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.

In Which We Look Forward to Going Home

I’m still in Texas, but only until tomorrow morning. Really, really, miserably early tomorrow morning. The paper here promises that the TSA lines will continue to be soul-crushingly long; the advice is to get there 3 hours early. No wonder I’m never leaving San Francisco again.

Although I want to be clear I’ve had a really great time on this trip. My niece and her family as well as my brother were very amusing. The high point of the trip for me was going to a wildflower garden and arboretum. My family and Diane von Austinburg were all very sweet about tagging along, but it was pretty obvious that I’m the only one interested in plants. “Look, it’s a salvia garden and NONE OF THEM ARE BLOOMING,” I’d say and they would all look at me as if they had always known I was simple-minded.

Also my birthday was Tuesday and I celebrated it by sleeping all day. Fabulous. Diane and I went out for French food that evening. She had a really delicious dinner and I did not (over salted mashed potatoes were the worst part, but not the only misstep) which seems totally unfair since it was MY BIRTHDAY.

Any vacation for me revolves largely around eating and this has been no exception. People argue about what is the best barbecue with aficionados of Memphis and North Carolina and other camps passionately defending their own. It’s really a shame to see such misguided passion since, obviously, Texas barbecue is by far the finest. We were lucky to stumble on an old-timey and excellent joint slinging some serious ribs.

Similarly, a large swath of the uneducated will turn the nose up at Tex-Mex food. Morons. Texas at one time was a part of Mexico and the food that developed here is just another regional cuisine. We had very fancy Mexican food one night and then last night Diane and I chowed down in a place that had originally been a laundromat and now serves some of the best enchiladas in town and that remind me poignantly of my childhood. Tears in my eye, baby, tears in my eye.

So now I have to go spend the next 12 hours bracing myself to get up before dawn and go stand in some fucking line. As much as I like Texas, it’ll be worth it to get back to San Francisco.

Various naked men:

This guy was a model about 30 years ago, which just serves to point out the timelessness of good smut.

This guy again. I have a really weakness for sweet faced guys with big, fat whackers.

Arty bawdiness.

He needs a warning sign on his pants: “Sharp curves ahead.” Like that would stop anybody.

Just nice, young, attractive pussy. Sometimes that’s just what I had in mind.

In Which We Return To The Old Country

Yeah, I am back in Texas, in the bosom of my birth and childhood and a big chunk of my misspent youth. In Austin, to be precise. As usual, my visit here is centered on eating as much barbecue and Mexican food as possible.

My brother has driven up from Houston to visit and my niece Amber and her family have come down from far north Texas to get in on the action. We went to a great old timey barbecue place in the middle of downtown Austin that had managed to hang on despite Austin’s booming development all around it. There’s several small creeks that wander through downtown and this is on the banks of one of them. It was a lovely breezy, cool evening and we sat up on the back porch over the creek and enjoyed some of the most delicious ribs I’ve ever had.

This afternoon, we went out to the Lady Bird Johnson wildflower center. It is an arboretum with a focus on local native plants. It was very pretty, but not a touch on the huge fields of bluebonnets at my late brother Mike’s ranch. We all miss Mike very much, and are very conscious of how much he would have added to a family gathering like this. I tried to get Diane and Ed to take pictures with my phone for this post, but the technology defeated both of them. Fine. You’ll just have to imagine your author standing out in the blasto central Texas sunshine, squinting.

Austin these days has very little remaining of the Austin I remember from my college days here. One of the constants that has hung on is the huge number of young people all over the place, determined to have a good time. My hotel is only a block away from the party central of 6th Street and the crowds last night could have rivaled those of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. They were having the kind of party that comes from being young, stupid, and away from your mommy and daddy for the first time. The very best, in other words. My great-niece was one of those wild youth last night. The fact I have a great niece who’s old enough to be one of the partiers sort of astounds me still. But she’s very pretty and she seems level-headed so I encouraged her to go be wild in memory of the misbehavior I enjoyed here 45 years ago. Whoo hoo

guys I wish I was misbehaving with RIGHT NOW:

Arty, with a big hooter. What’s not to love?

