In Which mrpeenee Brings You Tales of Old Age and Terror

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As I crossed over the threshold into old age, I realized, with great annoyance, that while my head hair has retreated into non-existence, my pubic hair has continued to thrive. Wispy, straggly, and long-ass long, it exists solely to irritate me. I could braid it if the whim so moved me. It creeps me out. I am concerned that eventually it will get tangled up in my shoelaces and then where will I be?

So occasionally I break out the pruning shears and lop off the top. I’m not shooting for some kind of manscaping, I just want the mess to look less like something out of a Lovecraft story. Eldritch pubes, that’s what I got.

I also don’t try for anything fancy or too close to the boys, cause I am not crazy. And yet, and yet…. You can see where this is going, can’t you? Yes, tonight I nipped my nutsack.

I’ll pause here to let my male readers unclench. Fortunately, or as fortunate as that situation can get, it was no big deal. I didn’t castrate myself, the skin just got caught in the scissors and caused a tiny, little cut. It didn’t even really hurt, just a sharp pinch. It is possible I screamed like a little girl, a little girl who has just pecked the ball bag, but if ever there was a screamy moment, it was that.

But oh baby jeebus, did it bleed. Reminiscent of one of those chocolate fountains at some pretentious buffet. It turns out your man pouch is thickly covered in veins. Why? So that when you cut your nuts, your melodramatics are justified. The bathroom wound up looking like a set from a slasher movie and my testicles are now sporting a band aid.

Okay, so maybe this is difficult reading, or at least it is for those readers equipped with low hanging fruit. Maybe they are slightly pale around the lips, possibly light-headed. Sorry. Did you want a widdle trigger warning? Suck it up. I’m the one with my poor little huevos bleeding. I suppose this exemplifies the difference between empathy and sympathy.

Guys with unnipped nuts:

Watch out where you’re slinging that blade, buddy.

Maybe I should look into waxing.

Thick

What a piece of work is man.

I really hope this is not PhotoShop; it would reinforce my belief in god.

Speaking of god….

In Which We Celebrate an Anniversary

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Happy anniversary to our dear chum and Chaturbate sweetheart, Mikey. October 1st marks Mikey’s 7th anniversary entertaining the masses. My impression is that chat room models do not, in general, have a long run so Mikey’s stint is pretty impressive.

And those of us who count ourselves as his fan base are plenty glad he has stuck it out. Afterall, he’s muscly, big dicked, and so good looking with those huge, beautiful eyes. Amazingly, he’s also sweet, sweet, sweet. Come for the tits and stay for the disposition, that’s what we say.

I like to think this fan club/impromptu therapy group has played a part in his longevity. The small Eastern European town Mikey lives in does not have a terribly vibrant gay scene. Queer life does not add a lot of color to the local landscape. So I think we regulars provide him with a connection to an otherwise unavailable homo universe. Yay for us.

I also think it must have taken a lot of courage for a boy in that situation to make the leap to performing dick dances for strangers on the internet. Please join me in toasting Mikey for having the balls (and such lovely plump balls they are, too) to take that plunge and for continuing to charm all of us.

Anniversary presents for Mikey. And for you, too.

Anthony Varrecchia, cause Mikey is all about hairy old daddies.

And Pete Kuzak, cause Mikey is also all about big muscle meat.

Dimitri Averyanov, cause it’s my damn blog.

Max Warner, cause yeah baby.

Some anonymous guy, cause I’ve decided I don’t care about the crimes of PhotoShop.

Trevor Adams, cause sometimes having everything is just enough.

Mr. Sundial again, cause this is one of my favorite pictures of all time.

This guy, who’s name I forget, cause.

In Which We Collect Just a Little More

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Perhaps you remember mrpeenee’s unparalleled collection of aluminum plates, platters and other serving pieces. The fact it is unparalleled mostly because no one else is interested in what is essentially decorative debris is neither here nor there, and I do wish you would stop bringing it up.

