Gay Teeth


I had a root canal in March.  Not the highpoint of my spring, but not bad either.  Didn’t hurt, but it gave me an excuse to make sure everyone I knew was sympathetic.  It turns out they should have saved their sympathies for the follow up visits (yes, plural) which were considerably more uncomfortable than the original.  Being the over achiever that I am, the whole sorry mess was caused by a hole in my jaw under a molar that arose from an infection there.  The root canal allowed the dentist to pack it with antibiotics and these follow ups were him pulling out the temporary filling, looking to see how the infection is doing (completely impervious) and then stuffing the filling back in.  Ouchy.

Mostly, I don’t mind, even the ouchy part is just shy of actually hurting.  The office is in the very most fancy schmancy part of San Francisco, just down the block from Saks and the Louis Vuitton boutique.  Appropriately enough, it’s decorated in this pricey, usleek sci-fi aesthetic.  The walls are frosted glass, the views impressive and the chairs are motorized works of art.  All the chair pieces are individually adjustable, your legs, your back, your head; for all I know, your spleen.  That’s where what may be the worst part of the treatment comes in:  I am about a foot too big for the ridiculous things.  I sprawl out of them at both ends and no amount of adjusting can squeeze me in.

The dentist is dear little thing, bald with big sad brown eyes who has a commanding view of my chest since that’s what he comes up to.  His assistants are even shorter, so everyone there hoovers somewhere around my elbows.  It’s very much like being treated by hobbits.

When the good doctor was whaling away on my mouth this last time, I was concentrating on not thinking about what was going on.  From my safe place, I had a sudden fantasy of him perched up on my chest to get access to the back of my gaping maw, sort of like a capuchin monkey.  The resemblance is pretty striking.  The picture made me snort, which made me choke, which is a problem when someone has their fist in your mouth.

Well, anyway, it’s Gay Pride in San Francisco and that means we are now officially gayer than gay.  Here in the Castro neighborhood, the epicenter of queer life, Pride celebrations last for more than a week, culminating in the big parade next Sunday.  Before then there are minor parades and festivals and high minded seminars and low comedy and my chiropractor in semi-drag (his description) cowboy costume for the Gay Men’s Choris version of Ghost Riders in the Sky.  Don’t ask.

Every year, well aware that Pride is on the horizon, I am still taken by surprise when I look up walking home from the grocery and realize the sidewalks are jammed with lesbians and German tourists.  “Oh, right,”  I think, “Pride.”

My own contribution to the celebrations and as a counter to my teeny tiny miniature root canaler is Nick Pulos, seriously massive weightlifter and part-time Greek god.  Standing 6 foot 5 and weighing in at 290 lbs. with a beard you could smuggle drugs in, Pulos is the kind of man that makes you glad to be queer.




Tragically, there are no publicly available pictures of Mr. Pulos man meat.  Believe me, I have searched

And yes, the Gay Men’s Chorus really truly is singing Ghost Riders in the Sky.  I just assume they will never be able to touch the devastatingly bizarre collision of Peggy Lee covering it:

Happy pride everybody!  Go suck a dick!

Readers Write Back


Well, hooray for all my blog friends.  The previous post contained, among other debris, 3 pictures of the kind of men you wouldn’t mind meeting in a dark alley,  Constant readers of mrpeenee were able to identify 2 of them, as well as provide the artist of the flying-goat-and-tiger-in-space (thank you Mitzi) AND discuss the origin of the photoshop disaster.  Turns out that all that’s left of the original is the lovely head and the weird hand.  Which raises the question, was the head and hand picture photoshopped onto the dick and nuts picture or the other way around?  And, again,WHY KEEP THE FREAKY HAND?

I had posed the post as a query for my readers to explain what was going on with said freaky hand, and you guys responded in thrilling form and then some.  I knew I could depend on you for details inquiring minds would want to know, but I was delighted with the surge of informed answers about the who, the what, and the excessively hung.  Here at mrpeenee inc. we always say, if you want to know the capital of Delaware, go to Google, but if you want the details about a humpy Latino go-go boy, turn to the gang of internet savvy poon hounds.

And now, a reward, of a particularly back door orientation, cause I am feeling the need for booty:


When tan line perfectly accentuates perfect butt chops.


And then, when tan line and tattoo perfectly accentuates perfect butt chops.


And then, when you don’t need either.


And the front side, too.

Pix of the Day



I have no idea why I find this illustration so darn amusing, but I do.  I think it quite hilarious, in fact.