My family has a history of powerful women and my niece Amber is carrying on the tradition. She is, very much like my grandmother, a firecracker. God love her. She is a fan of these naked guys here.

I say if you’re not a nekkid guy fan, you’ve come to the wrong blog.

Oddly, the crowds I’ve encountered locally seem to be much more chicks than humpy young men. Maybe I have scared the boys off. No telling.

Certainly, my memory of Austin includes quite a few humpy boys. Many of them naked, thank you goddess.

While sharing yarns about the good ol days, I have tried to refrain from too many lurid details.

But the lunks of your will always live on in my heart.

In Which We Are Outraged

As part of our ongoing series, Porn News You Can Use, today we want to focus on AllAmericanGuys, the softest of softcore, with no dicks, few butt cracks, but the cutest boys in all of the NSFW universe.

The site is a step down from Playgirl, it is the descendant of Bruce Weber’s artsy Abercrombie & Fitch/Calvin Klein ads. I think of all of these smut lite studios as Panties on Parade; the models lounge about in expensive bathing suits and even more expensive underpants, all bread and no meat. Oh, nuh uh. Sports paraphernalia is frequently involved. They are to porn as flirtatious twits who never put out are to actual fucking.

I don’t understand why these boys are so fastidious about refusing to flash their bits when they are so close to being naked anyway. Do they think those millimeters of Lycra are going to protect them from the harsh judgment of future employers? As someone who escaped from the clutches of corporate government America, I could assure them that when they apply for a job at the National Bank of Oppression and their walk on the beefcake side comes up, nobody is going to be impressed that they kept their hand over their junk.

The site popped up on my outrage radar recently when I was doing research there and I bumped into a page that was sort of a separate menu from the rest of the offerings. Here’s a screen grab of it:

I was initially confused into thinking the prices were actually the going rate for the boys’ in person companionship. I was impressed that the studio had made the bold leap from titillating photos to actual prostitution and that they were pimping out their models. Color me interested.

I was shocked when I realized they are in fact charging that much money simply for pictures of the boys showing off their good stuff. You may not be up to date on the going rates of naked youth photos, but let me assure you $1000 and up is stratospherically out of the norm. Unless they have developed some proprietary technology that allows these hotties to reach out of the picture and give a hand job, I cannot imagine how they can justify these prices. Am I missing something?

Actual nude dudes, for which I did not pay hundreds of dollars:

Groovy

I’d be interested to find out what this boy and I could get up to for $1,000.

It’s impressive when they have to turn the camera on an angle to fit in all the meat.

Perspective is a fascinating tool.

Once again, crappy Photoshop. Dammit.

What a little sweetie.

In Which We Jump Ahead and Wonder About Pizza Boys

I know no one likes changing time twice a year, so there’s no need to add my whine to all that clamor, but I will chime in to the subsection that gripes about the purpose of the whole fucketry. Isn’t it odd that we all go along grudgingly with it, but none of us know why? I remember some confusing explanation from when I was young, something about more sun for farmers. Fuck them. Why should my time be upended just because they won’t set their alarm clocks? Anyway, if you look that up now, all you find is a bunch of articles saying that’s not true, it’s just an urban myth and then nattering along about the REAL reason, although none of the articles agree about what that might be. Instead they sprout gibberish about economists diddling, socialists interfering, New Deal fantasies, to make more use of sunlight; all sorts of late night dorm room pontificating. My favorite is the one that just says “It was the Germans.” Like that explains everything.

Anyway. If you didn’t change your clock last night, do it now unless you want to be late to brunch.

I had a special request from Mikey, over at Chaturbate, for a themed naked guy segment featuring that long-time pornography staple, the pizza delivery boy. I was willing to go along with Mikey, even though a google for “pizza boy naked porn” turned up some pretty scary looking skanks. Seems like such classic starring role would generate at least some humpy pepperoni slingers, but no. Even going back and adding the term “gay” didn’t help the results much. Herein, the picks of a not-very-impressive litter. It’s all mikey’s fault.