The collection. Some of it, anyway.

.Thirty years ago, I got tired of not being able to afford any of the cool stuff in my thrift store prowlings and so I started collecting these. Mostly because they were cheap, but also because no thrift store, no matter how crappy, would fail to have at least one or two pieces.

My limit initially was that nothing could cost more than three bucks. After a while I raised that to $5, but even that allowed me to bring home so many of them eventually R man threatened to put them all out on the curb and me with them. That was probably 15 years ago and honestly, even I realized I had plenty enough. But when I moved to this apartment and mounted them all up on the wall, I wound up with a couple of odd bald spots that could use filling. And so I turned to Google to track down a few more bits.

Almost the very first result was some junk store trying to unload 13 pieces of the very finest examples of aluminum junk. That was more than I had in mind, BUT three of them were exactly the right size and two others were such interesting specimens I couldn’t pass them up so I bought the whole lot.

So here they are. The really interesting ones are the small basket with a handle and made of pierced metal and the other is a tiny silent butler.

Silent butlers. Sssh.

Silent butlers were an invention to help hostesses deal with mess on tabletops. You would rake up all the crumbs littering the cloth and dump them into your silent butler and then close the lid to keep all the garbage from flying back out. You could also empty ashtrays that way.

Also, coasters, cause aluminum coasters are so very practical. Most aluminum pieces feature very realistic botanical art, in this case, each coaster is a tiny CABBAGE. I am in love.

So there. I really am through collecting them now. Really. What few oddball spots there were are now filled and I have no more excuses for any more aluminumania. My decision has nothing to do with them being no longer easy to find or certainly easy to afford. Should the aluminum hostessware industrial complex call, tell them I’m out of the game.

Guys I’d like to collect:

What, does he charge by the pound?

In Which We Talk Like a Pirate

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Avast!  We here at mrpeenee, Inc.  would like to remind you to get yerself a Polly, prepare to be boarded,  blow me down, surrender your booty and walk the longarm, September 19 is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

talklikeapirate.com/

The piratical Frank Vickers of Colt Studios fame.

I went hunting for illustrations for the happy holiday, and was shocked and disappointed by how little gay pirate porn there is out there. A lot of it is animation, like this charming effort.

Then there is this ooh-la-la, over dressed bitch, but I do like his color coordination.

Definitely Pirates.

I forget this guy’s name, but he used to toil in the fields of smut for Kristen Bjorn’s studio. Also, he’s wearing pirate boots. Like I said, there wasn’t much to pick from.

In the Pink

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Bad news, wankers. Dusty Rose, that insipid shade of pink that is the bane of my decorating existence, is making yet another return. How many comebacks can one color get? It’s like the Cher of the paint world.

I remember in the ’80s when it teamed up with teal to become an indomitable juggernaut of the suburban moms’ home and garden magazines and then it reappeared as one of the cornerstones of Golden Girls home stylin’. Less than a decade ago, it popped up as Pantone’s color of the year for 2016. I suppose they had run through all the synonyms for “beige.” And now here it is, filling my Tumblr feed as the color of choice for various insipid homemakers who apparently want to recreate their dorm room. One can only assume they did insufficient drugs in their college experience.

I don’t mind pink, I actually like it, but more lively, happening shades, like the psychedelic hot pink of azaleas. This wishy-washy bland pink that no Barbie in her right mind would ever choose, leaves me cold. Why bother? If you can’t be shocking pink, what’s the point?

Guys who are many things, but not insipid:

So, I’m sorry I’ve been sort of AWOL. I was terribly busy being lazy.

Lanky

Please don’t point out that is not really Henry Caville. I know, I know, but who cares?

Have you ever seen such beautiful clear skin?

If you’re going to drink out of the bottle, at least don’t dribble. Honestly.

Everybody’s having a good time.

Take Time for Cake Time

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This is live reporting of me baking, coming to you hot from my kitchen. The screams are from some crazed street guy outside sharing his demons with the world. Because that’s what life in America’s most expensive city is like.

