In Which We Travel

Standard

So what has that lovable scamp, mrpeenee, been up to? In an extremely unlikely turn I decided I wanted a vacation, a trip to far away places, or, at least, Texas. And so a week later I was chowing down on some excellent enchiladas with Diane von Austinburg in Old Austin town.

It was a wonderful little vacation, and by that I mean that no one required me to do anything. I’ve come to realize other people travel in order to master some mountain or expand their horizons or improve themselves in some way. I just go sleep in some other bed. And I am here to report the beds in the Hotel Zaza in Austin are first rate.

And it’s a good thing they were since I felt sick and sort of zombie-fied the first couple of days I was there. The only seats available on the flight there were in the very first row where the bulkhead is close enough to the seating that I couldn’t stretch my legs out. By the time we got to Austin I felt like my backbone had been yanked out and stuffed back in the wrong way around. But that passed, thank you substantial naps, and I was able to indulge my passion for Mexican food. Oh such excellent enchiladas. Diane and I cooked at her place one night and guess what we made? ENCHILADAS. I love traveling with a theme.

So that was pretty much it, naps and Mexican food, the perfect vacation. We also went to an exhibit at the Blanton art museum. The show was kind of a disappointment, but the museum’s collection of contemporary art is first rate. I loved it. They have a very strong suite of mid-century abstract paintings each of which is a masterpiece and the way they’re displayed together is brilliant.

I had a wonderful time, thanks to Diane for being the consummate hostess and for putting up with my lollygagging ways.

Men I might travel far for:

You know my weakness for dopey looking kids with big whackers.

Also, my weakness for big, meaty foreskins you can pinch. Heehee

Today’s post is brought to you by dopey looking guys. It’s a theme.

Ooh, a very rare blonde daddy.

Satiny skin, always a favorite.

Not a brain in his head. Do you care? I certainly don’t care.

In Which We Get Low Down

Standard

AT last, my secret shame must be told; I was a teenage tubist.

It’s true, as a child, I played tuba. 7 years in junior high and high school. I started out on the French horn but was so bad they transferred me to the lowest basses, which are sort of the slow kid of the orchestra. “How bad can he be?” was the logic. Turns out, pretty bad.

I never learned how to read music. I know what the individual notes represent and what the sundry symbols and notations mean and what the time of the piece is and all that other esoterica, I just never figured out how to put it all together to be a song. Instead, I was able to teach myself how to play by ear. That might sound impressive, but in the world of school bands, it’s simply means you’re very much the short bus kid. It was rather like copying all your answers.

I didn’t mind, I enjoyed playing and my lack was not really apparent once I got one of the other guys to play the piece for me so I could imitate it. The few occasions when everyone else would be sight reading something, I would hold the horn up and move the valves like I was playing and just not blow any air through. I was lip syncing tuba.

The nadir of the experience each year was when we would audition for what chair we would hold. It would get to be my turn and I would cheerfully make some random noises and they would roll their eyes and put me in last chair, which pretty much had my name on it by the time I graduated.

This was sort of the first indication I had of how happy I would be leading a wastrel’s life. Lack of ambition and talent? Oh that would be mrpeenee over there at the end of the row. I would always have the rhythm of the song down pat and would never be out of tune so just listening to our section, you’d never really be able to tell I didn’t have the faintest idea of what was going on. Also, let me point out I scored an A in the class every year.

The only drawback to this happy state of affairs was the band director, Mr. Forque. What a Nazi that dick was. He demanded absolute dedication above any of your other schoolwork, and he got it, turning the band into a cult. He just ignored me, but he had a vile temper and would turn bright red when he screamed at everyone. The year after I graduated, his wife dumped him for screwing a student named Kathy, a sweet girl who was the first chair trumpet and a year younger than me. The school quietly shuffled him out and I believe they married.