And now, down to business.  Although I am always willing to flog a dead horse, I am genuinely not interested in harping any further on the whole Crimes of PhotoShopping which I brought up earlier.   But coincidentally, I ran across this odd specimen earlier tonight and I have to bring it to your attention not just to gripe about it, but in hopes that you might help me answer the whole Nancy Drew and the Riddle of the Right Hand thing going on here.


At first glance it appears actually less egregious than the earlier examples, but a close inspection will have eagle eyed readers wondering “What the fuck is going on with his right hand?”  Not only is it oddly proportioned, it also sort of looks like it’s been pasted behind his leg.  Was it borrowed from, like, I don’t know, an old Cher layout?  Does he have a growth, an extra hand on his hand?  Is it a mutation?  I know I am prone to jumping on the alien express all too often, but do you think he’s an alien?

Also, once again, this guy would appear to have already been phenomenally good looking.  So why would someone feel the need to run him up the PhotoShop flagpole?  And then not fix the remaining creepy hand/thing?

To make up for that, let’s move on to some more soothing specimens:


Two words: Duh Lish.  So very appealing, amirite?  and completely un-PhotoShoped.  I think.  I hope.


Yee Haw.   I ran across this and immediately (well, OK, not immediately, but pretty soon after I had examined all the salient points) thought he was posed in front of a giant Texas state flag.  My long lost heritage came to my rescue and reminded me the red panel goes on the bottom.  I can only hope the young man does as well.


And does this guy look like he would be a choice addition to any party?  Fuck yeah.

Operators Are Standing By


The mrpeenee Smutball Foundation, ever vigilant against threats to the vision of the numberless hoards fond of looking at muscley cute boys in various stages of undress, calls on you to join us in the fight against the scourge of the internet.  For even in this paradisiacal time of almost limitless booty shots and dick pics, there will always be malcontents who just have to fuck that shit up.  Yes, I am talking about Crimes of Photoshop.

These are not the simple errors of some poor photo editor who has forgotten to move the hand of a random supermodel whose thighs he was whittling down for the cover of  Us Weekly.  Nor is it the harmless noodling of the guy in accounting killing time before the quarterly budget meeting by pumping up some Brazilian soccer godlet’s biceps to look like something from the produce section.

These are villains who take perfectly innocent pictures of perfectly innocent muscle hunks perfectly innocently whacking their meaty goods and purposefully warp them into an atrocity in which the subject is inflated beyond even their already overwhelming proportions.  It is more than gilding the lily, it is sticking an air hose up the lily’s butt.

Exhibit A: in which every facet of the poor model’s body is facing in a different direction, nipples are askew, one of his arms seems dislocated, but we can’t tell which one, and his head is some teeny tiny afterthought.


Exhibit B:  in which an attempt to make the model taller goes tragically wrong.  You get to this picture in Tumblr and starting from his lovely thick hair, you scroll down, and scroll down, and scroll down looking for dick, or at least jeans until you wind up in the Twilight Zone of endless abs.   What is this, the Slender Man of soft core?


Lastly (in this post,  certainly not in the endless world of Internet naked men) we have a display of classic Photoshop fuckery in which muscles are distorted to the point that, again, the wee little head seems to have just dropped by for a visit.



We all understand, do we not, that these photos were originally of an Adonis who has already sculpted his body into such immaculate perfection the obvious conclusion is that he is, in fact, an alien.  These efforts at “improvement” on what is better than what 99 per cent of humanity can ever achieve are simply egregious.   Knock it off.

That’s why we’re asking you to join us in the fight against Photoshop Crimes.  These butchers against humpy guy photography must be stopped.  Won’t you help?


I do hope this what this young man actually looks like and that we can all agree to leave well enough alone.  Because this is plenty well enough.

The Cozy Life



From some damn place on the internet:

  • Bagworm Moth caterpillars collect little twigs and cut them off to construct elaborate tiny log houses to live in.   As soon as the caterpillar hatches, it begins weaving a cocoon around itself. It then adorns the cocoon with twigs, leaves, and other plant matter to camouflage itself from predators. The caterpillars remain mobile and take their decorated home with them wherever they go. If the caterpillar feels threatened it can seal off the end of the cocoon, cutting a new opening once the threat has passed.


  • Each case is distinctive to the species of bagworm depending on the habitat they live in. Cases range in size from less than 1 cm to 15 cm among some tropical species. Males leave their cases as adults to find mates, but females spend their lives inside their cases, eventually laying their eggs inside of it.

