l’ anniversaire. Or Two



July brings with it the only two anniversaries we recognize here at chez peenee, and I can’t tell you how proud of my bad self I am to have remembered them this year.  Usually, along about September, I will realize I have once again let them slip by.  But not this year, baby.


Whenever I would find Saki plopped down like this I would announce theatrically, “Dear god, someone’s shot the cat.”. No one ever thought it was a funny joke, but that has never stopped me.

So give it up for the 13th birthday of Saki, the evil and adorable cat who rules the roost locally.  I have 13 years of scars to prove my devotion to the little terror so that when I occasionally threaten to put him out on the sidewalk for the coyotes, no one is truly impressed, certainly not Saki himself.  As I have so often said, gazing into his bright green eyes, “DON’T BITE ME.”  Since he ignores everything, except string, it’s not very effective, but I keep trying.  Anyway, Happy Birthday to my little buddy.

Also in the anniversary lime light is mrpeenee’s blog.  I only started writing this 13 years ago because at the time it was easier to comment on other blogs if you had one of your own you could sign in with.  That quirk disappeared almost immediately after I cranked up this blog, but by then it was too late, I was on the self publishing train.  And what a ride it has been; so much deathless prose, so many naked guys, so many rants, so many raves.  The only thing I would have changed would be to include more aliens.

Birthday boys in their birthday suits

tumblr_37b9a3acf9eb873fd3b16254e5b7c882_1470ad72_1280I want to start making porn just so I can use the great title In the Driver’s Seat.

tumblr_c9d5196ba72dc1a08df37e2d012392ba_5b114592_1280Once again, some guy you just know would be trouble, but would that stop any of us?

tumblr_fa511b8aa2c7243f4c4ebde134c2e3ff_cd71c46b_500“Does that mean I can skip the mid-term exam?”

tumblr_nzxfy3MHem1umhaneo1_500Who among us could ever pass up a lunk with big junk?

20My idea of the ideal garage door opener.

Hair Today


I resolved not to write about hair during the time of virus, but what the fuck?  Pretty much the only thing going on in my life is my hair continuing to get more out of hand.  How can I be balding and still have too much goddam hair?  Every time I consider going outside, I look in the mirror and see some new horror and decide maybe I’ll just stay home, so maybe that’s a good thing.  All I want is some of the cow licks pruned back a little.  Is that asking too much?

The city announced salons could open July 13, so I texted my barber, whimpering and begging, for an appointment and got one for July 19.  I was looking forward to it like a little child anticipates Christmas.  Then the mayor said we had all been so good, she would move the opening date up so my barber offered me July 4 instead.  Yee haw, they’ve moved Christmas ahead 2 weeks.

Only problem is today the city began hemming and hawing about the opening date, because of a spike since they started easing up on the lockdown earlier this month.  The date for salons is now “on hold” and I am back in tears.  They’ve cancelled Christmas?  How could they do this to a poor innocent like me?



tumblr_pyzdhz7xwv1y0egvpo1_r2_640How come I can’t have nice, tidy hair like this?

tumblr_a24ec3cdae99273e850c16f85ed2e3ce_aa200aec_640Arty, huh?

tumblr_785dc46f9c1899a93c27ef8e9017f883_6e558d8d_1280A tanline that looks like it was drawn with a laser.

tumblr_9f2f860f9078d981e2e11fd1789b40e2_d4ed1acb_1280Paul Wagner is one of my favorites

The Land of Dreamy Dreams


The New York Times recently ran a story about the dreams people have been having since the quarantine started.  At least, I think it was recently.  Who knows.? Chronology has never been my strong suit and with lockdown, I’m more vague than ever.  Time, as Steve Miller once sang, keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’….

Anyhoo, the Times story was about 20 submissions from readers and most of the dreams seemed suspiciously well crafted.  Usually a beginning, a middle, and an end with dialogue and everything but a fucking moral to wrap things up.

My own dreams are never that tidy.  Well, except for the period right after I started the AIDS meds I’m on now.  One of the side effects was dreams that were Technicolor vivid with actual plot lines.  Little movies in my brain.  I understand that side effect is common enough that the pills are in demand in prison for the thrill rides they provide in sleep.

Aside from that, though, I have no linear dreams.  Short bits that make sense (my brother driving his old pickup and offering me a joint) but normally more of the flying-monkeys-coming-for-breakfast kind of thing.

