all the shit.
I took the ten thousand dollars in hurricane insurance money and bought me a small, “pre-owned” houseboat. Cappy said I could share a room in one of the old wings with another young guy, Philly, who played landscaper and repairman guy for the place, but I preferred my floating apartment which Cappy let me anchor off the pier. Evenings, I’d sail out a bit and watch the sun sizzle into the ocean.
Had I met Philly that first day I might have changed my mind.
I ran into him a few days later early in the A.M. as I was setting up outside and he came over to fix some emergency leak in the kitchen. A short, humpy I-talian boy from Queens, New York, with a wrestler’s build, just a year older than me I learned later, two day’s growth, and hairy as shit, he had run over from his room barefoot, still in his briefs and nothing else. Looking at him leaning over the sink, the water wetting down that tight butt of his til his underwear was cellophane, all that fur sticking out of the edges, and all over his muscular legs, I felt a twitch in my dick. I tried to convince myself it was a piss hard-on.
After the restaurant was closed at night, we’d sit on the pier and have a few beers. Lighting up a joint, Philly, a dyed-in-the-wool, New York Mets fan, went on and on about his team or the tits on his mystery girlfriend, Suzie, who I never did meet. I think he used Suzie as an excuse when one of the busty waitresses we worked with – Madeline especially – tried to hit on him. For some reason she didn’t hit on me – or sensed something even I didn’t know about myself at the time.
I slept on the boat, shit and showered in one of the vacant rooms before the maids cleaned it up for the next vacationers, and grabbed scraps from the kitchen. Whatever else I needed I bought with the tips I made – though playing waiter was only half my job.
I soon discovered that a lot of these vacationing couples needed something to spice up their love lives and I turned out to be the secret ingredient. All six foot two swimmers build of me that didn’t need a gym to stay hot, with a trail mix of fur running like a neon arrow from my chest down my belly to my pubes and my eight inch uncut dick. I don’t think Cappy ever picked up on it, or if he did, he didn’t let on. Even with my reading old magazines, I had bopped a few chicks in school and found it fun, but it was while doing Donald and Ellen, a straight-laced, thirtyish couple from Cleveland, Ohio, that I realized it was the guy, more than his bitch, who got my cock dripping.
Not that Donald was some soap opera king. He was tall like me but skinny, kinda boney, nerdy in fact, balding and smooth like a woman, and Ellen had long, stringy dark hair and no tits. Both of them all that night at the restaurant, even with two bottles of wine to loosen them up, looked like they had OD’ed on some prunes, only they hadn’t worked. That’s why I was surprised by the note tucked underneath Donald’s American Express card with a fifty dollar bill when it came time to settle up: “Will you fuck my wife? I like to watch.”
Now, I had been told by more than a few girls over the years that I was good looking but I never quite felt as tingly as I did at that moment when I saw Donald’s fifty dollar bill peek out of the flap. I wasn’t just sexy – I was something special.
I was hot.
© RP Andrews
Basic Butch is available at www.Amazon.com and www.GLBPubs.com; Adrift in The Land of Plenty is available at www.Amazon.com and www.Wordclay.com.
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