Ginger, Bite Us


You know what I adore?


The pink nipples on redheads.  Especially those that have perfected that “Wounded Fawn”  expression.  Possibly it’s a lack of expression, whatever.

Also, Saki has taken to walking on the keyboard to explain his disapproval of me not attending to my chin scratching duties.  And then he bites me.

Super Agent Fred and I ran into some old chums who were showing some out-of-towners the sights.  Or is it “sites?”  Anyway, one of them turned out to work at the Dept. of State so she and I were talking about the hilarities of government employment.  After they toddled off, I realized she had not been born when I started working for the Small Business Administration and that lots of the points I referred to are ancient history to her.

Not all of them, of course, the main one being how odd it is to work in a federal agency during an election.  We were supposed to be strictly apolitical, but the heads of all the agencies are appointed by the President and so the push to make all our accomplishments that much more bright and shiny was not terribly subtle.  Also, since SBA had an inordinate number of political appointees, every time the administration changed, so did most of the jobs all the way down to right above my head.  My what fun, watching the fatter cats sweat, knowing they were likely soon to be looking for some other cushy job.

Anyway, it was interesting gassing on about the old days to some puppy who must have mostly wondered “What the fuck?”  Well, she’ll learn.  I certainly did.

Meanwhile I’m going to go look for some redheads.

Legends Fall


Saturday June 22 will be the funeral of Jim French.  I’m sure a big chunk of my readers know this and also know who Jim French is.  What he was was simply the best erotic photographer, ever.  Ever.



Mike Betts

He started a called a business called “Colt Studios” in 1967.  The Post Office had recently lifted the ban on sending pictures of hard dicks through the mail.  French was a man in the right time.


Doug Perry


Can you ever have too much Doug Perry?  Nonsense.

Before him, gay smut was black and white with whatever trashy hustler/rent boy the photographer scraped up that day.  French shook all that up.  His early work is klutzy, understandably, but once he got his footing, goodness, how everything changed.


Ray Mars

For one thing, French was a good photographer with a background in shooting fashion.  His lenswork was admirable, crisp and well balanced, but his real talent was lighting a set.  Never had bulging muscles been so three dimensional, cocks and asses gleaming and inviting.  And he was interested in their faces too, which other photographers never even looked at.  His only weakness was in posing his subjects.  There’s a lot of classic body-building style or stiffly interacting with some prop that’s sort of quaint.



Jerry Haymes

One of his best and most frequently reused pose, is where he is on the ground beneath the model, shooting up at those mountainous titties.  The pose didn’t do much for me, but I recognize it for what it is: worship.  His best shots were the models lounging around looking supernaturally gorgeous.  Every muscled honed to perfection and symmetry as perfect as a plumline.


Billy Herrington

The real zenith of Colt was being reached right at the time I was flaming out into la vie homosexual and many, many of Colt’s models matched the creatures who populated my fantasies.  Good heavens, how thrilled I would be to find a new Colt magazine at the dirty book store.  With no internet, Colt’s magazines were the best thing we had   Even now, 30 years later, Colt Studios, which French sold in the 90s, still use images from those long gone glory days to flog their merchandise.  Sometimes I look around in the Castro and think “Some of these little old men in their cardigans and knee braces, shuffling home to feed the cat were the godlings French aimed his lens at.”


Mike Timber

I’m illustrating this with my favorites, I know many of you have your own.  I encourage you to dig them out on Saturday and remember the man who made them possible.  And then rub one out.

Uninvited Guests


I was on the patio a few days ago, reveling in the warm sunshine while I was watering the potted plants.  The blank, halfwit expression I wear while doing something so mundane disappeared when I realized I was staring at a skunk about 3 feet away from me and turned into panic.   I changed my plans for watering the big pot he was hanging around in and backed away into the house.

For the rest of the day, the skunk strutted around the patio as I watched him through the windows.  Eventually Saki joined me and instead of assuming some fierce tiger-like pose. ready to pounce if I would give him the chance, he sat there studying the skunk like it was some not-very-interesting TV.  Saki is strictly and indoor cat, so I’m not sure he understands the outside actually exists.  He got bored and wanted me to scratch his chin.


Saki’s idea of vermin control

Then two nights ago, I opened the door to the downstairs bathroom (which I hardly ever use) and saw a largish rat perched on the edge of the toilet.  Was he contemplating suicide?  We’ll never know because I screamed like a little girl and slammed the door shut.


So today we have the rodent guy out to rain death down upon them.  Or at least some kind of trap.  He and I took a tour around the outside of my house while he pointed out all the gaps and holes in the structure which apparently turn my home into some kind of Rodent Marriott.   Come on in guys, welcome!


