In Which Things Don’t Go According to Plan

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….

In Which We Are Alarmed

You hear that? It’s the sound of dominoes falling. Conservatives have finally achieved their fantasy of overturning Roe v. Wade. If you think they are now going to settle down with their guns and their hypocrisy, you are fooling no one but yourself.

Clarence Thomas specified that the supreme Court should “reconsider” a number of rulings including the one which struck down laws criminalizing gay sex. They are coming for us.

Today is Gay Pride in San Francisco. I honestly hope everyone has a good time.

Quick, sneak a look at these before nekkid guys become illegal.

In Which We Can Host

I had a barbecued pulled pork sandwich for dinner and now I have been laid low by it. Let me tell you, I would never have dreamed my death certificate would include “cause of death: pig.”

it’s a shame to expire from a stupid sammich just now because Saturday Diane von Austinburg is coming to visit. I love Diane’s visits, better than I love christmas; they are a high point. There aren’t many people who I would accept as a guest, in fact, come to think of it, Diane is the only one.

I have no idea why she puts up with me, when she’s here, I spend almost the entire time asleep. The few moments, the precious few moments that I’m awake, all I do is complain about not being asleep. Still we usually squeeze in a little time for cooking (I love sharing a kitchen with her) and this time we’re going out to some odd sounding fashion glamor show at the DeYoung museum. Reports as they are available.

Diane sent me this yesterday. It’s so nice to have a friend who understands you.

Naked mens whom I might be willing to have sleep over:

You know what a fool I am for pretty hair.

Mmmmmmmmeaty

I don’t care if he’s not paying attention.

Captain Hook

Did you know you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetary if you’re tattooed? Also, that big, luscious foreskin might be problematic.

Uhm, what is that equipment you’re sitting on, buddy?

In Which a Quiet Night Goes to Hell

The other evening I was sitting in my living room, minding my own beeswax and investigating various porn matters when suddenly

KA DABAM BOOMPOW

A huge noise erupted seemingly at my feet. It was such a perfect cacophony that it seemed like it couldn’t possibly be real, like it was just another CGI effect. If Saki were still with me, he would have bolted under the couch and for an instant I considered what a sensible idea that seemed like.

Once I finally tiptoed over to the window I saw some fat head had managed to crash into the tree directly below me. Considering there are only two trees left of the original 11, it’s pretty amazing he managed to nail it. In fact, another foot to the left and he would have missed it entirely and plowed into the front of my building instead.

Tree or no tree, it’s confounding how he wound up where he did. It’s as if he decided to make a hard right in the middle of the block. Baby what’s up with that? Did your GPS fuck you over?

I called 911, because that’s how big responsible citizens behave. Besides I couldn’t think of what else to do. The operator there was incredibly chill, she sounded like she was hanging out with a glass of white wine and a few Valium. She did get a little testy when I couldn’t describe the car to her satisfaction. I don’t know what difference it would have made whether it was a sedan or an SUV. It’s not like there was a crowd of wrecked cars down on the sidewalk for the responders to pick from.

Eventually the cops showed up, the fireman, the ambulance, the tow truck, just everybody who is anybody was there. I sort of lost interest and never did see what happened to the driver. Apparently he had wandered off at some point and then resurfaced; I overheard one of the cops ask him “Is this your car?” “It was,” he replied. If only someday I could be that cool.

guys who would wreck you

One can only envy his neighbors.

Truth in advertising.

Workin’ hard or hardly workin’? hyuck hyuck hyuck.

Talent.

Inky, not stinky.

More nice tile work.

In Which We Are Befogged

Today seems like the quintessential San Francisco day. The fog blew in from the Pacific earlier and now wraps us up in a cool, gray embrace. It’s very much like living inside a great big pearl. If you look up at the sky, it has depths you can only sort of see. It’s very quiet and restful.

Of course, I love our gorgeous, sunny weather, but saying that is like saying you have a crush on a big muscly blonde surfer dude. To wit:

Whereas being enamored of fogginess is more like being stuck on a guy who’s moody and demands more from you, but in turn will probably not run off with all your Valium. Like this:

Photophobia, which is not a fear of snapshots, but rather a sensitivity to bright lights runs in my family, both my mother and my brother Ed have it and hated the bright sunlight we lived with on the Gulf Coast. My mother said the light was actually painful and dealt with it with a series of giant sunglasses. Coincidentally, R Man also suffered from it, so when we moved out here into the Fog Belt from sunny New Orleans, he was delighted to be in an environment that was so sympathetic to his squinty genes.

