I take the pain medicine Opana every day for my fucked up back. Last week, after a farcical chain of events, I was unable to fill my prescription and wound up going into withdrawal, which made me become really uncomfortable and increasingly erratic and irascible beyond belief and really really irritable and I may have killed a hitchhiker in Reno.
Okay so I did not kill a hitchhiker, or anybody else to the best of my recollection, nor did I tell the pissy little queen seated next to me at Peets to fuck off, although, man, did I want to. Anyway it was a miserably difficult week, but I finally straightened out my pharmaceutical nightmare and it’s over. Also part of my efforts at distracting myself included baking some seriously delicious peanut butter cookies flavored with almond syrup, so, you know, silver linings.
I’m really glad I didn’t kill any hitchhiker.
herewith, some naked guys who could have been very helpful in the whole distracting-me-from-my-misery thing:
Really odd PhotoShopping, but charming nevertheless.
My goodness, what a fabulous view.
The charm of well-aged beef.
For all my Chaturbate chums.
Like every cat ever known, in or out, buddy, in or out.
Whatever he wants, I’m pretty sure he gets.
Isn’t it romantical?
Seems like that would really increase wind resistance.
I have become very fond of a marijuana infused gummy that I eat a little before bedtime to help me sleep. In the world of edible pot, these gummies are pretty weak players, feeble in fact, which is perfectly fine with me. I don’t particularly want to be fucked up, I just want some help falling asleep.
I’ve bought them from the fancy pot shop a couple of times and so I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I pulled up to the counter and ordered my Valhalla blueberry acai gummies just like I knew what I was doing. How crushing then to find out they were all out, and were also out of lots of their other stock. Apparently that’s just the world in 2023.
Being an absolute amateur around this brave new world of marijuana edibles, I had no backup plan. I had no idea what might be an acceptable alternative; I had my one little memorized order and that was it.
I mentioned (https://mrpeenee.wordpress.com/2022/07/22/in-which-we-become-comfortably-numb/) before how the sales people there are absolute weed sommeliers. They actually seem to enjoy spending time discussing the various aspects of their wares. When I was a pothead in college, shortly after dinosaurs went extinct, I would go dope shopping and the insight into the product consisted of “yeah it’s pot.” These guys though are committed to making sure you get as loaded as you want to be, to that end they throw around terms like THC and CBD and compare one strain’s ability to help create to another’s relaxation index. I finally went with one because a) it’s blackberry flavored and that sounded tasty and b) it’s all they had.
I got home and was reading the label and discovered the THC level (which is what gets you loaded ) in these gummies is four times as high as in the ones I’m used to. I want to try them anyway, duh, but if y’all don’t hear from me over the next month or so, don’t worry. Eventually, I will remember how to speak and the munchies will drive me to resurface. Til then, naked guys:
Well. This cutie goes by both Jeff Hallum as well as Jeff Wayne. In case you need to do some research.
Well, OK. If you insist.
Diego Barros, who always hides under his hat. Dude, what’s with your hat?
I love big nuts, and I cannot lie. Ball sacs that hang down past one’s dick are so sexy.
Red silk and big muscley ass, a match made in heaven.
And I like the dresser, too.
Young, dumb, and ready to rock.
Considering I never go to the beach, it’s amazing how much I miss it in the winter.
Do you think he rents that by the inch?
I recently used another picture of this same youth in the bed flashing his ass, but really, can you have too much?
Ruggery Valdivia, now with glasses!
Scorpios. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.
It is the end of the year, perhaps you heard? To celebrate not dying in these last twelve difficult months, I decided to post a sort of Greatest Hits post, but in this case it’s the Greatest Nekkid Guys Hits.
January, a cowboy kind of month
February and the butt chops are ripe.
March, in like a lion, baby.
April, my burfday and an arty nude to celebrate. Apparently, I didn’t realize this is Tyson Daley when I posted it originally.
May and my favorite photo of my favorite Person of Porn, Mike Betts.
June and Gay Pride’s photo is brought to us by the letter ASS.
July and goodness, what lovely skin. And so much of it.
August brings us Doug Perry of Colt Studios and his phenomenal pussy.
September. My Chaturbate Chums are always demanding more of this particular kind of filth.
Also, speaking of September when Madge died. I’m just guessing this is what hell looks like today.