This is world famous nekkid boy, Reno Gold. Don’t let this fool you into getting your hopes up, the guy quality is all downhill from here.

OK, he’s not bad, and the pizza jimjams are amusing. Also the sombrero in the background is a nice touch.

Eagle eyed readers will note this is not exactly “delivery” since the setting is inside a pizza joint. I’m telling you, there wasn’t much to work with.

OK, so an entire movie based on the theme, but I couldn’t chase down any individual shots from it, which is a shame considering the high quality feathered porn hair dos apparently included.

A shame about the stupid aprons.

Some of the results require a leap of faith that somehow they had anything to do with pizza delivery. Like this one; it could be just any old run-of-the-mill blow job.

So I ran out of gay results. Plus, why are men in straight porn so painfully homely?

Material Girl

I have written before how very much I hate shopping. In my incredibly advanced years, I pretty much don’t need anything new. And yet, my correspondence with Amazon lately has just been a flurry of activity with parcels showing up almost daily. Turns out I’m an American.

I don’t know how old my original Cuisinart food processor was. 25 years? More maybe. It ground along like an absolute champ for all this time, even though it had a flimsy little plastic catch that had to be engaged for to work. As soon as I saw that little nib, I thought, “Well that’ll never last.” Instead it made it through four presidential administrations. The old girl finally just gave up the ghost, but that little plastic bit never did break off. Amazing. So I bought a new one, so very shiny I am sort of intimidated by it. “Would you mind mincing up this carrot if you’re not too busy? Or I can come back later….”

I also got some new shoes, I am simply a wild man. Some new red Converse, because in my universe you have to have red Converse, and also a pair of Vans since that’s what all the cool kids wear. I know it seems unlikely that I would be adopting the sk8r dude lifestyle, but actually I’m just too lazy to tie my shoes.

While this is not a new purchase, I want to mention it just to show how cool I think it is. Many years ago, we had a friend who, one evening, was telling us about her exasperating mother, all the while rolling her eyes like the wheels on a fucking slot machine. I have quite some experience with exasperating relatives, so I was busy being empathetic but then she mentioned, as one example of her mother’s crimes, that her mother had been the Cotton Bowl Queen.

I was floored. In the Texas of my youth, a Cotton Bowl Queen was literal royalty. She was chosen to reign over some big deal football game between the University of Texas and the University of Oklahoma. Great big beefy muscles and teeny tiny brains. I forget the details, but somehow she was gifted with this decanter set as part of her royal regalia. Our friend was totally dismissive of it, but I saw the fabulousness in it. She gave it to me and I have clutched it to my greedy little bosom ever since. I think it exudes a glamorous, Zsa Zsa Gabor style, but what really elevates it from simply dazzling to the exquisite is its magic trick.

under regular light, it’s lovely in lavender.

but under fluorescent light, boom-kazoom, It turns minty fresh green. WHAAAAAT? I’m telling you.

Lastly, my excessively talented friend Hot Foot made me these bowls as a thank you for feeding her gigantic kitty. Seriously, I think he’s a mutant. I picked him up to say hello and it was like lifting the front end of a Honda. It was very generous of her and I love these bowls. They’re groovy.

Men of the naked variety.

Meaty, and too dumb to figure out how to put on a tee shirt. Just the way I like ’em.

Speaking of meaty….

Listen buddy, I will show you what to do with that tongue.

Indeed.

I recognize that reedy grass from the swamps of my youth and know it has a serrated edge that scratches like hell. The idea of breezily lounging in it in your shaved nakedness makes me cringe.

I think I might not use enough butt chop pictures here. I will do better.

Ooh la la. I don’t know why this guy makes me think he’s all Frenchy and stuff, but I do.

I think that wary look in his eyes is thrilling.

Butt chops.