Lately they have taken a turn for the worse.  Still nonsensical, but now the chaos is the surroundings I’m in.  Now I am standing hip deep in junk and debris, like one of those episodes of that awful Hoarders show.  I am a very neat person (perhaps too neat.  Why, hello OCD) and these drifts of empty pizza boxes and old shopping bags and little, random pieces of clockwork distress me.  But my unconscious seems to have taken note of Current Events and is expressing its displeasure.

And fucking filthy.  Like the floor of a toilet in an abandoned truck stop.  Yuck.  Even my dream state me doesn’t want to touch anything.  But a common theme in all my dreams is organization,  like packing or straightening the contents of a messy drawer, so I will be confronted with a mountain of garbage and feel compelled to fix it.

I’ll be so glad when this is all over and I can go back to pancakes with flying monkeys.  In the meantime, why can’t I get sexy times with guys like this:

tumblr_958ef93cbd10dcd6cbe7cd4b8b1b43a3_62dc81eb_540I’ve given up trying to find pictures I like that have escaped the curse of photoshop.

tumblr_5178d407e5b905187785f4cbd7c591b3_902790d3_400Cute, huh?

tumblr_cbf384e3341fa964a051908698b83e2a_34a97d2a_540This guy seems familiar, or possibly it’s his enhanced wienie.

tumblr_plr6qpSiLp1t12805_1280I am much too pale to enjoy hanging out in the sun, but lockdown has made me long to lounge poolside.

tumblr_m5khu4Rc8q1r1p0vpo1_1280I’m digging that Danish modern chair, but the odd window bothers me.

Things That Matter


I have been reluctant to post lately because I didn’t have anything original to add to the discussion about racism in America, but ignoring it was impossible.  But whenever I considered trying, I was held back by all the white guy attempts on the topic that were so embarrassingly bad and I wanted to avoid those traps.

There’s the “All Lives Matter” fatheads who just enrage me.  Let me point out, once again, BLM is a reminder that, well, black lives matter, which is apparently still news to many policemen, the FOX news dolts, and at least one president.  I take comfort in knowing I have no urge to fall for that idiocy.

Then there’s the “I’m Not a Racist.” guys who then proceed to prove both that they are, indeed, racist and also completely tone deaf to their own natterings.  I can actually see me falling into this trap, so I’m trying extra hard to avoid it.

At the other end of the spectrum of delusion, there’s the “I am TOTALLY a Racist” queen who revels in his guilt, trying to ensure everyone knows how he now understands and recants.  No saint like a reformed sinner, emphasis on saint.  But at the end of the day, that does nothing to alleviate the problem of entrenched racism.  Or alleviate anything else, really.

So, I’m not stepping in any of that poo, thank you.

But staying silent is as bad as being wrong in this case, so here are my two personal points:

  1. Black Lives Matter.
  2. If they can kneel on George Floyd’s neck, they can kneel on yours.


    Cats don’t care

We’ve had many colorful protests in San Francisco, including one outside my building and another one yesterday composed of skateboarders, loud and enthusiastic, and which woke me up.  Naturally,  I responded in classic old man style.  “Darn kids.”


And now, completely inappropriate naked guys:


I may be ambivalent about tattoos, but I come down firmly on the side against Bug Tattoos.  And are those lice?  Yeeesh.



Well, you know, Yow.  Adam Ayash, who doesn’t usually show his dick, which is a shame.


tumblr_a7864cda8829afc9d22cc19f959339a1_325b81e9_500Caged heat.



Some joke about Small Business, Big Cock.  I don’t know.


tumblr_14f3b8f682bc908b45cf64a5a452a6a8_bcea4092_1280Big dick skinny boy, a phenotype I know all too well.

In Which We Withdraw


Has the ennui of lockdown eroded your spirit to the point you can’t tell one week from the other, let alone the days?  If so, you may be thinking anything to spice up the old day-to-day would be an improvement.  I sympathize, but I cannot recommend the lengths I accidentally went to this week which certainly created a time I will be able to pick out with absolutely no trouble.

I have spent every day since this weekend increasingly baffled about how uncomfortable I’ve been.  Headaches, stomachaches, muscle aches: all the aches. Hot flashes and cold clammy spells.  A weird, free floating weakness that made me rethink taking the trash out.  And plenty of mental excitement as well with confusion, irritability, and anxiety flitting through my responses like an emotion strobe light.