A few years ago, Albert, who had been first chair tuba and the diametric opposite to me the entire time we were in school together, looked me up while he was in San Francisco and we went out to lunch. I was getting ready to launch into a assault on Mr Forque and what a blight he was, but Albert, sensing where the conversation was headed, cut me off to effuse over what a mentor the man had been to him, the father he had never had. Sort of cut my chat gambit right off. And no matter how discreetly I tried to dig up details about the Forque/Kathy scandal, he would not bite. Can you imagine how disappointed I was? Crushed sweetie, absolutely crushed.

Amazingly, Albert wound up returning to our high school after he graduated college as the new band director and apparently made a career of it there. Our 50th high school reunion is looming next summer and I’m planning to attend. Plenty of the kids I went to school with stayed in that miserable, nasty little town and I’m sure they have plenty of dirt about that Forque fucker and I plan on tracking down every grain that’s available.

guys whose horn I’d like to blow:

It’s too hot to write captions.

Besides, pictures like this pretty much write their own caption.

In Which We Are Appropriated

Standard

Let me share my outrage with you, yet again. Our story begins in New Orleans in 1985. Homogay mrpeenee is busy leading a happy, quiet homogay life when his puny attention is snagged by a snappy tune called Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat.

And what a brilliant song it is. It’s the story of a young gay man thrown out of his home because he’s queer, everything he owns “in a little black bag” after already experiencing ostracism and gay bashing. Even those of us lucky enough to have avoided that extreme when we came out could still identify with the pain and the alienation and the fury in that song. Plus it had a really rockin beat.

The singer, Jimmy Somerville, is a role model, fierce and furious and pissed off and not willing to take any shit. He’s a humpy, short redhead (I’ve always had a weakness for them) and his videos dancing around to his music are very appealing, but the message in his songs was for his gay brothers to demand to live our lives unafraid. FUCK TOLERANCE, I DO NOT WANT TO BE TOLERATED. Oops, sorry, I got carried away.

Anyway. Try to imagine my feelings when Super Agent Fred sent me a video of Smalltown Boy covered by some yahoo, Marcus Layton. I’m not including it here because I don’t want it to get even a single more view. The cover is so unoriginal it might as well have been karaoke. The video itself is a classic of the “My cousin has a camera” with abrupt quick cuts of bland youth rollicking around some parking garage with a boosted grocery cart: urban but not too urban, we don’t want to have to mess with any riff raff. It is stripped of any politics in the original and it includes heterosexual humping just to rub salt in the disco wound.

Did anyone involved in this production ever listen to the original, could they have possibly understood the lyrics? Or did they just hear a song they liked, downloaded the lyrics from Google, and recorded their own stupid Brady Bunch cover.

I worry that some people vaguely think the struggle for gay equality is over, that somehow, the right to marry means that The Gays won and now we all can go back to not worrying. I got news for you. In living memory there was a time when simply being gay was illegal, not merely frowned upon or socially awkward. It was against the law and you could go to jail. Not just in some bum fuck rural outlier, but in London and New York. I worry that young people, young queers, think the fight is now about the right pronouns and including the right colors on the right flag. Our living an out life is not inalienable. A Supreme Court Justice recently included, in a draft decision for the court, the suggestion that attacking gay legal rights would be just peachy keen with him.

The kind of appropriation this cover represents, where the queer context of the song is erased, shows how easy it would be, in small encroaching ways, to shove us back into the good old days closet. Just like women and abortion, I can’t believe we’re still fighting this fight. Oh well. At least we know the words to the song.

Smalltown boys, naked edition:

Love them big boys.

You need to get out of the sun, baby.

Dappled.

It’s the peak of beachy weather. At least it is if you’re not living in San Francisco where it remains chilly.

oh, my dudes, I forgot to mention, on July 25, that it was the 15th anniversary of my little blog. Yay.

This seems to have been the first dick pic I published, from August 25, 2007. Another anniversary.

That first year, when I was much more apparently energetic, I cranked out fifty-four posts in one month.

I’m pretty sure I couldn’t think of 54 words now.