I have no idea why I find this Better Homes and Bugs so fascinating and appealing, but I do.  I suspect whatever draws me to them also helps explain why I adopted the shut-in lifestyle so enthusiastically.  The little worm cases (what an adorable name!) just seem so darn cozy.  Trundling around with your house on your back where you can withdraw whenever the need strikes you.  Or never even leave, should you be a lady bagworm.  And so esthetically pleasing, like all these bugs took a bunch of acid and decided to copy Dr. Seuss.

Along the same lines, I am always struck by the sidewalk encampments some homeless guys are able to craft.  I am under no illusion that these are in any way “cozy,” but the resourcefulness they exhibit has to be admired.  Many years ago, trundling along to a sex club on a dank wintery evening, I ran across the one that had to be the most brilliant example of make-do architecture ever.  I don’t know if they still do, but at the time Fed Ex had drop off centers that were completely help your self.  They were stocked with Fed Ex mailing supplies including these oversized envelopes made of Tyvek, a plastic paper that is waterproof.  This guy had apparently raided one of these centers (or possibly several) and made off with all the Tyvek envelopes.  They have self seal strips on the flaps which he used to attach them to each other in a row and then stuck the rows to each other in a fish scale so they wouldn’t leak and made a tarpaulin out of them to spread over him.  I barely restrained myself from climbing in to see what other innovations in sidewalk living he had conjured up.

So if I ever wind up on the streets, I plan on heading over to Fed Ex first thing and then stopping off at Costco to get one of those industrial sized orange shopping carts they have.  I will be so set.


I will invite this young man over to my caravanserai.



I know it’s hard to look past that flagpole, but I’ve been nostalgic for my garden and I see that sere and barren hillside past the pool that some moron has covered in rocks and a few desiccated bland shrubs and I think, “That is a landscape for somebody who hates landscapes.”  And then I go back to admiring all that meat laid out like a goddam buffet.

Evil and Adorable and STINKY


This is not Saki


Just some random ginger, but still the most intelligent being in the room

The other night on the couch, while critiquing the latest in porn, it became clear the cat was farting up a storm.  Tuna farts as our friend Brainiac would say.  I chastised him and that had exactly as much effect as you would expect a cat to muster up over your protests.  As I sat there trying to hold my breath until the money shot, I had the sudden epiphany that it was not Saki’s farts (although those are certainly deadly in their own right) but rather his breath that smelled like the inside of a hobo’s shoe.

I resist having his teeth cleaned because they have to anesthetize the cat when they do it and that seems like something that can go really wrong.  But unless I was going to invest in some serious gas mask equipment, we were simply going to have to go through with it.

Cut to a couple of weeks later, because apparently I am the only cat owner in San Francisco who doesn’t et their cat’s teeth scraped on the regular resulting in a backlog at his vet, and I drop Saki off with a tender “See ya later buddy,” and wandered home to take a nap.

When the vet’s office called about 3:00 to say I could come pick the little terror up about 6:15 and that they close at 6:30 I answered firmly something along the lines of “Got it, see ya” and then promptly fell back to sleep.  I awoke, sort of, in a state of ODEARGODWHATTIMEISIT and discovered it was 6:29.  Turns out screaming fuck fuck fuck does not open a time portal to let you go back in time to when the vet was still open to rescue your cat.

Aside from rebuking myself, I was resigned to Saki spending the night there.  They board cats so I guessed it would be no big deal, but I was still glad when they called a few minutes later to ask if I was coming to get him.  Oh, the relief.  Not a touch on what he felt when we finally got home.  He refused to get off my lap even when I stood up, so I carried him around with me like an inconvenient purse.

The upshot is that now we get to watch porn unimpeded and Saki can groom himself without spreading toxic waste all over his coat.  Score!


Enter a captionWhen dressing for a day at the beach, ask yourself “Is my bathing suit smaller than my phone?”  We feel that the answer should usually be yes.


On the other hand, when choosing swimming attire consider whether you look like a human toupee.  If so, please just skip the pool life and go comb your back.


Swanning About with mrpeenee


I have an absolutely sweet life, it’s true.  This is my idea of an exhausting day, jampacked with errands and bits to do:

First, I have to leave my building.  A traumatic first step, I know, but the lovely San Francisco environment helps.  Blue, blue sky with just enough fog layered over the hills to keep things cool and to add a piquant note to the landscape.



First stop, Peets, for a jolt of espresso and snack, just to rev up enough energy to get me up the two blocks to HandJob for a manicure.



Here at Hand Job, they value my socks.  They always complement me on them.