October. Just insert some damn joke about pumpkins here,
November and I think this is my favorite dick pic, I just wish I knew his name. This is at least the 5th time I’ve included him.
So it turns out it’s Christmas. Maybe you heard? Traditionally at this time of year, I take to the blog-waves to complain and whine about Christmas music. Yuck. Last year, for the first time ever, I was unable to do so because I had had no Yuletide tunes inflicted on me. This year again, carol-free. I suppose the fact that I have whittled my contact with the rest of civilization down to an absolute minimum is probably a big part of the reason for this absence of seasonal mewling. COVID was an important part of that, showing me that being unsociable is just part of my fabulous nature, so hooray for lockdown.
I got that far Wednesday night and gave up because my attention got up and wandered off. That’s all moot anyway because yesterday I decided to get a manicure and as I settled in at the nail salon I realized I had waded into the depths of a Christmas carol hell. Dammit.
False pride, that’s what it was. Smugly bragging about dodging the Xmas song bullet. Of course I would be struck down, in this case by some algorithmic driven tunes from the Uncanny Valley holiday album. They were performed by a pair of AI’s that I’m sure someone at some time referred to as human-like. The rhythm section was absolutely relentless with the same beats for every single song, Oh Holy Night to I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, the identical upbeat, toe tappin’ rhythm line. That’s just what I get, hubris brought low.
Readers of mrpeenee will recall my longtime friend, the artist known as Fred. Fred and I have had our ups and downs over the years but none of that mattered when two years ago he found out he had cancer. No cancer is really good but this one was particularly brutal. After a difficult struggle he overcame it. Yay. A good deal less yay was discovering, less than a year after he finished his last chemo, that the cancer had come back. That was earlier this summer and since then Fred has had a bumpy road with a couple of stays in the hospital and the ongoing bureaucratic struggles that a serious illness in America guarantees.
Over the years I’ve put up quite a few posts about him that included the words “manslaughter” and “Fred” in the same sentence, but that was all just in good humor, just for laffs. Hah. Honest. Hah hah. I hate to see the old thing go through such miserable times (WITH HIS CAT) and I really hope this helps.
Thank you, so very much.
to show my gratitude, a few choice specimens:
From the Kardashian school of Buttchops.
Why do such attractive men lean into such ugly ink?
That’s more like it.
The eponymous Tim from Timtales.com. A hero for our times.
There comes a time when you’re just overwhelmed with the desire for a grilled cheese sandwich. That time for me was Monday night. But as I was headed to the kitchen to whip up some ooey gooey cheesy goodness, I remembered how often my past attempts had wound up a little too charcoally for my taste. I thought, surely someone has mastered these and immortalized their genius somewhere on the internet.
Yes, I decided to dig up a recipe for grilled cheese sandwiches, which seems only slightly less ludicrous than a recipe for peanut butter and jelly, but I knew that I not only wanted a GCS, but the ideal GCS. Let someone else do all the trial and error and then let me follow their lead. I was willing to consider any recipe as long as it wasn’t too precious and did not involve any artisanal products or raisins. A very short Google search turned up the New York Times recipe. I was immediately impressed.
The directions were, of course, simple. Butter on one side of the bread, mayonnaise on the other, cheese in the middle, fry ’em up. But the mayonnaise part gave me pause. I recently wrote about how my DNA test had turned up the unsurprising result that I’m a white boy. I would say even more definitive than genetics would be my passion for mayonnaise. I love it and am willing to include it in any kitchen adventure except maybe ice cream. My only exception is that I don’t particularly like warm mayonnaise. No thanks. But this is the New York Times recipe, a recipe I had looked up just to follow. So, you know, trust the process.
Here’s the recipe: heat the skillet on low medium heat, spread butter on one side of the bread and mayonnaise on the other, place both slices mayonnaise side down in the skillet (I read that part at least three times before I believed what I was seeing. the mayonnaise is what cooks? Okey dokey, trust the process.) Handling the bread into the skillet was tricky; since it was greasy on both sides, I was trying to pick it up without actually touching it, but finally I got it in, got the cheese on and let it go. Once the cheese is about half melted you put one slice on the other and then flip it occasionally until done.