In Which We Recall a Legend

Standard

August 17th is the 30th anniversary of the death of Al Parker, the definitive gay porn icon. Parker claim to have invented the so-called Castroclone look so popular for gay men in the late ’70s; a fashion statement that included motorcycle boots, flannel shirts or t-shirts, and tight Levi jeans worn with no underwear the better to flaunt one’s junk. That was really the point of the look, everything else was just a frame. People would sand down the crotch to show off their bulge. If we could have contrived a neon arrow pointing towards it, I’m sure someone would have. Forty years later and I still see gay geezers tottering around the neighborhood cosplaying Al Parker.

He was a beautiful man with a big dick. In any culture, that is a winning combination, for gay men it is the jackpot. But in addition to his meat bonanza, he had beautiful big brown eyes, a luscious beard, chiseled cheekbones, and did I mention he was packing a hog?

I read his autobiography even though it was a challenge to get through. His writing was flat and he skipped over the most interesting details. Any autobiography is part truth and part bullshit; you could recognize when you got to a bullshit portion because he would suddenly try to write in a florid, descriptive style that completely missed. He claimed to have attended Woodstock and spent the entire time in a tricked out hearse with some Tom of Finland-esque biker. There were other flights of fantasy but I prefer to forget and forgive them.

I actually saw him once shortly after we moved here to San Francisco. He was driving through the Castro and I was on the sidewalk, we made eye contact and he drove on. I was thrilled. That was more than 30 years ago and I still am thrilled.

His real contribution to gay culture was through his porn. His films were an important part of the transition from furtive smut filled with homely hustlers to the dirty movies that helped inform gay men that they could be masculine and attractive and not ashamed. For that, I think we all owe him a debt and we should remember him, and is great big fat cock, fondly.

Some other fine examples of the Al Parker archetype:

A cowboy one for my niece Amber.

This guy, who shows up here a lot, but can you possibly have to much of him?

Arty and thick.

Parker’s work lead the way for smut featuring attractive leads like this youth, whose name eludes me.

Al Parker greatly regretted being circumcised, to the point that he tried, unsuccessfully to reverse it.

Big dicks. I, for one, always say yes, please.

In Which We Go to the Movies

Standard

Fans and friends of Mikey (aka Pussy Pants Bitch Boy) a few years ago formed the Chaturbate Sunday Night Movie Society so that we could all watch films online together the better to critique and bitch about them via text. It’s been very amusing, even the dogs, and there have been some real canines that we’ve been stuck with, but also some really great movies I wouldn’t have otherwise seen.

One of the things I’ve been struck by is something that might be called the new A list buddy movie. These are projects that pair a couple of important male movie stars that bicker and spar much like Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant in classic screwball comedies, the difference being the Hepburn/Grant pairing resulted in cinema jewels while these new buddy movies are almost universally crap.

A partial list:

Tom Holland and Mark Wahlberg in Uncharted

Dwayne Johnson and Ryan Reynolds in Red Notice

Ryan Gosling and Chris Evans in The Gray Man

Ryan Reynolds and Samuel L Jackson in The Hitman’s Bodyguard

Channing Tatum, Brad Pitt, and Daniel Radcliffe (a rare three-way) in The Lost City

Charlie Hunnam and Mel Gibson in Last Looks

And those are just the ones off the top of my head; I feel like there’s other contenders for this list but it’s possible my mind just erased them in order to deal with cinematic PTSD.

All of these also have some nominal female lead, but in general she is so secondary to the action and focus she might as well be CGI. Of course there have always been buddy movies, but these seem to have upped the ante when it comes to the casts with both leads being much more major stars.

What’s sad about almost all of these is what dreadful movies they are. Really talented actors, enormous special effects budgets, fabulous locations: none of it can overcome the gibberish of a storyline that is more hole than plot and actors who are so obviously bored with their roles they might as well have been playing Candy Crush during the filming.