None of these troubles lasted long and very rarely occurred simultaneously.  Everybody would just line up, patiently waiting their turn.  Naturally, Ii assumed I had the covid virus, cause why not, but the ongoing mental fog made sure I never had the brain power to be very concerned.

And then Thursday night, the muddle thinned out long enough for me to think “I wonder if this has anything to do with stopping my anti-depressant cold turkey?”  And the Duh Award for 2020 goes to mrpreenee.  Again.

I have been taking Lexapro for about 15 years for my depression.  I called in my refill last week (when I still had a few functioning wits) to my mail order pharmacy and went back to wondering about whatever happened to various porn actors from 30 years ago.


Tragically, Mike Betts, my favorite person of porn ever, is no longer with us.

Eventually, I ran out of Lexapro, cause that’s what happens when you take a medicine every day.  I knew you are never supposed to just stop it without tapering, but I had ordered a refill and assumed it was on its way and the shortfall wouldn’t be for long.  Lah Lah Lah lalala la.   What a beautiful fool I was.

Turns out my stolen credit card which I cancelled in mid-April and which has been causing me grief ever since, is still up to its old hijinx.   The pharmacy had the number I cancelled and when they attempted to charge the refill to it, it was declined.  And so they deleted the order, a bold move I only discovered when I called yesterday to ask “Whatever happened to that drug I’m supposed to never stop taking?”

Eventually I hammered out actually refilling the prescription. It’s supposed to be here on Wednesday.  The only problem is that since I ran out almost a week ago, I have been slowly sliding into withdrawal, which is where all those pesky symptoms originated.

Calling in to their customer service was exactly as much fun as it ever is, but livening up the exchange was my lack of metal clarity.  Trying to explain the situation was about as effective as writing graffiti on the wall and hoping for the best.  Thank god the chick on  the other end of the phone was patient; unfortunately, she was also sort of dim. I was hampered by the fact I couldn’t remember the name of the drug and also by the fact I didn’t realize the credit card number fiasco until way late in the conversation, when I had to then try to explain it to Miss Not The Sharpest Knife In The Drawer.

Actually practice with that exasperating little song and dance came in handy when I had to go through all of it again with my doctor’s office and Walgreens since I had to beg for enough pills to get me through the rest of this week until the mail order ones get here.  If I hadn’t already been crazed and beaten before those chats (multiple chats because the insurance wouldn’t let them give me the medicine I needed to not be a crazy, sick old queen) I  certainly was by the end of them.

Anyway, all of that is finally behind me, I have my drugs and I expect to be shipshape any day now.  Which would be a relief since I have had absolutely no control over my emotions for days now.  I teared up watching the video of the CNN reporter being arrested on live TV for covering the protests in Minneapolis, even as I wondered “There are black people in Minneapolis?”

Understanding what’s going on in my disrupted little brain also makes me feel  better about my run in with the smug, eminently quarantined pig lady at the grocery (here)  I realize now I was chemically out of control and maybe understandably on the verge of attacking her with whatever was the most lethal product in my basket.   Social distance?  Bitch, I am off my meds and the distance you should be concerning yourself with is however much you can nail down by running in the opposite direction.  But you know, you live, you learn.

Perhaps naked men will make me feel better.



I feel better already


That goony look on his face?   That’s how I have felt all week


Did you know Tolstoy was a hot army guy?

tumblr_2e99e06a91390fd1252ad7726407e664_7f61da55_640And that he was reincarnated as porn bitch Jake Orion?


Sometimes I pick dick shots not just for the dickiness.  Like this one.  More than its photoshopped pud (stupid photoshop,) I was struck by his delightfully precise tanline.  Which part(s) of that are real?

tumblr_pkc37d1SUQ1t12805_500Oooh.  Fancy.

tumblr_fed3951fd1c78f9cd2d66aea745673cb_1c73f1d7_1280For mikey.  Cause he’s all about dat daddy stuff.

Staircase Wittery




I was devastated to find out this was a fake news piece, a satire.  Of course, part of its problem is the implication that IKEA actually is not a labyrinth with no exit.

I know this first bit is full of tedious details and I apologize, but you’ll understand the need for it later on.

