Hijinx in Fort Lauderdale
(Yes, this is the final episode, thank you for hanging on so far.)
I'd love to open with a pun about Connie Francis and "Where the boys are," but I think the irony will be omnipresent throughout.
Given what I said previously about not needing nor desiring the sun, it is a bit strange that I love Fort Lauderdale. Sure, I burn, but Fort Lauderdale does offer the basic requirements that I need for any vacation: cheap alcohol, indoor smoking, and sex. I'd like it better if one didn't have to drive everywhere, but such is life.
(And yes, this means that I cut myself off a lot earlier than in New York. It also means that I take taxis on occasion, a good thing, since I hate driving.)
The two nights in Fort Lauderdale came about by accident. I wasn't able to use my miles on a flight immediately after the cruise, so I had to wait it out. This was no problem for me. I saw it as a chance to get the proverbial "vacation from the vacation." With two gay cruises arriving in port that day, there were a lot of people who shared that view. The first evening--the sun being a bit too brutal for me to even sit out in the shade--I was approached by F, who happened to be the first of three (perhaps even five) people who were on the ship and seemed surprised that they never saw me. Despite the fact that the 2000 passengers on the ship were basically capitive, it makes sense to me that you wouldn't meet them all, due to different schedules, interests, and body clocks.
Anyway, F came onto me like a moth on a flame, which was very flattering, but I put a temporary kibosh on it, because I was hellbent on participating in my favourite activity in Fort Lauderdale: sticking dollar bills in the g-strings of go-go boys. Now, although I hate it when go-go boys dance all up in my face in New York, I don't mind it in Fort Lauderdale. Why? Because in Fort Lauderdale, they have bars that are designed expressly for that purpose alone. One of which is a curious, yet totally logical combination of piano bar and go-go boy bar.
The go-go boys loved me or more realistically, my wallet. I must have thrown them for a loop, since I was probably the youngest person (not performing or MC-ing) there. I loved it, not because of the ego boost, but because I find the interaction very straightforward. I want to feel up a good looking man with a nice body, they want to make money in the champagne room: everybody wins. Things got a bit strange when the 23 year-old compere at one bar decided to come onto me, but it fortunately coincided with my spending cutoff point.
One lesson I have learned: Don't go to the go-go boy bars commando. It's just painful when one guy decides to rub up against you repeatedly with a lot of force. I think he actually rubbed my shaft raw.
Eventually I made it back to the hotel in one piece. By this point, the pool area had officially become majority nude and F was waiting for me clad only in a bathrobe. I doffed my clothes and hit the hottub while we talked. Little did I know that we were being watched like a hawk. Still aroused by lap dances (isn't this getting a bit "Smack My Bitch Up?"), F & I went to my room and proceeded to have sex. I came first, for the aforementioned reason. (As charming and funny as F is, I had to use the fantasy option.)
Nonetheless, I made my way back out to the hot tub as I was still quite wired. Since the rooms were no-smoking, it made sense to be social with those outside: G worked in television in Los Angeles and apparently had his eye on me since earlier, to the point that he had come up to my room to watch F & I go at it; H & J were an interracial couple that were on the ship (and yes, they were surprised they never saw me, but after I gave my reasons for avoiding the sun, they completely understood). H & J were a hoot, but G seemed to be keen on holding a conversation solely with me to the rude exclusion of everybody else. Proving that men are more led by their crotches than their moral compasses, G & I went back to my room.
If two men are versatile, then they have no problem having sex...at least logistically. If two men are bottoms, then they can use a double-headed dildo. If two men are tops, well, then things take an interesting turn. G's solution was cock-and-ball "toys," although frankly, I would describe them more as torture. He put a cock ring on me, followed that up with what he termed a "ball stretcher," which was a sort of corset for the scrotum that squeezed the testicles out as far as possible. If that wasn't bad enough, he then put another cock ring on me that bent my shaft over upon itself.
If you're wincing at this, then you know how I felt.
If that wasn't weird enough, he also had a speedo fetish and asked me to put my stretched and squeezed crotch into one of my swimming trunks. This was apparently extremely erotic to him, but for me, it made me look like I had an elephant's head between my legs.
G was also very verbal, which normally I like, but he occasionally crossed the line over into comedy.
"D' ya wanna get queer with me, huh? Huh? D'ya wanna?"
This apparently meant kiss him.
Eventually we masturbated ourselves to orgasm, G left, and I was able to get to sleep.
A few things from my time with G before we move onto other letters of the alphabet: G thought I was prostitute when I went up to my room with F. Now, I don't take that as an insult at all, but it does sort of shed some light on how I may be viewed by others. G expressed shock that I was intellectual, a writer, and could easily support myself in conversation and in life (in other words, I told him that I had paid for my room). He also explained the four archetypes of "pretty": pretty, knows it, and is nice; pretty, knows it, and not nice; pretty, doesn't know it, and nice; and pretty, doesn't know it, and not nice.
Surprising how such a clearly evident thing can sound revolutionary when someone else says it.
The second night, I met K, who had actually invited G over the previous evening (via Manhunt). K is one of those guys whose life really should be turned into a book or play. He just had charisma and near star quality. I have to say I was in absolute awe over him. K was originally from Philadelphia, moved to San Diego, and then decided to start living in gay resorts in both Palm Springs and Fort Lauderdale while he decided on whether to live there or not. A gay male version of Maetel, basically.
And when we started talking about how love is too easy, but liking is difficult...I'll admit it, I swooned inside.
Unlike with F or G, when K and I had sex, I didn't have to resort to fantasy, it was all him. Now, he was admittedly "no Adonis because the gym would bore him to death," but his personality and the way that he carried himself was so attractive and erotic that I could easily see men just springing instant erections whenever he passed by.
Much like how G spied on F and myself going at it, K & I also had a spy, an anorexic twink who had previously followed K to his room (though K shrugged him off) and had earlier just gone down on one of the other guests who was lurking in the background...outdoors. Now, I'm a slut, but I like to show that off in private as did K who said so in a stage whisper to me.
Post-sex, K decided to arrange a threesome for us. (This made my day, since it really is no bacchanal without an orgy.) It may sound like the things that porn movies are made out of, but really, this was like Lucy & Ethel arranging group sex. Everybody seemed to say they were on their way or had K talked to them earlier they would've come, and so on and so forth.
We actually wound up in the hot tub with H & J, who were just as funny and entertaining as I had thought they were the previous night. They mentioned that they were scheduled to go out later that morning (as was as I, this is around 3 in the morning that we were all in the hot tub, and I had decided to just stay up all night) and that J put his foot down and said he wanted another day, and used his money to pay for it. Were that I was not flying free, I would've gladly done the same thing.
The subject somehow changed to the White Party and I mentioned that I had never been.
K (energetic): "Every faggot has to go to the White Party at least once in their lives."
J (equally energetic): "You must allow yourself to queen out. I've already got my tickets."
Did I mention that H & J live in Massachusetts and they were also on the cruise with me? The marketers are right when they say gay couples tend to have more disposable income.
So apparently I'm going to go to the White Party at some point in my life, probably next year knowing myself.
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