I suppose the idea of casting a pair such bankable leads was probably generated by the studios algorithms, certainly the scripts seem to have been written by some other algorithm and not a very good one at that. In some ways it’s infuriating to see so much money wasted. We’ve enjoyed much more several small movies whose total budgets probably wouldn’t have covered the coffee tab for these behemoth flops.

Men I’d like to be buddies with:

Choke that chicken

Maybe it’s PhotoShop, maybe it’s Maybelline.

No wonder my phone bill is so high.

Beefy

Next to godliness.

A cowboy for Amber.

Goodness me.

I refuse to make some stupid “Batter up….” joke.

In Which We Are Crippled. Again

Standard

I went over to Secret Agent Fred’s place this evening and hung out with the dear old thing yucking it up and discussing the decline in porn quality the 21st century has brought. As I was leaving, I strode confidently down the five steps in his lobby only to discover there were, in fact, six steps which caused me to go tumbling through space and come to Earth less than gracefully.

It is a testimony to my vanity that immediately on landing I thought “Thank god nobody saw that,” even before I had time to see if anything was damaged. Once I was able to turn my attention to my frail bag of bones, I let out a ladylike cry of “Fucking fuck, that fucking hurt.”

I had somehow managed to land on both my right ankle and my left knee. I can only imagine it must have looked like some kind of figure skating technique gone horribly wrong. As I later mentioned to my old chum Brain, that meant that I couldn’t even limp properly. My knee is now purple and my ankle is swollen, or maybe it’s the other way around; I don’t even want to look to make sure.

This is just one more salvo in the ongoing campaign my own body has against me as I plow further into old age. In an earlier, simpler time, I might have emerged from this disaster shaken, but not actually mangled. It is only as the years go by that my fuselage has become so fragile. I get out of bed and my voyage to the toilet is a symphony of cracks and pops. I sound like a basket of kindling being thrown down the stairs, like a rhythm section warming up. Listen to me children, you do not want to get old. Kill yourself now, it’s the only sensible option.

I think I need a squadron of humpy young men to take care of me in my declining years. Guys like this maybe:

Sometimes a nice, hot bath is the only answer.

You cannot hide that from me, I have had too much experience tracking dicks down.

Buttchops like this need to be squeezed. Lovingly.

Put that phone down and come over here.

Goodness me, his butt is so massive, you can only tell he is wearing panties by seeing the image in the mirror.

Sometimes I choose to include Crimes of PhotoShop because they re so ludicrously amusing.

The Chaturbate gang and I are planning on watching a movie called Glorious, a horror movie centered on a glory hole. I think that’s a brilliant idea; every time I stuck my dick through one, I would briefly think “Is this the time the serial killer is going to bite off my wiener?”

I always liked sort of sweet, homely guys, especially if they came equipped with a big ol’ fat fatty.

Here’s another one. Mmmmm, meaty.

In Which We Stare Into The Void And The Void Puts On Googly Eyes And Stares Back

Standard

Okay this is so very not easy for me, but here goes. When I was 10 years old my brother, who was 8, was accidentally electrocuted right in front of me and died. I can’t explain how difficult it is for me publicly discuss that. After he died, my family never ever, not once, mentioned his name again. I absorbed that and lived my life with an enormous scar inside that I never spoke of. R Man and I were together for years before I told him; I’ve known Diane von Austinburg since 1978 and I only mentioned it to her last year.

I’ve decided recently that that behavior was just not healthy (duh) and that I could actually speak about him and the circumstances of his death without it being a crisis. I don’t regard it as a topic of conversation, but if it’s appropriate I’m trying to no longer reflexively avoid it either.

So here’s the point, the last time my friend the Fashion Sensation was visiting, we were discussing our siblings and in general yucking it up, but I decided I would tell her the whole sad story of my baby brother. She got a very distraught look on her face and said when she was 10 years old, her 8-year-old brother was accidentally electrocuted right in front of her and died. That sort of derailed the initial conversation, but did open up a whole new fascinating line of chat.