Daze Gone By


Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.


tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.


An Undeserved Miracle


I had dinner tonight from Munchery.  They’re a company that cooks and delivers meals to people who are too lazy to get off their indolent butts and actually make food for themselves, people for whom going out to a restaurant is too much trouble.   People like me.

Their food ranges from pretty OK to not awful.  It is always better than plenty of things I’ve had in actual restaurants.  Tonight I had a steak and potato gratin, both of which were very good, and two desserts.

I have taken to ordering two desserts in restaurants.  If they have two listed that I can’t decide between, I figure, what the hell.  The servers frequently seem shocked, as if I’m indulging in some excessive madness, a bacchanal of sweets.

So tonight I had a chocolate cheesecake and a grapefruit chiffon pie.  Grapefruit motherfucking Chiffon Pie.  Doesn’t that sound thrillingly exotic?  Turns out it was bland and the crust was tough as something NASA would come up with to protect astronauts’ phones.  I pushed the cheesecake aside, cleaned up and eventually went to bed.

In my world, going to bed almost always leads to waking up a couple of hours later, in the dark with nothing to do.  “I wish,” I thought to myself,  “that I had something sweet.”  I got up and set out for the kitchen to forage for cookies or, if nothing else, toast and jelly.

Imagine my thrill at discovering a piece of chocolate cheesecake.  It may not rate with the appearance of Our Lady at Lourdes, but at the moment, I preferred it.  Unless Mary was holding a whole carrot cake, which, obviously, is the only thing that would have been an improvement.

Between bites, I made an impromptu novena, thanking whichever saint is in charge of pastries, because they certainly had come through, delivering the answer to my prayers before I even composed them.

This just in: the patron saint of pastries is St. Honore, duh, for whom those fabulous creampuff cakes are named.  Gateau St. Honore, a cake made out of cream puffs.  Could anything be more fabulous?  Well, short of discovering an unexpected cheesecake in the middle of the night.

We give thanks to St. Honore.


Cream Puff


Or Gateau St. Honoré.  Which would you rather find in your kitchen about 2:00 AM?



I took time out of my hectic schedule of sleeping and watching ridiculously attractive boys do nasty things on Chaturbate to go to the store and buy soap for the dishwasher.  I wound up staggering back to the car with two bags full of the most random things that might be called groceries ever seen.  $76 worth of chemically processed crap.

When I got home and unloaded my haul I realized it looked like I had gone shopping wearing a blindfold and with a very sketchy idea of how to cook.  A six pack of those cheese crackers filled with peanut butter.  A box of plain water crackers for cheese, only to discover I had the exact same unopened product already at home.  But no cheese.

Let’s see, what else, Doritos.  Somehow I always wins up coming hoe from the grocery with a bag of Doritos.  I think they must hand it to me as I enter and I just don’t notice.  I seem to enter into some kind of fugue state as the doors close behind me, sealing me in with all the other shambling, clueless Safeway shoppers.  I wander the aisles, aimlessly foraging and after a while, I leave, almost always without at least one item I specifically went to buy.

but I got some nice bananas and some nectarines.  We’ll see about them, it takes a few days on the shelf to either ripen into perfection or turn into moldy knobs.

R Man and I used to go to the store each Saturday, armed with lists and sense of purpose and prepare ourselves for the week ahead.  Now I find myself looking over into other shoppers carts to get ideas about what I might want to consume.

At least I got the dishwasher soap.


nothing to do with groceries, but who’s complaining?

Plagues Upon my House


I have a cleaning service, which is  fancy way of saying cleaning lady, except these are a squad of them, so we need a plural reference.  The ringleader, Aline, is from Brazil where the oddity of naming your kid after an architectural fad or a little girls dress doesn’t exist cause they speak Portuguese.  We call her Leeny.

Leeny and I and the vacuum girl (she’s teeny tiny and totes the vacuum around strapped to her back.   I call her the Borg because the vacuum is just about bigger than she is which gives the unsettling effect that she is being absorbed, but, since Leeny is the only who speaks English, she’s also the only one to get the joke.  But we all laugh.  Stupid gringo.

The Borg erupts in a torrent of Portuguese and Leeny asks what are all these bugs.  Moths.  We were in the guest room which has charcoal gray walls and black WOOL carpet and is only disturbed every other week when the Dust Squad busts in.  In other words perfect breeding grounds for the mother fuckers.

Closer examination (or actually, the only examination I have ever given the room) reveals bald spots about the size of my hand where the worthless creatures have eaten the rug down to the base.  AND I only bought this rug a couple of years ago when I was trying to deal with the cat’s insistence on peeing in there.

