In Which we give thanks that that’s all over

So maybe dinner parties are crippling. Is that a surprise?

So we survived Thanksgiving and, in fact, we were totally triumphant. Pretty much. Diane von Austinburg and I spent Wednesday prepping and cooking the stuff ahead of time that could just be warmed up and that was very amusing; we had a very amusing time. Turns out this kitchen is easy to cooperate in.

I decided to make just a turkey breast and a couple of legs since that’s all we wanted. Was I concerned about never having made drumsticks? Certainly not. Should I have been? Mmmmmmaybe.

I looked up several recipes just to get an idea about timing and one of them was from a cooking writer I like a lot, Mark Bittman, from the New York Times. Even though I know he’s reliable and talented, I didn’t follow his advice of cooking them at a fairly high temperature and came to regret it.

The stupid, fucking drumsticks took forever to get done, more than an hour after everything else was ready. I always work really hard at getting everything to land on the table at the same time, so I was pissed. Also when they finally did get done they were just tough as old boots.

But does anyone really care about the turkey? Let’s all just admit the sides are the real stars of this particular show. And our side dishes last night were flawless, if I say so myself.

We all agreed that there is no such thing as a bad potato dish, but the one I make, potatoes Dauphinoise, is my favorite. Thinly sliced potatoes (Diane called them “whisper thin,” which just shows how thoroughly we absorbed the extravagantly baroque advertising prose of our youth) are simmered in milk and then baked. It comes out creamy and rich and oh, so delicious. The milk will inevitably boil over onto the stove and make a sticky mess; resign yourself to it. It’s worth it.

Also, a cranberry chutney with dried apricots and fresh ginger. It’s the perfect counterpoint to the rich blandness of all the rest of the food. As a vegetarian, Diane provided tasty green beans with shallots and some perfectly delicate asparagus with lemon. Delicious.

My friend Drumstick (no relation to the fucking turkey legs) brought over the definitive apple pie. Oh my goodness. Even better, he left us a big chunk of it. I am a generous and giving person, but there is no way I would have left any of it behind. You would have had to fight me for it and it would have been ugly.

Leftovers et moi.

So tonight Diane and I have a substantial supply of leftovers to tide us through the evening. Tragically, we snarffled down every single slice of potato, but there’s still pretty good cornbread dressing and about a gallon of gravy. I’m sure I won’t starve.

Toothsome males:

Fresh ham. And big, too.

Don’t drip on the floor! Bad boy, bad.

The always charming Pavel Novotny

In Which We Have Company


Our dear, dear Diane von Austinburg is in the house. We are delighted and amused, which just proves even misanthropes can enjoy company if only it’s charming enough.

Diane hadn’t been here 20 minutes before we ran down to Peet’s for lattes and an orgy of list making. A substantial bit of her charm is our shared quirks, including a passion for lists. And Thanksgiving is really a holiday that requires substantial organization. Grocery lists, to-do lists, crossed off items and checked marks, I delight in the sense of progress as we mow our way down through these.

When I lived up in the canyon and had a great big dining room with a big table and a big kitchen, big thanksgivings were easy. Easy enough, anyway, as I turned into a flailing, evil tempered kitchen nazi. As I’ve mentioned before, Diane is the only one with whom I can share cooking duties. This is the first time I’ve tried anything like a dinner party since I moved into this apartment, but there’s only four of us for dinner so it should be okay. We’ll see, watch for news bulletins.

On the menu for Thursday is a recreation of my grandmothers’ and mother’s Thanksgivings. Turkey of course, but just a boneless breast and some drumsticks, a very traditional cornbread dressing (I think every region has its own version based on some variation in the starch. Of course, any effort that is not cornbread is simply wrong,) and cranberry sauce. I make mine with dried apricots and ginger, which is verging on Martha Stewart-ish but man, is it tasty.

I’m also making my absolute favorite side dish, potatoes Dauphinoise. It sounds very grand, but it’s actually just thinly sliced potatoes simmered in milk and then baked. Food of the gods. baby, fruit of the gods.

As a vegetarian, Diane is very much in charge of the rest of the sides and she always brings her A game. She’s an excellent cook, so I know I can depend on her for something delicious. This year it’s acorn squash roasted with pears. Mmmmm.

And so it is time once again for our Festival of Carbohydrates. I’m sure I’ll be in some kind of food coma Thursday night, but you know what, it’ll be worth it. Bring it on, bitches.

Holiday meat:

Diane requested a hairy daddy. Glad to oblige.

No matter how sexy you are, you still have to check the background.

Haven’t we already discussed how summer is over? Le sigh.

Sorry, did we interrupt your list making?

“Another dick….” says Diane.

In Which We Think About This and That


You know when you’re at work and you have to poop and it turns out to be so massive you’re afraid you may have damaged the pipes and the management will send a firmly worded email to your boss and when you finally escape, your butthole feels like a ripe mango that’s been turned inside out and you have to go sit in a meeting and be all professional, but still spend most of the time thinking about the word “prolapse?”

I wouldn’t know because that’s never happened to me, but it does sound very unfortunate.

I’ve really been impressed with the television adaptation of my favorite graphic novel ever, Y: the Last Man. I could explain why I like it so much or what I feel like are the improvements they made over the book, but what the fuck, it’s canceled. The producers are making some noises about maybe some other platform will revive it; great, string my poor battered heart along even further. But even if they find a new home and then tackle another season, I’m sure I will have forgotten what I liked about it when it eventually airs. “Is that the one about zombies in outer space?” I will ask myself. Hint: it is not about zombies in outer space. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it also leads me to find something else to watch. Maybe something with zombies in outer space.