And you know what? It was delicious. Indeed, the definitive grilled cheese sandwich. The mayonnaise made a delicate, perfect crust that didn’t taste mayonnaise-y, the cheese was perfectly melted, and it wasn’t burnt. Consider me convinced.
perfect boys to go with the perfect sandwich:
You know what goes good with grilled cheese? Sausage.
You know what else goes good with grilled cheese? Ham.
Once again, I am distracted by decorating in the background. What is going on under that couch, are the legs metal clamps? And I’m OK with the side table actually being a tarted up old crate, but it seems to be leaning at an alarming rate.
Matthew Rush, an old favorite from before he allowed his passion for steroids to turn his face into a big round moon that buried his beautiful cheekbones. What a shame, but time is a harsh mistress.
I’m sort of short on dick pics this week, so we will just have to settle for spectacular BUTT CHOPS.
My apartment building is equipped with a closet in the lobby meant for packages. I think when it was built in 2013, packages weren’t as big a deal as they are now, but with the rise of Amazon, the closet has become a central part for all of our lives here.
On a normal day, the UPS and FedEx guys burn by, dump their parcels off in the lobby, and then, supposedly, the building’s manager will put them in the closet for the tenants to come pick up like it’s fucking Christmas every day.
I say supposedly because among the many duties our manager handles, shoveling the packages into the closet is way down on the list. Consequently, the deliveries just pile up. These drifts and dunes of boxes bother my slightly compulsive nature and so I started organizing them into the closet. It appealed to my urge to tidy things up and it also meant when I was waiting for a package I didn’t have to dig through the piles every time I went down to check.
Shortly after I took on occasionally being Mr postman, I bumped into my neighbor Andre and found out he too straightened out all the packages. He’s a real sweetheart; aside from organizing deliveries, he also waters the newly planted trees out front, and he always is good for gossip about our neighbors. Also he looks like this:
I don’t mean he resembles this picture, this is literally a picture of him. Right after I met him he told me he had been a model for Colt Studios, the gold standard of smut. Of course I immediately scurried home and looked him up.
Apparently Andre has been out of town during these holiday times, I think he knew how bad this week would be and went oon the lam to avoid it. Bright boy. The whole Black Friday Cyber Monday consumerist madness meant the packages have been coming in hot and nobody was handling them and so a couple of days ago, I had had enough and decided to just dig in and master the closet.
It’s really just one of those tasks that’s not difficult, merely onerous. Without even talking about it, Andre and I developed a system where packages are labeled with the apartment number and then organized on the shelves by floors. Envelopes that are small enough go in tubs on the floor next to the boxes that are too big to be up on the shelves.
So there I was, deep amongst the parcels bringing order out of chaos to my little OCD heart’s content. I was closing in on finishing when some unattractive youngish nerd appeared over the horizon and began to make vague noises as if he would like to get in the closet.
“I’ll be through in about 10 minutes,” I said to which he continued his hazy sounds. I surrendered and he stepped into the closet and looked around as if he had never seen cardboard before. I pointed out all the packages were organized by floors, but that didn’t seem to penetrate his fog. After he had poked around ineffectively, he announced he would call his mother and see what she had sent him. It wasn’t clear how that might help him find the package, but I was all for anything that required him to leave.
My relief was short-lived though, because he was back almost immediately. Obviously his mother was no more interested in spending time with him than I was; I felt she and I had bonded. We went through the same song and dance about how the packages were organized and where it would make sense to look. He looked around like a cat confronted with a spelling test, eventually he shuffled away and I returned to my tidying.
I was down to the very last envelopes, when who should re-appear, but the gormless wonder himself. I didn’t even wait for his murky noises, I just stepped out of the way and let him have at it again. Few things annoy me more than someone slowing me down, especially when I’m doing a good deed. While I was glaring at him, I noticed he’s one of those men who only comb the front of his hair and leave the back the way the pillow shaped it. Obviously he needed to be dragged out back and shot.
He had ducked under the shelf to have another look at the packages there. I knew from experience that it’s easy to forget about the shelf above you and straighten up only to smack your head. As I was looking at the mess of his hair in the back, I was thinking “bonk your head, bonk your head, bonk your head.” I realize that was a petty prayer to send up, but imagine my delight when that is exactly what the little schmoe did! Heeheehee.
