In Which We Tidy Up

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.

gratifying men

Imagine being the neighbor to look out their window and see that looking back.

Gracious

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.

In Which We Give Thanks That All That is Over

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.

Another old, nameless favorite.

One last ass shot.

Well, OK, just ONE more.

In Which We Are Glum

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.

Peekaboo

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.

In Which We Test Our Pie Aptitude

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.

Well hello, you perky little dickens you.

In Which We Do Not Rock Out

Diane von Austinburg decided on a whim to come out and visit me. Actually she came out to check on the tag sale a friend of ours claimed he was going to regale us with. I was very dubious any such sale might ever actually materialize, but I’m always delighted to host Diane. So I was sort of a collateral visit. SPOILER ALERT: no tag sale happened.

Coincidentally, I had snagged two tickets for the B-52’s farewell tour. The B-52s were a very important part of the wacky years I spent in New Orleans. I loved their music and the joie de vivre they expressed. Diane has long claimed she and I went to one of their concerts in Austin even though I don’t remember it, but then, there’s lots of stuff from those years that I don’t remember. So Diane was here, the band was here, I had spectacularly great tickets (9th row center,) it was meant to be.

And then, it didn’t happen. All along we both acknowledged how very unlikely it was that we would actually make it to the concert that night. My bad back, the fact that neither of us are wild about being around strangers, and just general inertia were all conspiring against us.

Even more was the sense that the time for whooping it up at a rock show had passed me by. My best friend Magda shared my passion for the B-52s and in fact, the very first time he and I hung out was at one of their shows. Magda died 7 years ago and I still miss the old thing. In fact, pretty much all of my friends from those heady years have passed on to the other side of the grass. And so the idea that a B-52’s show would be haunted by their ghosts was just a little more than I could face. So we stayed home and played Boggle and reveled in the comfort of being old farts.

guys who do not have to worry about being old farts. NOT YET.

I know he’s not nekkid (so unfortunate) but this is a birthday present for Mikey from Chaturbate

This guy does not seem to go with shocking pink. It’s just not his color.

This guy, who I keep referring to as “That guy” is actually named Jake Andrews. You’re welcome.

Welcome to the North Pole. Enjoy your visit.

Booty

Penis, penis on the wall

Mr. Rhino Horn is in the house.

That devilish eyebrow

In Which We Are Shook

Oy. My day started with an earthquake, a medium sized one about an hour south of here. For an earthquake, that is still plenty close enough to give San Francisco (and me) a good jiggle. It lasted long enough to jostle me awake and then continued until I finally thought “what is that shaking?” At which time it stopped and I realized, oops, earthquake.

The few times earthquakes here have penetrated my oblivion, my reaction is typically “oops.” I almost never feel them, which is okay with me. There really isn’t much you can do anyway. I know you’re supposed to get under like a table, but if the building is falling on your head, I’m not sure how much that crappy desk from IKEA is going to do for you anyway.

As soon as there is an earthquake you know immediately what your topic of conversation is going to be for the rest of the day. Everyone you meet will ask “did you feel it?” This is a mere pretext; they are not genuinely interested in your temblor experience. They’re just waiting to be able to launch into what they felt, what they thought, what they heard, what their cat felt, what their boyfriend felt, what their boyfriend’s roommate felt and on and on. I have long since decided to just let them have at it, to recount their shaky story in as much detail as they want to wring from it. It’s just one of the reasons people like me so much.

I also had to go to the dentist for teeth cleaning so that was my fabulous day. The lady who cleaned my teeth, the receptionist, the barista, the Uber driver, the other Uber driver all asked if I felt it and after I said yes, dove into their own experiences. That’s fine, it’s what I’m here for, earthquake therapy. Maybe I should charge.

guys who can make you feel the earth move:

Soft focus, soft dick

A speedo that flashes a bit o’ crack is just the right size.

I think this guy has visited us before, but he is well worth a second look.

Some times, often, in fact, PhotoShop is just egregious.

Especially when there are cute guys with human-sized dicks, like this one, available.

Booty.

“Oh, you know, just hangin around. What about you?” Words that have started soooo much trouble.

Sometimes guys that you should DEFINITELY avoid are the very most alluring ones.

Well, OK. If you say so.

In Which We Check on Our Ancestors

Perhaps you’ve heard about DNA analysis. It’s all the rage these days, much like Ouija boards were in the ’20s, and probably just as reliable. I decided my DNA surely needed analyzing, despite my ancestry being obvious at a glance. No one could spend any time with me and not be sure that I am nothing more than an average mongrel white boy.

Still I’m always up for any kind of parlor game and so I mailed my spit off to the analyzers and promptly forgot all about it. A few weeks later an email popped up with my results. SPOILER ALERT: I’m a white boy.

The DNA guys tarted up my answers with all kinds of graphs and statistics, percentages of this, percentages of that. I suppose that’s the analytic part. The main bit was a map supposedly showing whence my forebears sprang. You could pretty much use the same map for a number of purposes like The Land of Potatoes and Cabbage. Those are my people all right, the cabbage eaters.

Also please note the wide swath of Scandinavia it includes. You know what that means don’t you? VIKINGS, baby. Rape, pillage, and potatoes; that’s me.

So yeah pretty much no surprises. It even affirms something some guy told me one long ago night at the tubs. He said to me, he said, “you look Finnish,” which seemed either incredibly astute or incredibly random. And yet, now comes news that I am, in fact, 1% Finnish. Like I said, anyone can guess my genes just by looking at me, even when I’m naked at the baths.

Guys I wish I was naked at the bath with right now:

Sweet, smiley and stiff. What could be better?

Sorry, I’m gonna be busy in the toilet for a while.

Waspwaisted.

If that were real, he would fall over every time he got a hardon. Which would be OK with me.

Singin’ in the shower.

You know he’s still his mother’s baby.

In Which We Travel

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

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

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.