Guys easy on the eyes

It may be foggy, but it’s summer

Get your nasty butthole off that counter. That’s where I cut up strawberries.

Over at Chaturbate, we call this pose “The Landing Pad.”

Also, today is Diane von Austinburg’s birthday. Most happy to you, sweetie.

In Which We Are Reminded, Yet Again, That We Are Old

Our story so far: in the last post you might remember I was discussing (I was not whining. Shut up.) that my big toe hurt and was swollen and red, but that I had no memory of stubbing it. I may have also been pointing out what a brave little choo choo I was being about the whole thing and I was not whining.

Most of the comments on this site lean toward insightful evaluations of the naked manpussy on display, but sometimes my readers will come across with all sorts of helpful tips. They’ll have recipes, or recommendations of things to read, or will come up with the name of a pornstar I was missing. In this case, commenter joeinct noted my symptoms and said “girl you got gout.” Or words to that effect. And he was quite correct; I do got gout. I’m very grateful for his perspicacity, I certainly would never have come up with that diagnosis on my own.

mrpeenee thanks joeinct

Armed with this insight and with the results from Dr Google, I dropped by my own doctor’s office yesterday and rolled out my suspicion that I had what is typically seen as an affliction out of a Dickens novel. The doctor listened to me and then said “Huh, yeah I guess you got gout.”

I could have done with a little more certainty on her part or at least with her being more impressed, but it can be hard to test for gout and you don’t treat it until It gets more serious than my case. Until that happens, there’s not much to do other than glare at my big toe for being a traitor and wonder what other geriatric thrill ride is in store for us.

Examples of manpussy I was talking about earlier:

It’s al about the texture.

Love them big floppy ones.

Phillipe Soulier, one of our on-going favorites.

A sculptural beauty.

It’s going to be a bumpy night.

Jay Tee, cause we need more ass around here, and who has more ass than him?

In Which We Lounge

Many thanks to my sweet niece Amber for reminding me that I have a blog. It sometimes slips my mind. You can tell when I’m absorbed in reading because my posting here becomes more erratic than usual. But it’s important to keep the dust from getting too thick in these parts, so post on, baby.

I love my bedroom so very much. Since I sleep during the day, it’s important to have the room as dark as possible; this deep blue, almost indigo is plenty successful at that. And pretty. The beautiful California sun is very soft and gold this time of year and it makes doing nothing even more appealing than usual.

The author, busy doing nothing.

just the other day I was remembering my recent trip back to Texas and recalling that some of my favorite parts of it were lying on my back on Diane von Austinburg’s couch, having very firmly evicted her from it. It’s a very comfy couch and just hanging out there chatting with her was a great luxury. Cats were occasionally involved.

Also, just as a sort of PSA, let me announce that I stubbed the fuck out of my toe recently and now it hurts like a first time pussy boy who has forgotten the safe word. Everyone should immediately feel very sorry for me and possibly start making novenas. What makes this all the more annoying is that I have no memory of whacking my toe on anything. How is that possible? It’s red and swollen and HURTS, I must have landed a really solid blow against it, seems like it would stay in my teeny tiny brain, but nuh uh.

Guys who should be here tending to me:

This guy could just carry me around to protect my little piggies.

The lovely Adriano Marquez, who once said in an interview that he had never done a crunch in his life.

Splooge

So beefy.

Beach weather is almost here.

In Which We Go Over a Reading Rainbow

I’ve been on a long-ish streak of reading bad books lately. Not on purpose, mind you.

There is the inevitable stinkers that I give up on after the first couple of pages make me hold my nose. That is not a good sign. But there’s also been a disappointing string of books which passed the initial smell test and that seemed like they were going to be interesting and maybe even remind me of why I love reading so much. Nope. I keep being let down, my heart broken by the publishing world.

Two books in particular were especially disappointing because I read them back to back. Both had the same problem, books with gay protagonists written by a woman. I’m comfortable saying I’m not a misogynist, at least as far as authors go; two of my all time favorite writers, Lois McMaster Bujold and Martha Wells, are ladies. The problem is not that these writers are female, but that they’re trying to write about gay men. And not doing a very good job of it.