While it certainly was interesting to realize I have a good friend who understands so clearly the PTSD that a 10-year-old child can suffer and then live with the rest of his life, the whole Twilight Zone aspect of it was unsettling, to say the least. Was it proof of parallel universes? Mmmmmaybe. It also makes me wonder what other revelations I have missed by keeping the fucked up pain of his death bottled up like pus inside me.

And now, naked guys. Because I’m tired of this trauma being a boulder I have to push uphill while simultaneously ignoring it. It is what it is and what it is is simply a part of my life. I’m trying to get on and maybe naked guys help with that, OK?

If there had been even a little of this in the gyms I went to, I would still be going.

A paragon indeed.

Our dear chum Mikey from Chaturbate complimented me on increasing the number of naked guys in last week’s post, so I will be continuing to crank out extra dick pics. Gotta give the customers what they want, amirite? Let me know if it’s too much.

I hadn’t realized Austin Wolf (a long time fave) is so much bigger than Francois Sagat (another favorite) or maybe Francois is smaller. Whatever.

Love pricks that look like they go “sproing” when you slap them.

I know it’s miserably hot, but go outside and play.

I love showers outside when it’s hot.

Well, that’s serious.

Thicc, as the kids say nowadays. Do they still say that?

In Which We Become Comfortably Numb

Standard

I always knew that hussy Diane von Austinburg was a bad influence. While she was here visiting, she wanted to go down the street to the very schmancy pot store so I went with her just to make sure she didn’t get in trouble. You know how she is.

The store is very luxe, with the decor sort of modernized Victorian whorehouse. All the staff are very attentive and serious, like pot sommeliers. I hadn’t really intended to buy anything, but they were so earnest, I wound up shopping. The guy who was waiting on me listened to my requests for something that wouldn’t get me too loaded with much more attention than my doctor pays to my rambling description of symptoms.

I should mention when Diane and I were attending the University of Texas I was a great big ol’ pothead and my goal when smoking dope then was to get as obliterated as possible. I gave up on marijuana a few years later because I was tired of being stoned stupid. Then somewhere in the late ’90s, R Man discover the wonders of medical marijuana. I tried it a few times, but it was much too strong for little me. I approached this new bacchanalia of the marijuana boutique with that in mind, and was determined to not get so blasted as I had been with R Man’s.

And yet, even with my newfound discretion, I looked up later that evening from playing Yahtzee with Diane and SuperAgent Fred and realized “Whoops.” That’s the thing about edible pot, It takes a while to come on and then when it does, it tiptoes up and smacks you in the head.

All in all, I’d give my new dope experience a qualified thumbs up. It’s more effective than the dirt weed I knew so well in my youth, but not so overwhelming as R Man’s industrial strength stuff. I have a tin of mints now and I’ve tried them a couple of times since Diane was here luring me down the primrose pot path. Each time they take so long to have effect, I wind up forgetting I took any and suddenly find myself once again in the now familiar “whoops” territory. That’s not bad particularly, and it reminds me of a saying from my old dope days: “Time your drugs or your drugs will time you.” So true, so true.

Guys:

You’re really cute daddy, but your panties look dyslectic.

I tried doing my yoga one evening after chowing down on some pot mints. I kept getting distracted.

This guy is pretty distracting too.

I don’t know what office he’s in, but it certainly is an argument against work from home.

Apparently, his name is Scott Cullens, in case you want to run out and do some research.

More of Scott Cullens, because I am feeling the love.

Also, our old friend Philipe Soulier.

Pavel Patel, the late and much lamented Russian beauty and queer agitator.

In Which We Appreciate the Neighborhood

Standard

There’s a long held tradition in San Francisco that every 4th of July the fog rolls in just in time to obscure all the fireworks. What we’re left with are vague bursts of color up in the fog and random booms. This year was no exception.

One of the charms about San Francisco is its stubborn streak of anti authoritarianism. It shows up this time of year by all the “illegal” fireworks around town, especially in the neighborhood called the Mission. I think those fireworks are much more charming than the official ones; they don’t go up as high so they’re not lost in the fog and because they’re shot off in people’s backyards, they spread out all over the landscape, popping up and glittering and then another one blocks away will shoot up.