In the last post, I pointed out November 9 was our good friend Mikey’s birthday, but I failed to mention it was also the 40th anniversary of the evening I met my beloved husband, R Man. I tend to ignore anniversaries of all sort; I can remember the past just fine, thanks, and dwelling on them can make even someone as cheery natured as me all sad and boohoo-ey. I do not enjoy being boohoo-ey. But a 40 year one is worth a shout, especially one of an event so vital to the happy life I was able to lead. So here’s a toast to the time R Man suggested I pull up my pants and come home with him and without even realizing it, I started my life.

The always charming smut icon, Al Parker

Yeah, summer is over, get used to it.

The first time I ever came to San Francisco, in 1980, I went to these very baths. I thought they were called the Turk Street Baths, but that just goes to show that memory is an unreliable narrator. They actually had that truck in the middle of the joint so you could indulge in some trucker based fetish, should you care to. The seat was sticky.

Somebody has been a bad boy.

Ass candy at the nursery.

Outside daddy.

He Looks Like a Monkey, and Smells Like One Too


Our dear little friend Mikey, from that nexus of naughtiness, Chaturbate, has a birthday coming up next week. I tried warning him against these since eventually they just pile up and suddenly you’re an old man fantasizing about throwing rocks at little kids. But he didn’t listen to me, nobody does, and now he has a birthday on the horizon so happy burfday and all that.

His mother summoned him back home to give him his present. Home is a small village in Transylvania which was, no doubt, terrorized by Dracula back in the good old days. I am not making this up. He texted me afterwards, giddy with glee about his birthday present, A LITTLE KITTY. I know the connection between Vlad the Impaler and oozy iddle kittens is a little murky, but isn’t that just the way in these wacky mixed up days? All little kitties are, of course, adorable, it’s genetic, but this one seems especially so.

Photographic proof:

Isn’t he adorable? The cat, too.

Oh, so cute.

Just to crank up the adorbs level, Mikey has named him Saki, after a certain much loved and much missed little terror. That was very thoughtful of Mikey. It’s really remarkable that a guy as humpy as Mikey is also so sweet natured. Amazing really.

As for the new Saki, he seems to be cut from the same implacable cloth as the first one. When I was texting with Mikey, Saki had been there less than 2 days and already was firmly in control, ruling Mikey with an iron paw. In the middle of a national lockdown, Mikey had already run out to get some extra toy mice. I understand completely.

Pussy boys:

I always forget to include a link to Mikey’s Chaturbate page, not only because I’m forgetful, but because WordPress has changed how you can link out on these blogs and it forces you to display the entire HTML as the link. Dicks. Anyway, here’s mikey:

Even though he is not bald, Diego Barros always poses the same way, in a baseball cap jammed down low and with his chin jutted up to see out from under the brim. I forgive him.

Does this guy have a cat? He should have a cat.

An extra special birthday daddy for Mikey.

And an extra special birthday daddy for me, cause I deserve one too, dammit.

For that matter, an extra special birthday daddy for everybody, cause I am just that generous. You’re welcome.


The Beatles had a song called Birthday on their White Album and it used to be the default song for b’day parties, but you don’t seem to hear it that much anymore. “They say it’s your birthday/We’re gonna have a good time.” Yeah, rock on Mikey.

And in conclusion, birthday buttchops.

In Which We Check Up on the Morning Light


I went to bed at 6:00 a.m. like I always do and then lay there and lay there and lay there waiting for sleep to obliterate me, but no. After an hour of checking to see if the other side was sleepier than the side I was on (spoiler alert: it wasn’t), I realized my beloved cafe, Peet’s, was open so I trotted down there to see what they had to say.

And let me tell you, the early morning has not improved any since the last time I saw it. It’s still sort of streaky and rumpled and all the homeless guys are surly because they’ve been outside all night and now they have to stay out some more. I cannot blame them.

Also, there’s too many kids around. I live in a gay neighborhood, why do I have to put up with all these unripened post-embryos? I know I may seem much too sour about kids, but I just don’t think they add much to the landscape.

Plus since we’re in San Francisco, the parents of all these precious bundles insist on cranking the pretentiousness dial all the way up to 11. A dad and his daughter on matching scooters almost ran me down. I was looking around for a rock to throw at them, but they got away before I was sufficiently armed. What this city needs is some good cobblestones lying around.

I see these rats in their carefully curated tiny yoga wear, or whatever it is, and I know their names are all Willa, or Atticus, or Octavia, or, I don’t know, Chlorine. Nobody here names their kids Steve or Mike. Unless they’re girls.

Fine. I don’t care, get out of my way, get off my lawn, ask your nanny what’s the Spanish for “fuck off you little worms.” I really need to adhere more closely to my policy of not going outside before noon.

Grown up men:

But not too grown-up

The calm of meditation is good for all of us. Especially if the thought of braining some guy with a rock has captured your imagination.

Truth in advertising.

Because I’m a sucker for pretty eyes.

I’m also very fond of big, meaty asses. Which I prefer to pronounce “AHS-es.”

In Which mrpeenee Brings You Tales of Old Age and Terror


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.


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


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


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


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.

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


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.


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.