Both books feature a male couple and that’s where the troubled waters get deep. One of the boys is inevitably rugged and manly and Brawny paper towel guy-ish and the other is frail and vapid, androgynous and girly. They swoon, they cry when they get mad, they bat their fucking eyes for god’s sake. If they were a male-female couple, I would be annoyed by this sexist writing that had the woman so weak and constantly needing rescue.

That seems to be the real stumbling block here. I think these books were written as if they were a heterosexual couple (and a problematic one at that) and then all the “she” pronouns were just switched to “he” and the writer called it a day. That’s not the gay experience. We’re more complex and complicated than just a mirror image of the straight life.

That’s why it’s so frustrating. I want books with gay men in them and I want my life reflected in what I read. But not with some bodice ripping pearl clutcher. Women can write great fiction about queer men, Annie Proulx showed that with Brokeback Mountain. For that matter, gay men can write about gay men. Where are those books?

Guys worth a thousand words:

The Boyfriend Experience is extra.

The old one-two.

You know this guy’s a redhead.

Damn, that is a can full of tomatoes.

I like how his dick is the only thing in focus. It shows priorities.

I know there is something wrong with me when I see a photo like this and think “Ooh, I like that tile work.”

In Which We Say Cheese

I’ve been distracted lately by a charming book, Paladin’s Grace, a fantasy based in the apprenticeship system of 17th century Europe, but with multiple gods. Highly recommended, thumbs up and all that.

One of the things I’ve been distracted from is posting here. It happens, especially when you sleep 20 hours a day. The gang of miscreants over at Chaturbate with which I hang out became concerned. And naggy. They’re a very amusing lot, but naggy. Brainiac is one of the ring leaders and he’s really smart, that’s why I call him Brain. He’s building a Secret Giant Death Ray somewhere off in the wilds of Florida. He recently suggested I write about cheese. Cheese. As part of his pep talk on the wonders of queso, he urged me to try something called Cougar Gold Cheese.

I ordered some and it came yesterday; it is a big honking can of cheese. Cheese in a can. Reevaluating dear old Brain’s brain, I’m concerned I may have been overly influenced by his Secret Giant Death Ray. Surely not everyone who builds a Secret Giant Death Ray is actually a genius. Maybe he’s just one of those mad scientists who doesn’t comb his hair, and mutters a lot, and eats cheese out of a can.

Cute guys:

Well, hello daddy.

Any bigger and he wouldn’t even have to bend over to suck his own dick.

Oh, just hanging around the kitchen, you know, whackin’ it.

Open for business. Big business.

Summer is on its way.

Corn fed.

In Which We Are Arty

Super Agent Fred gave me a charming pair of portraits for my birthday. They are a couple of powerful women who have challenged and overcome the limitations society has attempted to place on them.

They are top-notch bitches.

I realized this afternoon that my entire social life revolves around sitting in Peet’s cafe and scowling at people. I’m not complaining, and it makes me wonder, what’s really so bad about leprosy?

Sort of along those same lines, my dear, dear niece Amber has revealed she has plans for me should I ever find myself living out of a shopping cart under a freeway here. She has a lovely big house and assures me that I’m welcome there, which is so sweet of her, and there’s a big private loft above the living room that’s all mine. I see my future before me, the crazy old uncle locked in the attic, occasionally howling, demanding coffee and gay pornography. Actually, it sounds okay.

I know I mentioned in the last post the newspaper in Austin had warned that security lines were so bad at the airport they wanted you to get there three hours early. Obscene. I got there a couple of hours before my flight and my Uber driver dealt with the massive traffic outside by simply driving around it and then cutting through three lanes of idling traffic to drop me off. What a gal.

I have Clear, the pre-approved security, get-out-of-jail card and that let me jump to the head of the line and then the frazzled TSA agent just waved a bunch of us through an old timey metal detector instead of the Star Trek-y booth and boom, I was through security in less than 15 minutes. I spent longer in line at the coffee place getting a latte. Irony, it’s what’s for dinner.

guys I’d wait in line for:

Willie Gomez, who still refuses to publish nude pictures on the internet, selfish bastard.

Arty AND meaty, the best of both worlds.

Sorry, you’ll have to repeat yourself; all I can hear is your dick.

Soon it will be beach weather. Are you ready?

Deservedly cocky.

Some cliches are just too potent to ignore.