Joyeux Anniversaire

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I am not good with anniversaries.  Remembering them takes paying attention and that is so very much not my strong suit.   The one for this blog last month, Saki’s birthday (Happy Birthday, you little shit!) the commemoration of Texas’s independence from Mexico, all of it drifts by on the tide of me thinking about something else.

That’s why I was so impressed with myself when, earlier this evening, I was floating on the edge of a nap and suddenly recalled that in 1976 (America’s Bicentennial and an orgy of far too much redwhiteandblue) somewhere about the middle of August, I had sex for the first time.  Forty years of dick sucking!  Amazing.

I still remember his name, Nick Coffee.  When Mr. Coffee and mrpeenee met.  I now realize it was probably the single worst blow job I have ever given, but everybody has to start someplace.  Native talent will only take you so far.  I no longer have any idea what he looked like, dark hair, maybe?  Still, he came equipped with a penis and that’s pretty much all that counted.

I suppose it might be possible to track down Mr. Coffee’s wife and ask for his picture, but that seems like a lot of trouble, in more ways than one, so in lieu of that, let us gaze on my single favorite smut image in the world: Mike Betts from Colt Studio having removed a tuxedo and parked in front of a Chinoiserie screen.

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As Nina Simone would say “Let me sit on top your knee / Take care of business.”   Also, Happy Anniversary.

Cast Your Vote Now

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So I have wasted the whole evening trying to come up with a post about having my house painted.  Amazingly, it turns out home maintenance is not that amusing.  The only part I’m pleased with was describing the scaffolding as looking like it could take some medieval catapult, and I’m mostly happy with that because I spelled “catapult” right.

I’m having the house painted, blahblahblah.  Next.

Instead, let us turn our collective attention to naked young men, always a happy topic here at mrpeenee.

A while ago I ran across this fine young specimen and was very taken with him.  When I used him to illustrate a post (I think about Saki going to the vet, but of course) a number of readers seemed enthusiastically happy with him as well.

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Now in my ceaseless patrolling of smutty byways of the interweb, I have run across this photo.

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Doesn’t it seem to be the same viking-ish youth?  It does, doesn’t it?  Let’s put it to a vote, shall we?

Also, if anyone has any intel on him, or knows where any more of his oeuvre might be, I’d appreciate the heads up because who better to turn to for that than my readers?

Isn’t that better than details about the primer coat?

In Which We Go Traveling

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I celebrated the recent ninth anniversary of this blog by not blogging anything.  It’s a little trick I’m quite fond of.

Instead, Secret Agent Fred and I took off for Seattle.  Diane von Austinburg was going to be there for a conference and we decided a train trip up there would be amusing. We were wrong.

The trip, which is an hour and a half by plane, was 24 hours long.  By the last two hours, we were huddled whimpering in our roomette.  At one point, we wound up in some snack car that claimed to have a bar.  The bartender refused to sell me a club soda, something about it “wasn’t on the cash register.” So I demanded a bourbon and soda, hold the bourbon.  The bartender asked Fred “Is he the one that always wins the arguments?”  Yes, yes I am.  Now give me my fucking club soda.

Seattle itself was pretty and boring.  It always is.  I lived there in the late 70’s and literally left because I thought it was just too dull.  It was nice to hang with Diane, although I spent so much time in my very nice hotel room sleeping, we didn’t get together much.  She recently emailed to apologize about something or the other.  I don’t know what she was talking about, but when people want to beg forgiveness for something I don’t remember (which happens more than you might think; I’m not very good at paying attention,) my policy is to accept graciously, with my lips slightly pursed, as if to imply that I’d rather not discuss The Unpleasant Incident.  What the hell?  Whatever they’ve done, or think they’ve done, I’m sure I’ve dished out worse, so let’s just call it even and move on and let me forget something more important.

Such as the bar Fred and I went to one night.  It was in a very schwanky hotel and yet it was the darkest bar I’ve ever been in where there wasn’t actual sodomy going on somewhere close at hand.  Also surprising: the metal covered trunk being used as a table at our seats had a drawer which, when opened, revealed blood along its lip.  And not just a little blood.  Think serial killer evidence.