Tomorrow I hurl my self into the world improvement.  I don’t mind it, I like decorating, but I just hadn’t planned to rid myself of several hundred dollars this month on a room I don’t use.

Also, the front door lock will suddenly no longer lock.   One of those :”You had ONE JOB….” jokes.   Of course, the two errands clash.  I have to be here for the lock guy and I need to go pick out carpet at the rug store

On the sunnier-ish side of things, the car rental crisis seems to have resolved itself.  I kept calling the Hertz guys about this and they would ask for the reservation number and I would explain it was on the paperwork in the car, which apparently was living a carefree life off in some car impound lot.   I would ask if they could not perhaps dig up said number by using my last name.  The would admit that they could, surly that I had breached their last wall of passive resistance.  I would be on hold for quite a little while, listening to what might have been music by Brian Eno, or maybe a computer that looked like Eno.  Eventually the Hertz guy would come back on and say they couldn’t find the reservation number either.

I looked in my account.  There is a long list there of all my trips to Houston and the cars I have known there.   It could be sentimental, but it isn’t.  And then when I get down to the very end where this last ill-fated journey should be, there’s nothing.  The list ends with my trip there last December.

So here’s what I think:  I had Loss Damage Waiver insurance on that little hot rod.   The cops eventually contacted Hertz as the owner of the car and told them where to go get it.  Hertz fetched the battered hulk to it to their car repair guys, along with all the other banged up vehicles that must pour into there every day and patched it up.  From Hertz point of view, the matter is concluded, I got a bill from them that I paid, so I figure it’s over, and I think Super Agent Fred has forgotten the whole sad business.

So.  One crisis down and two to go.   I ‘m going to go take a nap.


If I had suspected this guy was involved in the Hertz fiasco, I would have paid more attention.

In Which We Crash


I have mentioned before traveling with Super Agent Fred frequently involves people screaming threats of violent harm to Fred.  “People” frequently being me.

And this time, we were so close to getting out, a mere five hours before departure from Houston, land of my birth, land of the crazy motherfuckers.

I should mention I had given the rental car to Fred to go see his parents, while I went out for barbecue with my brother.  Lord give me strength, what delicious cooked cow that was.  I had returned to our very nice hotel, well, very nice once the white trash wedding reception had been swept from the lobby.  I was packed, bathed, reading what my internet pals had to say and thinking about turning in since the car for the airport was due at 5:00 A.M. when Fred slung himself into the room in an entrance Miss Joan Crawford could never have topped, and began throwing his shoes at the walls and screeching about what a shithole Houston is and how he’s never coming here again and how this was all my fault for dragging him here.

One of the remarkable things about my friendship with Fred is how inured I am to these moments of drama.  I was just riding the storm out, waiting for him to implode.  An evening with his parents is very trying on both Fred and them, so I wasn’t particularly concerned, until, that is, his shrieked ramblings included something about the guys at the store counter wouldn’t even tell him where he was and that the cab driver corrected his geography to explain he was considerably far out of the neighborhood our hotel and his parents inhabit.

That’s when I tried to gain some control over the vitriol and get some details.  It was not easy.  For every nugget of information, there were 5 or 6 sentences, or things that resembled sentences, of passionate denunciation of Houston, the City with No Limits.

The story that finally emerged was something like this: Fred left his parents’ house having shared most of a box of wine.  So he was loaded.  Since the route from their place to our hotel is about 7 minutes long and consists of two left turns, a route Fred has made dozens of times, it seemed safe enough.

Aah, but that underestimates the genius of Fred.  Somehow Fred wound up diagonally about as far from the hotel as his original destination was when he ran over a median or curb, or (ominously) “something” and blew out his tire.  Fred’s solution was to scream at the guys at the counter, borrow some good Samaritan phone, not to call me, but to call a cab and disappear into the night.

We finally got this point of the narrative, I interrupted the flow, which had come to resemble an interpretive dance piece, to ask one of the questions that narrow minded, persnickety audiences like me have.  “Where is the car?”

Fred’s answer would have done credit to Sarah Berhardt.  He shrugged his shoulders and threw his arms in the air, a gesture which clearly implied that he didn’t know and he didn’t care.  Yes, Fred’s answer to disaster is exit, stage right.

After that, it was like a round of some not very amusing game.  I would ask a question and he would scream at me about how despicable Houston is, how this was all my fault for forcing him to come (I had said “I’m going to Houston to see my brother.  Do you want to come with?”) and how I always had to be right.  It certainly occurred to me it would be difficult to be wrong in this situation, but I let that pass.