And then he announced he’d found his package. Maybe the concussion had helped. Maybe looking at the same pile of packages 3 times was what his tiny brain needed. I congratulated him and shooed him off. He never said thank you, but watching him smack his head was gratification enough.
Imagine being the neighbor to look out their window and see that looking back.
Did you lose a contact? I’ll help you look for it.
I’m pretty sure this is another Colt model, one Steve Kelso.
I don’t understand why some people have problems with redheads, I find them irresistible.
Studious, humpy, AND tidy. What a catch.
I know it’s a little blurry, but you get the idea.
Thanksgiving dinner? Done. It went really smoothly, or as smoothly as thanksgivings ever do. I was making dinner for five friends of mine, Super Agent Fred, Hot Foot, and Drumstick and two gal pals in town from Phoenix. All of them were more than willing to help, but all of them also were snacking on edible marijuana and were a tiny bit incapacitated. I had to give instructions in small words with a very firm voice and repeat them as needed.
We had rented a very nice great big house on the other side of my neighborhood primarily because I wanted a big kitchen to work in and a nice dining room for dinner. And this place delivered, it was beautifully decorated and the kitchen was just what I wanted, spacious and well laid out.
Anytime you’re working in a strange kitchen, figuring out where all the pieces are is the biggest hurdle. When we first all settled in on Tuesday, I set my little army of loaded elves to helping me inventory what I had to work with. It was like a scavenger hunt, I would call out what I was looking for and they would dig through drawers and cabinets to find them. Pretty much everything I wanted was there, except, oddly enough, whisks. What kind of cooks can make do with no whisks? They did however have 8 corkscrews. Hmmm.
Wednesday I made cornbread dressing and potatoes Dauphinois, which is just peeled and sliced potatoes simmered in half and half and then baked. Ooh, so good. Thanksgiving itself was just the turkey and gravy. I braised a turkey breast and drumsticks this time and if I ever have to make one again that is definitely the way to go. Although the drumsticks were gigantic; they looked like ostrich or at least kiwi legs. If they really were turkey, they had obviously been mutated.
Every time you embark on a complicated cooking attempt, you have to accept that at least one thing is going to bomb. Oddly enough this time it was the cornbread dressing, which is so easy to make, it’s practically foolproof, but nothing can resist being left in the oven a tad too long. Oops. I decided to write it off as just the sacrifice the Thanksgiving gods require. We ate it, it was just sort of crispy. Aside from that I was very pleased with everything, so why I keep focusing on the one thing that didn’t work out is simply an insight into my warped little psyche.
Hot Foot and Drumstick made an apple pie and it was pretty much the platonic ideal of one. Flawless. Delicious. The only problem was that there was only one of them.
I’m glad that’s over. By the end of the evening I felt like I had been dragged behind a speeding car. We had an early night and I when I got home I took a shower and collapsed into bed and didn’t wake up until midnight the next day. I think this very well may be my swan song of making a Thanksgiving feast. The setting and food were ideal this time, the drama was low-key to the point of being negligible, and I didn’t hurt my back (which has happened plenty of times before) so I think I will retire on a high note. Remind me of that next fall.
boys for whom I am grateful:
Tonight’s post is brought to you by ButtChops.
Daddy dude, for all those pushy Chaturbate queens.
I already miss summer, even if I never go to the beach anymore.
We give thanks for meat.
Oh my goodness.
This guy, whom I always refer to as “This guy” because I suppose I will never learn his name.
So I was all prepared to put up a snappy little post whining about how I hate winter’s early twilights. And let me be clear, I am still plenty annoyed about them, I don’t care if they are simply a part of the way the world works, when suddenly my griping was sideswiped by our dear Diane von Austinburg announcing she has come down with COVID and will not be able to join us for Thanksgiving.
I mostly am not happy about her sickliness. Except for her dodgy knees, Diane is one of those tough old Texas gals that just keeps on going. To have her sidelined by this stupid plague, especially since she has avoided it all this time, troubles me.
Also if you’re fortunate enough to have an old friend with whom you can happily share cooking duties, then Thanksgiving is your holiday. A time centered on eating is when you need to deliver on the food products. Diane is one of the few people I can cohabit a kitchen with and having her shoulder some of the duties is nothing short of a blessing.