First step is to go take a little lie down while the oven heats up. It’s important to conserve your energy. Also Doritos, so I don’t perish from hunger.

it’s a bundt cake so I’m making it in a bundt pan. Duh. What makes it a bunt pan is all the flutes and ridges and creases that make for such a lovely cake, but which are a bitch to butter and flour. My solution? A vinyl glove, some soft butter and go to town.

Step two is to pick tunes for the evening. It’s critical to keep your spirits up. YouTube music algorithm has offered me Pink Floyd’s comfortably numb, which just shows how nailed down that algorithm has me. It’s one of my favorite songs ever, a jolly little tune about madness and dealing with psychosis with one of the world’s great guitar solos in the middle. Realizing they have me on the hook, YouTube is now serving up the rest of the Wish You Were Here album. It would be a dark and sad universe where I would protest listening to Pink Floyd.

If you don’t sift the ingredients are you really even baking? Now we combine the liquid ingredients. YouTube has now moved past old Allman Brothers (all right with me) and on to Dark Side of the Moon. Is there a more perfect album? No, no there is not.

as I put the cake in the oven, removed onto 90s disco, this algorithm seems to be sort of psychic. It would be more alarming, but I like the music. We’re listening to a song I haven’t heard in 30 years and still like it. Oh my god, not En Vogue. Who invited them?

Worth the effort.

Zack Johnathan, silky skine that needs my close attention.

The beefy Aaron Mount. Now we’re listening to Everything But the Girl. Everything But the Girl? It’s a fucking time warp up in here.

Oh my gosh, Madonna, Vogue, and that big ol’ pile of Italian muscle Gianfranco Volti. What a combo

Beauty is where you find, not just where you grind it. But the two are not always mutally exclusive.

Nose News

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While I was all too aware of my father’s many weaknesses, he did have a number of physical traits I wouldn’t have minded inheriting, but which passed me completely by. Smooth, clear, dark olive skin that had no trouble tanning and thick, lustrous hair that refused to recede and which didn’t even start turning gray until he was in his ’70s; did I get any of that good stuff? Oh no. But sinuses that run year-round down the backs of our throats? That, I got. And I got it in spades.

My brother Ed and I sympathize with each other about this snot gene. I believe my grandmother had it too and dealt with it with a series of delicate lady-like coughs, ahem. This constant trickle down my throat is annoying year round, but when allergies descend, it turns maddening.

So I took my snotty self on off to an ENT doctor. He listened and looked and stuck some intrusive instruments up my nose and then declared that I have acid reflux.

What? It was like taking your broken arm in and being told you have the mumps. Maybe, but what do the two have to do with each other? He claimed he made this diagnosis pretty much every day. I don’t know if that means it’s common or if he just likes the diagnosis. Apparently, the irritation of your esophagus is what makes you cough. He swore there was nothing unusual about my nose or sinuses.

Of course this means more trips to more doctors including an endoscopy and an allergy test. It’s simply more evidence that my body parts are conspiring against me.

Men I would like to introduce to my body parts:

Guys this week are vintage meat, mostly from Colt Studios glory days of the 80s and 90s and Kristen Bjorn Studio from the same era. I’m just a sentimental fool. This is J. D. Amos

The massive Pete Kuzak.

The unnecessarily beautiful Doug Perry. Be still my heart.

Here we have Max Venziano batting for the Kristen Bjorn boys.

Lastly, one of my all time favorites, Robert Machado.

In Which We Enjoy that von Austiburg Woman’s Visit

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Our old chum, Diane von Austinburg, is visiting this weekend and what a charming visit it has already turned out to be. Chief among Diane’s many, many charms is her willingness to listen to my rambling blather. Topics so far have included my rugs and the lunatic who washes them for me, the lunatic out on the street earlier this week who was attempting to turn a dumpster into a percussion instrument, the lunatics who hang out at Peet’s Cafe almost as much as I do, and whatever other lunatics happen across my wandering attention span.