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So am I ever leaving San Francisco again?  Nope.  Never.  If there’s some funeral you’d like me to attend, you’ll need to have it delivered here.

In Which mrpeenee Reveals His Shame.

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I am not a political person.  I am a cynic who came of age with the hippies and then wound up surviving the worst of the AIDS plague and George Bush and I worked for the federal government.  I have, as they say, seen both sides now.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions, in fact, they are quite brilliant ones, naturellement.

Out at dinner last night a friend asked “Would you rather have Trump or Reagan as president?” and I said Trump.  Astonishment and concern flowed.  I think the general agreement was that I was suffering an udon induced stroke.

And even as I voiced my vote, I felt ashamed to have said it out loud.  I think Trump is detestable, actually a worse person than Reagan, a possibility unthinkable before this campaign.  My point was this: if you have two people trying to shoot you and one can aim and the other is a moron who is not quite sure which end the bullets come out of, which one seems more likely to cause damage?

Reagam was a monster who caused widespread and lasting damage and the reason he was able to do so was because he was capable of working in the halls of power.  Trump on the other hand, doesn’t seem like he could find those halls with GPS.  I understand he will be surrounded by much smarter men working for him who will know how to push the buttons, but still, evil and stupid versus evil and canny.  I said Trump.  Oh, the shame.  The shame.

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Also, this guy.

More White Lady Problems

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This afternoon, I was having a Day of Beauty/Spa Life in the Castro.  Got my hair cut and exchanged insights on the Walking Dead and proper zombie evasion techniques with my beauty operator, Jeff (who refused to see the brilliance of my theory that zombies can’t lift their feet high enough to climb steps, so just run upstairs.  Also, a fire axe is always handy.  Anyway Jeff’s an idiot.)  Went to the chiropractor and got well and throughly cracked.  Also, got my nails did.

That’s when the trouble hit.  Doesn’t it always?  The nail place was hushed, with quiet spa music noodling in the background, and I was ensconced in my favorite massage chair thinking how much I like someone else filing my hooves when this queen and her two lady friends busted in.  Miss Lady Queen Thing proceeded to expound in a booming voice to her gal pals just how to get a manicure.

What the fuck?  It’s not exactly a participatory event.  You sit back, let the manicurist go at it and then leave.  About all you have to remember is to only stick out one hand at a time.  I tired to keep my eyes shut and ignore the bitch, but immediately all the manicurists, who had been quietly going about their jobs and probably dreaming about the day they rise up in revolution, started chattering and giggling.  Sweetie, you can drop as far into Vietnamese as you like, but we all know who you’re gossiping about.

Still, it was a great manicure and on the way out, I saw the braying queen had picked the ugliest pukey green polish in the world.  Stupid bitch.

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I swiped this from Jason’s Tumblr, over at Golden Fleecing  .  I realized what a fussy old queen I have degenerated into when the first thing I thought of on seeing it was “That boy needs a pedicure, stat.”

Maximalist

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I was wandering up Castro Street in that sort of aimless way which is such an important part of my charm when I bumped into our old friend Gaye.  We caught up, which was easy for my part since I am a Lady of Leisure and thus the answer to “What have you been up to?” tends to brief in the extreme.  Gaye then enthused about a documentary she was off to see about minimalism.  She went on at some length about the importance of unburdening oneself when I finally interrupted to remind her that she and her husband own two homes, one of which is actually a compound, comprising a main house, two guest cottages, a barn, a shed of indeterminate purpose, and a pond.  A motherfucking pond.  Gaye had the grace to look sheepish.

I am no real fan of minimalism,  Oh, maybe in museums or gas stations, but as for home decor or a mode of living, no thanks.  I think all gay men of my generation can remember being hit with both barrels of decorating restraint in the 80s and I, for one, am still reeling.  Severe bleached wood floors, chilly white walls and the ambiance of an operating theatre.  Sex in those environs always carried with it the pleasant frisson of despoiling something, but then after, finding a towel to wipe up with was such an hassle.

True to my inner old dowager, I like stuff.  Tchotckes on tables, pillows on sofas, nice things for the cat to fuck up.  Stupid cat.  Not to the level of madness that Victorian spinsters hit, or some of the queens I have known who had to dust with dental floss to squeeze between all the bibelots, but still, some stuff.