So, my favorite grocery faced up to the quarantine quite correctly by instituting sensible, effective rules for shopping there. Wait outside until it’s your turn, wear face masks, only handle produce you intend to buy, stuff like that.  I am perfectly OK with this, it all makes sense.  They also put down arrows on the floor to turn the aisles into one-way paths to facilitate social distancing.  Again, I understand it’s a good idea and I tried diligently to obey them, and yet I would inevitably look down and find myself walking in the wrong direction, rowing against the tide.  “What the fuck,” I would wonder,  “I stopped smoking weed 40 years ago, how can I still be loaded?”  I also sometimes would find myself in the dread Corner of No Exit back by the cream cheese, but that’s not important.

Finally, this evening I realized what the issue is.  The long back aisle is one way North for half its length and one way South the other.  Where the two routes met, you’re supposed to turn up the liquor aisle (how appropriate) and then sort of spiral your way back through the rest of your grocery list.  OK, that’s the tedious bit, thank you for your attention.

When I entered the store this evening, I was still a dewey-eyed innocent who did not understand the way of the Back Aisle.  I was shambling along in the mental fog groceries induce in me when I foolishly tried to step around this frumpy old bat who was blocking the aisle.  She took the bait of my lack of social distance immediately.   “Back up,” she demanded, her eyes gleeful.  I know I posted earlier this month (here) how I didn’t approve of someone using other people’s innocent mistake to show how superior their quarantine was, only this time I was not merely a spectator but the object of her delighted GOTCHA!  Worse, I was at fault, since in trying to wedge past the bitch I was less than 6 feet.  Mea Fucking Culpa.

I could have (should have) simply accepted the rebuke and gone about my life and the world would have been a better place.  Instead, as I backed up I said “Well, pick up the pace, sweetie.”  In my defense, the reason I had tried to go around her was how long she was taking to pick out her miserable Lesbian Bread (Plenty of Fibre and GUARANTEED No Pleasure!)

What a fool I was.  That just opened the door to an even juicier riposte of how I didn’t understand The Point.  Which delayed us, and the line growing behind me now, even more.  Finally, she hoisted her Sawdust ‘N Crumbs into her basket and wheeled off.   Still, the pastry cabinet had TWO of my favorite pear and custard croissants, so I was able to move on with a minimum of grumbling.

And then, because the mill of god grinds incredibly fine, I barely started down the back aisle only to look up and come face to face with Tinkerbelle again, bearing down on me with an odd look on her face.  If only I could take back the words “You’re going the wrong way” which fell from my lips then.  Because even as I spoke, I looked beneath her feet and saw the two intersecting arrows and in an instant understood the whole “Two aisles diverged in a grocery and I – I took the one less traveled by, and fucked up.”

I cannot adequately describe the vicious delight that seized her, the triumph that lit her mean little face.  I couldn’t even focus on her smug spiel about how she certainly was not wrong, the aisles were marked, maybe I should study them, blahblahfuckingblah.  All I could think of was what a tool I had been to put myself at her mercy TWICE.  I am now convinced I gave that shrew the only orgasm she will ever know and I begrudge her it.

There is a charming French term “the wit of the staircase” which means thinking of a reply too late to use it effectively.  All I could do was wheel around and exit, the wrong way to the produce aisle and go up it, the wrong way, indulging in lots and lots of staircase wit.  I also got two nectarines.  Interspersed with all that wit were several equally satisfying ideas about smacking her with my open hand, first on the left side and then immediately returning with a backhand to the right which would hopefully lay her out.  But that would be WRONG.  Satisfying, but WRONG.  Plus I’m old and I need to remember I can’t run from the cops like I used to could.

So instead I have decided that I don’t care if I got to hell, as long as there is a special one reserved for that self righteous slag heap.

Let us soothe me with naked guys


…and then I said to her, I said, “listen…” I said….


I know I will emerge from this brutally trying time that has brought the world to its knees mainly with a memory of the time a puffed up carpet muncher embarrassed me over by the ramen.


And you know what else I should have told her?

From the Web


Let’s see what the internet has to say to mrpeenee these days, shall we?

Oh, also, our old friend Mikey wanted to say hey.  playwithme55 aka Mikey Pussy Pants


Quarantine seems to agree with him.

