Sex and the Single iPhone App

It always amazes me that a group of people who can get laid more easily than a bonobo monkey have more avenues for finding sex than any other species on the planet. I am, of course, talking about Gay men.

Do you know the real reason many straight men cannot stand us? We can get laid anytime, anywhere, anyhow. For them to get laid requires a lot of planning, a bit of swagger and plenty of liquor, unless of course, one wants to nail a skank, which only requires a Marlboro Red and a Chevy.  

Now that I have my iPhone, friends of mine are telling me I need to download this app and that app for finding tricks. But, it all didn’t start with the iPhone or the Droid or even the Palm Pilot. I am not sure where it started, but I think it began with AOL.

People think AOL was invented so friends could stay in touch and email each other on a regular basis. AOL was invented by a Gay man who wanted to lie about his stats and get laid with other Gay men who lie about their stats.

I still find it hard to believe AOL has really been around for more than twenty years? That twenty years will be significant further down.

My first exposure to AOL was when we had a computer installed at the restaurant I managed in the Jewish gateway to Heaven, Delray Beach, which is one stoplight from Boca, which is the actual location of the Jewish afterlife. We just haven’t had the heart to tell all the blue hairs in diapers and their senile husbands, who don’t know where to hang their sport coats, that they are actually already dead. This should answer the eternal question (no pun intended): Is there an early bird special in Heaven? Yes, and it includes soup or salad, dessert, and coffee or tea.

Anyway, the owner’s “business partner,” showed me this new thing called AOL and the AOL chat room, where he met men. This my friends is where AOL inches were born. I found it odd that every man in an AOL chat room was five-ten and 165 pounds. In addition, all of them had eight-inch penises. I never joined AOL because I thought I didn’t meet the requirements. I exceeded them. I am six-four. What did you think I meant?

Before, during and for a time after AOLs birth, phone chat rooms, where “men are waiting to meet you in your area right now” were the way to find tail in the comfort of your own bedroom. Those were scary because you had to rely on your future trick’s honest self-assessment to get laid. I met my third lover that way. Ironically, he was, and still is, five-ten and 165 pounds.

I soon grew tired of this gay non-contact “speed dating” approach, so I abstained for a few years until M4M and later Manhunt came along, or was it the other way around? A friend insisted I try one or the other, I forget which. I tried each with little luck.

I missed the days of pursuing a guy in a bar, taking him home, having your way with him, making him breakfast, and sending him home with a fake phone number. Ahhh, the good ole days.

And this is where Gay world’s youth obsession reared its ugly head. With AOL, you had to post a picture of yourself. Since it was new, so were the pictures. But, something happened along the way. While all Gay men aged naturally – and some not so naturally – their profile pictures never did. I am not kidding. Just for shits and giggles, I went on Manhunt for an hour while I still lived in that armpit of Maryland – Rockville. I saw the same guys with the same profile pictures and the same stats that I had seen two decades prior. What do these guys do when they actually do hook up? The lights can only be turned down so much. Do they hope they will hook up with another dishonest, elderly queen, who last had a six-pack when Lady Bird Johnson was planting daisies on Route 175?

Sadder still are the ones who don’t realize they have aged and continue to wear club kid clothes into their sixties! These are my favorites. They always say, “I still wear the same size jeans I wore in high school.”

Honey, you may still wear the same size, but that doesn’t mean they fit!

I have an acquaintance, and his partner – a couple of pretentious queens who think their vintage cars are the cat’s meow.

And no, Mikie Barchi, this is not about you! I will use your last name if I refer to you, so you will know when I am talking about you!

Where was I? Oh yes. I have an acquaintance, and his partner who has no personality. When I met him, and his cardboard cut-out of a partner, fifteen years ago, he was hot, and so was the animatron he was dating. He is still an attractive man, as is his comatose bedmate, but he and his used to be equally as hot partner, aren’t built the same as when I met them. Who is? But, don’t tell them that. They still wear tight little shirts and jeans. The problem is things are drooping and falling all over the place, so they look like Gumbys after too much time in the desert heat – one with an annoying personality, and one with no visible signs of life. What they don’t realize is if they were to wear clothes that actually fit in a style more befitting their maturity, they would still look hot, one of them very boring, but both hot.

Please note that when a non-fashionista like the writer of this blog points out your need to update your wardrobe, you are in trouble.

Which brings us to Mikie Barchi. This is about you, but not really! Mikie surprised me with a visit on Halloween, when all spooks come out to play, and he lit into me about how I called him a drunk and a complainer in my blog. I have never mentioned Mikie in my blog, but he thinks all I write about is him. Well, my dear, I hate to inform you that I don’t.

Mikie was on his way to New Jersey from Norfolk. His aunt’s home was devastated in Hurricane Sandy, so he was going to help her. Mikie is nice like that.

Sidebar. One of our sister car clubs sent out an email blast making sure everyone was OK after the hurricane. Most responded that things could have been worse and they were thankful they were alive and well. Except one. One self-absorbed queen lamented the loss of her 2004 VW and how she loved that car and would never park in “that” garage ever again.” My friend Mikie’s home town of Ships Bottom, New Jersey, was practically washed away, and this tire old … I almost said the “f” word … was crying over a car! Not even a nice car. It took everything in me not to respond.

Where was I? This adult ADD is hell.

Mikie wanted to grab a bite, so we went to that five-star Jessup establishment, Frank’s Diner. At dinner, Mikie showed me a couple of apps on his Droid for finding men in your area. There is one for twinks, one for bears, one for daddy’s, one for … I am running out of categories here, but you get the idea. The best part is they tell you how far away they are. Someone could be sitting at the next booth. He handed me his phone, and I decided to scroll through the pictures.

Guess what I found within three miles of my home? A bunch of horny Gay men, all of them five-ten and 165 pounds with eight-inch penises, and the best part: none of them had aged a minute in the last twenty years!

I think I would have better luck picking up a trick in the dairy aisle at Weiss Supermarket on desperate singles Sunday afternoons.

If you haven’t changed your wardrobe or headshot since 1989, follow me, join me, tell your friends, or buy my book.