Diane and I also share a nerdly fondness for making lists. Putting together something as complicated as a Thanksgiving dinner requires reams of lists. We have been known to make lists of lists we need to make. Fabulous. It’s very handy having someone there to ask “did you put stock on the grocery list?” To which you can reply, “I absolutely did,” And then you sneak back to the list to add stock because you absolutely did not. Turns out the real treasure are the lists we made along the way.
Let me clue you in on a mrpeenee secret: when I am unhappy, I will repair to the shower and standing under the blasto hot water I will let loose with this odd ululating noise. It’s not exactly a moan, although moaning is an element of it, it’s more like the cry a cat makes when he’s frustrated. If you’ll excuse me now, I need to go take a shower.
guys I wish I was in the shower with RIGHT NOW:
You know how fond I am of guys whose entire vocabulary consists of “Duh.”
Doesn’t this guy look like he smells good?
Thanksgiving weighs on my mind enough that I looked at this photo and thought, “That cutting board is too small to be very useful.”
Surely, he has no trouble getting passes made at him.
Core strengthening exercises are always a good idea.
Not naked, but so pretty.
I always consider ham for thanksgiving, but my guests always demand turkey.
Speaking of demanding, Mikey from Chaturbate put in a demand recently for a hairy model. The nerve! Anyway, here, Trevor LaPaglia, my newest fascination:
If you would also like to forward your suggestion for a naked guy, please feel free to go start your own damn blog.
I like baking mostly because the best way to have baked goods available for the snacking is to bake them myself. Mmmm, homemade cakes, I love them, but nobody stepped up to make them but me. I was thinking earlier this evening that I was all out of any deliciousness, and I was trying to come up with what I could bake with the ingredients I had at hand. I know that is the contrived basis for a number of crappy cooking shows, but it turns out it shows up in real life as well.
I had made pound cakes a couple of times in the last month so I didn’t want to go that route, I had blueberries so I was thinking about maybe little blueberry tarts, but as I was staring into the refrigerator, a tub of vanilla yogurt caught my eye and I suddenly remembered I loved buttermilk pie. Buttermilk pie is an old-timey southern favorite which doesn’t get enough love mostly because it requires buttermilk, oddly enough, and who has that tangy dairy oddity hanging around? And that’s where vanilla yogurt came in since it nicely replicates the sour twang of b-milk. I had all the other ingredients already, I even had a refrigerated ready-made pie crust so I didn’t have to crank one out myself. I have made plenty of pie crusts in my time and done a good job of it, but these pre-made ones are perfectly tender and tasty and I am more than glad to skip that step.
The pie is nothing more then a custard made with our old friend buttermilk and custards are easy as a gogo boy when rent is due. I knocked out the filling, put it in the pie shell, popped it in the oven and decided to Google how you tell when a custard pie is done. While I have made custards beyond count, this was the first pie one I’ve ever been involved with and I thought some tips about when to take it out would be helpful.
This was one of those times when Google actually provides too much information, all of it contradictory. There were YouTube videos demonstrating how jiggly the center should be, but none of them looked the same. The time estimated and the heat of the oven were all over the map. The recipe I was using called for an hour so I decided to just go with that, but when I checked at 50 minutes it was awfully firm And so I took it out and it’s now cooling.
This is one of those time machine posts where I’m writing in my present but will check the pie in the future and will report on it then and you’ll read about what happened in your past. Stay tuned.
LATER: I had a taste, it’s still too warm to cut, but since I’m the only one who will see it, I didn’t mind scooping out a spoonful, in the interest of accurate reporting. It is just as delicious as I had hoped, luscious and smooth. My only concern is that I sprinkled the nutmeg with slightly too heavy a hand, but that’s all. It is REALLY rich and so I will have to attack it in small portions, but that just means it will last longer. Who could complain?
boys who are also luscious:
I know he’s not naked, but he was just too pretty to pass up. Quit complaining.
Presenting This Week’s Goony Boy.
My, my. Gingers. My, my.
Pretty boys in a hotel room are always a favorite here at mrpeenee, Inc.
Is my fondness for foreskins due to the fact I lack one? We’ll never know.
I already miss summer.
This guy was working the porn shoots back in the 80s, when this picture is from. I don’t know where he might be now, but I’m sure he isn’t this pretty no more.
Sometimes vinyl upholstery is simply the way to go. Preventative measures and all that.