Anyway, on to mrpeenee at the internet:


Preach sister


yeah, yeah, yeah, nice thighs, big bulge, fabulous smooth skin, but what does his fucking tee shirt say?   I tried staring at it with my eyes out of focus like one of those trick paintings where the blotches of color suddenly turn into dolphins or lesbians or whatever, I still can’t read it.


Why is Will Wheaton reading on the subway in his panties? Doesn’t he know that’s how you get worms?  Why is he reading Perks of Being a Wallflower (yeeks)?   Why is the Lady next to him ignoring all the drama?  Who knew Wheaton was packin so much junk?


Veering into the dangerous quagmire of mrpeenee’s pet peeves, why would you use a filter to change the color of a field of lavender?  Lavender is already a lovely color, it’s called “lavender.”


David Marshall is a gay wrestler from Australia who somehow shows up in my Tumblr ramblings a lot.  He seems sweet.


OK, so I can see any two of these people (or “people”) together at one time, but all 4?  The cosmos shudders at the disharmony.  Maybe it was photoshopped.


I don’t want to be uncharitable, for once, since this young man certainly has what I’m looking for (clear skin, muscles, sweet ass and red hair,) but then I see his foot and I think “Is that all?  Where’s the rest of it?”


I like to think of this as Quarantine Porn.  Moodily submerged and struggling not to start crying.  Again.


.Continuing with Current Events Pornography,  the always charming Killian Belliard before Lock Down, above, and however long it’s been since all this started, below:




I think Stas Landon sort of looks like a meatier Christopher Meloni.  You got a problem with that concept?  Shut up.


Which one is wearing his mother’s girdle?

Which one has trouble keeping her dainty bits fresh?

Which one can’t wait to get home and cry into his Gin Ricky?

Which one is tripping like a million screaming monkeys?

Which one is praying no one finds out his drag name is Pepper Spray?

Which one thinks they’re on a bus?

What’s it to you?




Day Whatever the Fuck Today is of Quarantine and I’ve realized there actually is a bright side to all this: living in a San Francisco free of tourists.   You subtract out of town visitors from my location and what you get is a charming, uncrowded stroll to the grocery store with the sunny sidewalks unclogged by groups looking around for the homogay exhibit and failing to realize we are all around them.

San Francisco is guilty of turning counter culture periods into tourist destinations,  with beatniks in North Beach, hippies in the Haight Ashbury, and queers in the Castro.  Oh, sorry, not queer, LGBTQQIP2SAAXYZ.  Whatever.  I stick with the proudly defiant “queer.”  For a long time, I’ve whined about the Castro not really being a gay neighborhood any longer, that people were fetishizing a world that disappeared 40 years ago.

Certainly, the 1970s were a time when queer men accidentally invented the idea of a gay neighborhood, mainly in Greenwich Village in Manhattan and the Castro in San Francisco.  Those men were just looking for a place to live that might be a little safer than the gay basher hunting grounds the rest of the world so often was.  The Castro was a shabby place with affordable housing and a brand new subway that they could ride to their jobs downtown.  They appreciated the Victorian/Edwardian/Craftsman architecture that were still out of fashion at the time so they settled in, painted, decorated and turned up the fabulosity.  Suddenly all the area was very much “we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it.”   A place of our own where we could be safe and not have to hide.  With views.  What a paradise!


And then AIDS came and everybody died.  Hah, surprise twist ending!

R Man and I got here in 1988 and the throngs of muscley, mustached men crowding the sidewalks to cruise were gone.  Pedestrians on Castro Street was sparse and businesses were closed.  And the repopulation by well-to-do straight people who also appreciated the location and the views and the charming renovations lovingly carried out by now dead homo gays was underway.

Over the years since then, I’ve gotten used to baby carriages where leather daddies used to strut and mommies complaining about window displays that included dick pictures


Yes, someone really did complain about this being displayed here, in what had been the heart of Homoland.

But while I wasn’t particularly bitter about the changes (about AIDS and the deaths and waste and the grief of it all, yeah, I was plenty bitter about that.  About the real estate?  Not so much.  Life goes on.) I did maintain that we were not a gay neighborhood any more.  The city has evolved into a gay awareness and acceptance that included laying down a rainbow stripe in the crosswalk at the intersection of Castro and 18th (the epicenter of it all) and brass plaques in the sidewalk commemorating lesbian and gay pioneers and an LGBT Museum opened.  But I dismissed all that as nothing more than a sexual outlaw diorama trying to keep the dead past propped up for the tourists to have something to take pictures of.