I also got my hair cut, but I forgot tot take any pictures.  Plus my beauty operator is so cranky, I’m always sort of afraid to try.  I was so exhausted after, I had to stop for a piece of cake, served by the most delectable little waiter.



And then I had to stop at Peet’s on the way home for one last latte to get me up the block.



I was worn to a frazzle.  I barely had the energy to look at humpy naked mens.  And look what I found!  Yeah, yeah, yeah, perfect muscles, flawless skin, strong masculine features, probably is kind to animals, etc…, but the thing I was most struck by was his lovely tattoo.  How artistic.


Speaking of Tattoo, I watched the Tom Hardy TV series of that name.  Gibberish.  Plot holes you could drive through, but Tom looks good, in a muddy sort of way.

The Burden of Perfection


Let me start off by complaining.  Apparently, I am convinced the real point of a blog is obtaining a platform for whining.  Anyway, by a completely random alignment of a hostile universe, I wound up going to two different dentists two days in a row this week and it was exactly as much fun as it sounds like it would be.

Moving on, let us consider this latest exhibit in my Gay Porn Meets the Eerie Valley collection:


I understand it’s possible that this creature is actually a human thing, just another one of us pink apes, but the first thing that came to mind when I saw this was “Finally, my demands for a gay sex doll have been answered.”

What triggers the idea that this is not born of woman?  Maybe it’s his complete lack of pores, maybe it’s the utter stillness he projects, maybe it’s his ability to hold his tee shirt with his butt cheeks.  Of course, if he is the newest thing in sexbots, it’s possible he has a coat hook attached to his pussy.  If he does, that is most certainly an upgrade I want to skip.


mrpeenee Wonders


How is this even possible?


In this universe, I mean.  How on earth do you come up with that much muscle?  Plus, I have been closely observing men’s muscles for decades (for purely academic purposes of course.  I hope to complete my thesis, The Implications of 20th Century Homosexual Political Response and ManPussy’s Giant Ass Booty soon.) and I can attest that even the most gym rat men simply did not look like this in the past.  An example:


This gigantic wall o’ butt is something that has arisen, so to speak, in the last few years.  I understand many of the examples of it one encounters on the internet are the result of the wonder of Photoshop, but I also know that you actually see specimens walking the streets.  Or rather, waddling the streets, since the fruits of their labor means they cannot walk like mere humans.

Am I complaining?  Fuck no.  For once.  But I am struck by how the goal for muscle men keeps moving.  In the 80s, working out stopped at the waist so bodybuilders had this odd, top-heavy look.  Then when they caught on and bulked up downstairs, severely defined muscles became all the rage and they had to be cut for the gods.  And now it’s all ass, ass, ass.



Again, not complaining, but how do they all know?  Is there a Muscle Pussy Central Command that decides “OK, from now on, it’s glutes and nothing butt.  Heeheeheee.”

Living the mrpeenee Life


You know how you can filter search results in Amazon? I want to be able to filter out Stupid Books. I have had such a hard time lately finding anything I want to read. Everything seems to be about a troubled teenager, orphaned, who finds out he/she has a super power, or magic, or genetic resistance to acne and can’t figure out how to use his/her powers. And of course, a fabulously sexy, cute, completely out of his/her league dreamboat falls for him/her. How many times are they going to write the same stupid story?

I walked over to Foreign Cinema for lunch with the Fashion Sensation, who is leaving town in a few weeks for good for her life in Canada, and some guy on Mission Street told me in a loud, firm voice “No monkeys, no problem.” He seemed to be waiting for an answer so I said “Yeah” cause what else can you say? Then I walked the rest of the way worrying about what I had just agreed to.

Following up on random street drama, just in case I was missing out, a few days later, MINDING MY OWN BIDNESS, I spotted two guys occuping prime sidewalk real eastate and screaming at each other.  I was reminded of a time a few years ago when I stumbled on the same situation only to realize the guys weren’t screaming at each other, they were just screaming simultaneously.  I was reminded because as I drew abreast of this new pair, I understood, once again, that they were yelling apparently oblivious of each other.  Or maybe they were trying to outdo the other.  Or crazy guy street harmony.  Who knows.

I know I talk a lot about the loose nuts here, but they’re just so darn colorful.  I try to keep in mind that the weather is still gorgeous, I have broken out my short sleeve t-shirts finally, and I have plans for a lovely dinner with friends tonight.  Feral lunatics are simply the price for life in paradise.


When I finally run the universe, there will be quite a bit more of this streetside and less loud craziness.


But I will keep this for myself.