Charlie

Adorable! (I mean the white puppy.)

I lived in Philly for almost 40 years, always in Center City or the immediately adjacent neighborhoods, i.e., only in areas that Ben Franklin would have at least known. My affection for the place fluctuated over the years. I probably loved it most in the 1960s, before it became too gentrified and expensive. When I was young, it was big enough to have everything I wanted in the way of culture and sexual opportunities, but was more intimate than New York, which I thought of as home. What I always liked best was the fact that I could walk anywhere I wanted to go: work, shopping, entertainment, sex venues. What I liked least was the weather, except in autumn, when it can be truly lovely. The last time I visited, I was put off by the amount of foot and vehicular traffic in Center City. It was interesting to visit, but I wouldn't want to move back.

The problem for tournament officials, of course, is that a lot of money is riding on having the matches stay on schedule. The televising of live matches is what generates the money that makes the tournaments successful. It is the reason why hundred of millions of dollars have been spent to put roofs on a couple of big courts at the majors so that the high interest matches can get played regardless of the weather conditions. Television is even responsible for such details as the fact that only Wimbledon among the Slams is still played on grass (because hard courts are easier to maintain in show condition for two weeks), even though artificial surfaces are harder on the players' bodies; big matches are usually played at night (when there is a bigger tv audience), and ways have been found to revamp playing time (e.g, reducing the number of sets for a win, tiebreaks, time-outs for commercials, etc.) to fit broadcast schedules. Tournaments are entertainment businesses, and the bottom line is more important to them than the players' welfare.

I never hired more than 2 escorts at a time, but in my wild youth I did occasionally find myself in an orgy situation. One night at a gay bar in Philly, a ran into a leather biker hunk I knew named Danny, who was cruising someone whose name I won't reveal, because he is a New York playwright who is still living. I happened to know said playwright, so Danny asked me to introduce them. Then Danny invited both of us back to his apartment, along with two other attractive young men from the bar whom we both knew. When we got to the apartment, we discovered that Danny had a cute personal "slave" boy staying with him for the weekend, who got passed around to be used by each of us as the others watched. It really was a plot right out of a porn movie. As with most orgies, of course, by the end of the night we had all paired off in couples and left the scene. Another time, on a Saturday night in Baltimore, I was invited to an orgy, where one of the participants, a handsome blond, was so piggy that he insisted on getting fucked by everyone else (seven of us). At the party was breaking up, I was shocked to discover in conversation with him that he had been my best friend's roommate in a military hospital in Texas. I called my friend in New York the next day to tell him of this experience, and he practically yawned and said, "No surprise about Glenn."

When I was in Dubai in the 1980s, the photo would have been very different; only only notable building then was the airport.

Although I am basically a dog person, I did own one cat, a black Persian who observed all dogs with amused disdain. He was not exactly cuddly, and he never moved except at dinner time, but he lived longer than any of my dogs, and died just before his 16th birthday. I was surprised how much I cried when I lost him, so I understand how you feel.

In the photo his hand is carefully hidden, as usual, because it was disabled as a result of an injury incurred during birth.

My first thought was also somewhere in NJ, like Hoboken.

At the time that the old Eagle opened on W. 11th, I was living only a couple of blocks east of the location of the current Eagle; in those days, even a leather bar wouldn't have located that far west on 28th St., because it was a no man's land. I used to park my car on 28th between 9th and 10th, because there were no nighttime parking regulations, and no one lived there.

Yes, that is the old Eagle on W.11th St where I was invited to the opening night party in 1970, because I was a friend of one of the bartenders. I spent many interesting nights there. By the time the gentrification of the West Village drove it to move to W. 28th St, I had left NYC and the bar scene.

I had no idea the Eagle was still in business. I went to the opening night party back in the 1970s, when it wasn't called "socializing." Or maybe it is not the same place as the old Eagle.

Unless I am mistaken, the guy on the right is a young Eric Ryan. The fucker in #47 is definitely Ryan.

Bob Patrick was the oldest escort I ever hired, and that was 9 years ago, when he was 59. He was in remarkably good shape then, and he still looks the same in the photos he uses in his ads. His skin was flawless and soft as a baby's.

Damn! I would have to be on the site all the time to win. I recognized the spire of the cathedral in Antwerp immediately.

Yes

I believe that Medicare directs that the generic is what it will pay for, unless the doctor specifically prescribes the brand name drug, or there is no generic available.

I would have reversed that equation, but to each his own.

Of course.

I didn't raise the heavy lid to check if there was anyone inside.

This question has been asked here a few time previously, and my answer is always the same: on a sarcophagus in an archaeological museum.

I have a list of every escort I hired from 1978 to 2011, when I retired from hiring, as well as how much I paid for each encounter. I am compulsive about that kind of documentation.

It has to be somewhere on the Italian Riviera.

My spouse's doctor called him on a Sunday evening, and told him to call the office first thing Monday morning to get the doctor's receptionists to schedule him immediately with a vascular surgeon. It was a good thing he did--his carotid artery turned out to be 99% blocked. I asked the doctor what he was doing in the office on a Sunday, and he said it was the best time for him to carefully study patients' test results.

I only went to Man's Country once, in the winter of 1975, when it was a wonderful refuge from the bitter cold.

Somewhere I once read that the most common lie is, "Don't worry, I won't cum in your mouth."