My building is in a charming elbow of town that is sort of the transition between the Castro neighborhood and the Mission neighborhood, on a rise slightly higher than the Mission. That means that our our roof deck has the best view possible of those illegal fireworks.

I know this is a mediocre picture of the wild west show of fireworks I was talking about (because really, who ever gets good shots of rockets red glare?) but the fireworks aren’t actually the point of this picture. I was struck last night looking down at it by how much I just love my little neighborhood.

This block that you see is an example of my favorite kind of San Francisco streetscape; most of the buildings are late 19th century or very early 20th century with a few newer ones scattered in just to rescue it from being too precious. Of course, being San Francisco, even the tiniest and shabbiest of them is worth some multi-million dollar obscenity, but still, very sweet to me.

The New York Times just had a story about the impending death of gay neighborhoods in America, including the Castro. It’s true and it’s no surprise to me, I see it coming every time I step out the door. The decline started in the 80s with AIDS and the death of so many of the men who had turned a frumpy but well located neighborhood into a destination. Straight people flocked in, “Thanks for making the hood so attractive and appealing; please use the back door on your way out.” Besides AIDS, reasons included everything from babies for gays to Grindr, but really the die is cast. I’m just glad I got to squeak in here at the very end.

Guys I’d like to squeak in with

A big smile and a big dick. It doesn’t get any better.

Love ’em when they are in the last vestige of softness so you can still play with them before getting down to business.

I sort of think I have featured this guy and his massive meat recently, but who’s complaining?

Summertime always seems the best time for blondes.

In Which Things Don’t Go According to Plan

Standard

Diane von Austinburg blew in town last week and we had a wonderful time visiting. Spending time with the old dear is always one of my favorite things to do but this was an unusually amusing vacation, and for the oddest reason: absolutely nothing we planned worked out. Tea at neiman’s, Diane’s attempt at a trip up north, even something as simple as a Thai lunch, nothing came to fruition. There were lots of random reasons, all the way up to and including my genius at sleeping through an alarm, but it all came down to “oops.” And yet we both agreed it was one of the best times we’ve had together.

We hung out a lot with Super Agent Fred, making dinner here and then playing Yahtzee and Boggle. It might not have been the fast-paced life I fantasized about as a youth, but it was very pleasant. I was having an unusually bad patch with my back ache and I was pretty much not up for anything more demanding than that.

During one of those evenings, Diane looked out the window and announced that some guy was either attacking a palm tree out front or was attempting to assassinate one of my neighbors. We had both been trying out various edible marijuana delicacies from the fancy pot store up the street so I felt comfortable explaining that she was crazy.

Of course it turned out she was not crazy (she so rarely is) and instead, the city had decided to prune the palm trees late at night for some reason. I mentioned in a post earlier how unhappy I was with the sickly sycamores out front of my building and how glad I was when they finally got their justly deserved axe, but I haven’t discussed the charming palm trees in the middle of Market Street here. Or they were charming until the city got the wacky idea that whacking their fronds off would help in some way. In much the same way as someone cutting their own hair while drunk, as it turned out.

I don’t know if these guys didn’t know what they were doing or were pruning with their eyes closed or both, but oh dear, all of the poor palms look the same raggedly chopped, uneven, and sort of crazy, much like the homeless guys underneath them. Why on earth would the city do such a dreadful job of maintaining these beauties.  Do you know how much a palm this big is worth?  A buttload, that’s how much.

Guys, naked.

“Oh, I’m just hangin out with my big ol whacker. You know….”

Take your coat off and stay a while.

Today’s Naked Guys are brought to you by the letter Dick.

Fresh-faced and stiff. My, my, my.

I love boys with that blank, dumb look that says more clearly than words, “I will suck your dick until cum shoots out my ears.”

Meanwhile, back in the locker room….