Lov Bytes says hello and welcome to author R.P Andrews joining us today on his Blog tour for latest release “Buy Guys”.
Welcome R.P 🙂

Author: RP Andrews

Title: Buy Guys

Publisher: Wilde City Press

Release Date: December 16^th, 2015

Genre: Male Erotic Gay Fiction

Length: 25,000 words (novella)

Purchase Links: Wilde City Press | Goodreads | Amazon

 

Book Blurb

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.

 

Gay Genocide

I wasn’t one of those urban gay men that knew legions of buddies who died of a disease that ironically disfigured men so obsessed with their looks and physical being. But I do remember Bobbie Rosenberg who lived on the Upper East Side in an old walk-up, a relic of the turn-of the-last-century days when immigrants crowded what were then considered tenements. It was the tail end of the seventies, and we had met at Uncle Charlie’s, a local bar, played around one night, then morphed into Saturday night bar hopping buddies. While I watched the clock, and wondered what the traffic would be like in the Lincoln Tunnel since I was still living at home at the time in Jersey, Bobbie, moonfaced, stoop-shouldered Bobbie, knew exactly what to do to get a man to come back with him.

I was fucken jealous and rationalized that the guys were so horny they’d fuck their cat by that point.

Bobbie also had the not-so-coveted knack of contracting the Disease of the Month which didn’t bother him at all; in fact, he’d often brag to me about what exotica he had caught getting fucked. Amoebas were my favorite.

December 31, 1979, Bobbie hosted a New Year’s Eve Party in his tiny apartment and invited George, my partner and I. I remember watching Dave Clark who had that gay icon group, “The Village People” on. They sang some song extolling the upcoming new decade and the buzz among us gay guys was that the ‘80’s were to be OUR time. Had we known what was ahead, we would have dumped our poppers down the toilet and joined a seminary. Looking back, though I know it wasn’t true, AIDS seemed like some Biblical retribution for the Sodom and Gomorrah ‘70’s.

I lost touch with Bobbie soon after that (George was never a fan of his – “he’s a pig”), and I often wondered if Bobbie had been swept away in the First Wave of the AIDS genocide that hit soon after.

A few years later on vacation in Houston’s Montrose gay ghetto, I picked up a tall, balding, non-descript looking guy with a hairy swimmers build bod and clipped mustache who was OK with oral sex. Maybe because he knew it would be easier to get. It was the mid 80’s, even ATZ wasn’t on the horizon yet, and after we played, Herb took a dozen eggs out of his frig, and separated the whites from the yolks which he then chucked down with some OJ. He was insistent that this newest craze in self-medication for AIDS was helping him. I never met him again so I’ll never know.

When I went for my first HIV test and had to wait a week for the results, I was convinced, even though I never bottomed, I would be positive and was ready to accept that reality since I was an adult male who knew exactly what he was dealing with, not some poor weepy victim, a role so many guys I’d meet took on who played with fire after 1985 when it was clear you didn’t get it from a toilet seat or a bad bottle of poppers. But each time I’ve been tested, I come up negative, and even my gay doc subscribes to the theory that some guys – maybe a very small number of us – are just immune.

Or maybe just lucky.

And you know what they say about luck.

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.

Sweet.

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?”

“Yeah…”

“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.

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