Fred finally mentioned the cab driver had said something about Chimney Rock, a major thoroughfare in Houston, but one that has nothing to do with parents or the hotel.  I called a cab and we headed out into the warm, gentle evening to drive up and down Chimney Rock to see if we could spot the car.

The cab driver was very sympathetic, once he grasped what we were doing and even got into the spirit of the enterprise, as if we were playing some kind of game for simple minded tourists.  $200 later I said never mind, we went back to the hotel, where, by now, we were two hours away from departure.  We missed our plane.

I have spent the last week with various and sundry car rental offices and police offices and finally, today, found the car.  It had been towed from Richmond, which has nothing to do with Chimney Rock, except they do intercept, but nowhere near where the car was picked up.  The car rental people now want me to download a report and fax it to them.  First I suppose I have to find a time machine to go back to the era of faxes, but by now, that seems like small potatoes.

Several time is his many diatribes against me and Houston, Fred swore he was never returning there.  “Amen sister,” was all I could think.


Were there any super heroes around to help?  Nooooooo, they’re too busy fucking boys in chicken cages.


Texas Time


Yes, Super Agent Fred  and I are back in the old country, visiting our respective crazy, crazy, crazy ass relatives.   Who are these people?  How could i possibly have sprung from this?

My brother is the exception and I love him, he and his wife, to whom he will have been married 50 years in September.  Amazing

Amazing also, is his saintly restraint in dealing with my father who has gone from befuddled crankiness into actual insanity.  There have been “incidents.”  There have been calls from management (who seem to be actually quite nice, and determined to give the people who have been entrusted to them both dignity  and independence.  Even if they deserve neither.  Which brings us back to my father.)

Anyway, daily calls  where Ed has to stop running his own business and take time to go straighten out today’s mess.  I feel so guilty, tucked away on the far coast, absolutley insulated from the madness.

Anyway.  Texas.  Excellent Mexican food, combat strength air conditioning, and boys who truly look like this:


Of course, they are in the minority, squeezed in between the giant mounds of humanity that make up the rest of the population and take up far too much room.

We go home at dawn on Monday morning.  I am counting the microseconds.

In Which We Blow Out a Candle or Two



Today is Mis Bette Davis’ birthday.  Let us all raise a celebratory glass to the old dear, who, one is given to understand a glass, celebratory or not.

And while your glasses are up, you might as well join in a smallish toot for the author, because today is also mrpeenee’s 62nd birthday.

I write this with a mantle clock I got in New Orleans tick-tocking away behind me.  One of the reasons I got it was its businesslike tick tock.  No pussyfooting around for the baby.  Tempis Fugit bitch, and this is one clock that wants you to know it.

I am more aware than usual of the time tonight because for once I have someplace to be far too early in the morning today.  I have spent a lot of time around here complaining about my back and about how, now that the federal government is coming down on their heads about how much opiates they prescribe, my practitioners are suddenly terribly concerned I am getting to much of the old lotus eating.  My cries that I like lotus easting are swept aside and suddenly I am being cleared for an ominous sounding procedure in which they cauterize the troublesome nerve.


“Wait, is that one a nerve?  I thought they looked more fuzzy.”

I agreed with the whole thing even when they scheduled it for my birthday (at my age, it is the most exciting thing likely to turn up, god knows.)  And then they officicously pointed me off to website where I was to answer all the tedious questions they use to deliver to you while you were shivering in an inadequate robe in a chilly ward.  SO now I get to be both patient and data in putter.  I considered filling all those blanks with the snarky answers you’ve been developing since your first innoculations, but somehow I knew that would come back to haunt me.

Also problematically, they won’t release me except with a responsible adult and the only one I know who resembles that, at least under a very quick glance, is Secret Agent Fred.  Fred has agreed to help out and since the whole party is so very early said he’d spend the night here and we’d head out together.   He also, very casually, mentioned he was going to take in a few drinks with boyfriend, who’s back in town and waiting tables at a schmancy bar.

I’ve actually been through this before, where Fred was temporarily pretending to be the responsible adult with a hangover so thick it hurt to look at him.  Nurses handing me over to him would ask “This is your ride?” not even bothering to mask their conviction I would be better off in the arms of Jesus, and that I would be there soon enough.   But I have always made it back, albeit with a driver who moans, softly.

So anyway, a surgical procedure for my birthday!  It might lack the magic of a pony, but truth be told, ponies smell bad.  This time tomorrow I should have three new little holes in my back and be pain-free.  Ish.


What I want for my birthday.


What I’m going to get.