I try to be mindful that too much knickknackery is a dead giveaway sign of having crossed over into old poofhood, so the other day when Secret Agent Fred dropped by and asked “What is that thing rolled up in the hall?  Is it a dead body?” I briefly considered going with the corpse angle to hide my shame.  In the end, though, I had to admit the truth.  “I might have bought another rug,” I said.  Airily.  Fred wondered where a new rug was going.  I assured him if I moved three of the existing ones around, everything would be fine.  That’s when I started to wonder if I have a problem.  Is there a home decor intervention in my future?  Is there redecorator rehab?

In my defense, let me point out it is a gorgeous piece.  In the late 1920s up until World War II shuttered them, there were several rug weavers in Shanghai that created these stunning rugs in odd, vibrant colors and charming pictoral designs like pagodas and lanterns and bamboos.

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This one is the most beautiful tones of chartreuse and lavender and the design is something that I think is a geyser and a parrot, dahlias, and lotus.  Obviously, I had to have it.  And this is the LAST ONE.  I swear.

The Terrors of the Hidden World

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Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

  • the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
  • farts by people in line in front of me
  • cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

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Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

On the Road with Fred. Again

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Odd how traveling with Secret Agent Fred so often involves threats of violence against him.  Usually from me.  We are visiting our respective families in Houston (mine started out here, but Fred’s wound up here from Brooklyn.  Life is so odd.)  I had spent the night before we left San Francisco trying to track the miscreant down.   He had sent me an email asking that I come fetch him and that his phone was dead.  By the time I got down to his place, though, he had disappeared and with no phone, there was no way to find him short of hitting every bar in San Francisco.  I followed my tracks home and was annoyed to find him there, drunk and giggling.  With the cat.  That’s when I reiterated my old tune about finding a baseball bat and smacking him the head.  It’s one of my greatest hits.

Anyway, Houston.  We’re staying across the street from a gigantic shopping mall and have wound up there a couple of times.  Malls give me the heebie jeebies, but I have to admit there are plenty of cute boys to ogle there and fudge sundaes, to boot.  Our hotel is one which tossed Fred out on his ear last fall for misbehaving, so Fred keeps griping about them and I keep waiting for some of the staff to spot him.  I was looking forward to some sort of drama filled showdown, but it looks like either we’re lucky or the hotel is too discreet.  I was just born to be disappointed.

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Fred being all artsy.

Cafe Life

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I don’t know what you little chickens may have been up to recently, but I have spent the last couple of weeks being entertained by the charming eponymous Muscato from Cafe Muscato .  The old dear was in town for work (or “work.” More on that later) and put up with my blathering for a couple of dinners and a long Saturday afternoon when I promised to show him around town, but which turned out to be nothing but a long coffee at Peet’s, a long trip to the hardware store, and then a long dinner.  I would like to point out it is an especially amusing hardware store and dinner was excellent.

Throughout, Muscato was the most amusing company one could ask for.  I plied him with all sorts of lies and exaggerations about my little life and was able to weasel out a great many of the details that he is so meticulously discreet about on his own site.  I would like to imply I am not sharing them because I am honoring his rectitude about personal items (mrpeenee, The Soul of Discretion.  There’s a laugh,) but actually, I’m not sure I really believe these stories of a blameless but colorful life from Broadway to Cairo.  It’s possible it was a carefully crafted cover story.  Two words: Black Ops, darling.

I can now picture Muscato ensconced in some sweaty Asian bar, murmuring instructions to a dead-eyed operative who then departs to unleash Jason Bournesque destruction while Muscato returns to his subterfuge as a North African taxi dancer.

I am not fooled by tales of domestic bliss and terriers.  Some day there will be congressional hearings replete with all sorts of redacted documents and takings of the Fifth and there will be our own Muscato, “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.” his only quote.

You just wait.

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The Discrete Charms of Muscato, left.  Who the guy in the background is is beyond me, but as you can see, he is noting every word of our scintillating conversation which I believe was probably about porn.  That came up a lot.  For heaven’s sake, he’s not even being subtle.