Our times together always focus largely on eating. We’re both good cooks and San Francisco is stuffed with great restaurants and our culinary adventures have been rousingly successful. We also launched ourselves into the art world with an exhibit which was considerably less successful.

It was called Van Gogh Immersive, a rather grandiose title for what turned out to be nothing but a large scale slideshow. They took slides of various Van Gogh pieces and projected them onto the walls of a very large room. Some elements of each picture would then move, cherry blossoms blew off of a limb and then would land on another one, or tables would vibrate, or the sun would slowly spin. It was most underwhelming. Diane pointed out the reproductions lacked all of the texture that is such an important part of his work and the beautiful, brilliant colors he used were all faded and dulled out by the slide projectors.

But then we came home and made a fabulous goat cheese and asparagus tart. When art lets you down, there’s always puff pastry to fall back on. Diane is such a wonderful guest; we can share a kitchen, which is not easy to do, and then reminisce about long gone hijinks from when we were so very full of ourselves and not terribly smart. It’s a delight to have a friend who still remembers a time when I was young, someone I don’t have to explain the past to because we shared it, and someone not interested in judging me.

Guys I wouldn’t mind being a host to,

Creamy.

Maybe I’m ready for a nap.

Booty-ific.

I let Diane pick naked guys this week and she came up this fine fellow.

And this one.

Another Year Older

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Oops, oops, I have once again forgotten my own anniversary. July the something (I’m too lazy to look it up) 2007 was my blog’s first post, so yay for me. Among bloggers, 14 is a ripe old age, an antique, in fact. When I first started airing my dirty laundry, there was quite a little gang of fellow bloggers to keep me company. Their number has withered away, it’s true, but I still remember them fondly. Perverts, most of them, but amusing perverts.

My blog’s musty old age is not a testament to any particular stick-to-itness on my part. All of my storytelling tends to wander quite a bit (maybe you noticed? Shut up.) and I think I started some damn story all those years ago and have just never finished.

So let’s raise a toast to mrpeenee, god love him. Here’s to never getting to the point.

If I were to get anniversary presents (it’s not too late,) I would hope this might serve as an inspiration.

Big, hard, and thoughtful. What could be better?

“I’m workin on a man/with blonde hair and a tan,” Dr. Frank N. Furter.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s always trouble.

Flag Ship

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Gay Pride came and went last month, perhaps you noticed? The enormous parade and celebration at its end here had to be canceled because of Covid, but that didn’t stop a sizable wave of tourist descending on us. Not canceled was one of my favorite elements of the whole hoohah, the little banners flapping from all the streetlight poles the length of Market Street, the main street of San Francisco.

They’re very pretty and certainly add a festive note to the street, but the best thing about them is that they just pop up. Even after all these years, they never fail to surprise me. One morning, they just appear, installed overnight apparently by busy little elves. Or I suppose fairies would be more appropriate.

Also under the heading of “gay banners,” or possibly “fag flags,” we have the leather / s&m flags. There’s always been a lot of overlap between the two communities and so it makes sense that they share a flag.

Queer leather / S&M. It’s black and blue, get it? Get it? Oh, never mind.

Thin Blue Line bullshit icon.

What I find so amusing is that these flags of a decidedly deviant sexual gang are very similar to the ones of the police-positive, borderline white supremacist thin blue line ones. I think it’s hilarious that these pea brain, police brutality apologists not only share the basic design of a gay banner, but that of a freaky sex gay banner.

“Excuse me, are you showing support for police, opposition to the Black Lives Matter movement, or do you just want to get your ass whipped and stuffed by some guy in a pair of chaps?”

Gentleman letting their freak flag fly:

I like your hat.

Affordable rates by the hour available.

Love that satin-y skin.

I used to know this guy’s porn name, but it slips my mind.

Speaking of S&M, there’s always the popular boxer fantasy for you.

You know what this guy smells like.

I like your hat, too.