I am happy to admit I was wrong.  About breeder people edging queers out of our own neighborhood.  All the rest is right.  When I see the sidewalks cleared of the out of town riff raff trying to figure out what all the rainbow striped fuss is all about, what remains are nice gay men and couples going about their business, iike coyotes and other wildlife that has emerged during lockdown.  I suppose they (we) were here all along, but you couldn’t spot them for the crowds.

Queers in the Castro, after all this time.  Who would have guessed?

And now, a salute to that long gone, magical time.  The time of the Castro Clone.


Al Parker, the very definition of the Castro Clone.


Will Seegar, right, one of my favorites and in many ways, a more common version of the Clone since typically, they wore mustaches and not beards.


Steve Taylor, Parker’s boyfriend and costar.  I don’t know why I couldn’t find a good full body picture of him.  God knows there were plenty of them at one time.


Here we have Taylor, Parker and Seegar in a charming little epic of theirs called Weekend Lock-up.  A classic.


Lastly, the rather rare BLONDE Clone, Sky Dawson.

As the Virus Turns


I know I mentioned Saki had to have an operation to remove a couple of benign cysts a few months ago, but I never followed up to let an anxious world know how the surgery turned out.  I am happy to report the FIVE FUCKING WEEKS he and I spent living with that cone were worth it since he is now perfectly healthy and as annoying as ever.  I say it was worth it because his new nickname of “Scarface” is so much more cool than the old one of  “Lumpy”.  The only other remaining sequel is the patch where they shaved him for the surgery and which has grown out to resemble one of those ill advised quarantine haircuts that reveal a real What-the-hell attitude on somebody’s part.


Speaking of quarantine hair, I’m trying very hard not to complain about mine, since that just makes me sound like one of those protester yahoos in Michigan.  As I told Diane von Austinburg,  I have, instead, decided to just think of it as luxurious.  I haven’t had hair down over my ears since the late 70s when Diane and I had the habit of getting loaded in an alley behind the newspaper we worked at, so I should enjoy the novelty of the experience.  She asked for a photo, but I declined on the grounds it isn’t that novel.  Since my hair is considerably thinner on the top than the sides and back, the effect is sort of an upside down mullet.  Still, I carry on.

The governor has declared California can have a gradual re-opening, kind of tip toeing back towards the wild carefree days of a few months ago.  I went out this afternoon for some coffee and I see my fellow San Franciscans have already taken matters into their own hands and slipped the lease to have some outside time.

It would be impossible to blame us.  The weather could not be more enticing; it was the first time I’ve been outside in a tee shirt.  And a mask.  And the streets were pretty full with people not going anywhere.  Everything is still closed after all.

And did I miss some fashion trend alert while I was sheltered in place?  Because I suddenly found my Tumblr meanderings to be thick with guys in suspenders.  Is that a thing?  If it is, it leaves me rather cold.


Well, OK, maybe not totally cold.


Aw, man, not a little hat….


But I guess it’s a look some guys can pull off.  You get it?  “PULL OFF”, oh never mind.

Also, naked guys


I wish I was at the beach.


I know it’s not really Charlie Hunnam.  Are you complaining?  Shut up.


Diane and I agree our tendency towards housebound makes quarantine easier for us, but I still wouldn’t mind some company.  Dammit.

Doing Our Best



Striding along Market Street, the lady chirps out “Six feet, please!” to the guy in front of me.  He looks around, confused.  He was masked, on his side of the sidewalk and she on hers.  He had been navigating around a tree and some random trash cans, so it appeared he wasn’t far enough over to suit her, but aside from flinging himself into traffic, I couldn’t see what she expected.  Besides, those 18 inches in the 30 seconds it took for them to pass each other were going to be her death knell?  Hmmmm.  Small loss.

I decided as I edged past her that I knew her and her story.  The whiny student who ratted on everyone in class.  The malcontent who still writes tart letters to the editor.  The guest who thinks parties are a great time to correct people on their failure to grasp how much finer her politics are.

Even her mask looked smug.

Can’t we just agree we’re all doing the best we can?  Especially since the goal posts for what’s good enough keep getting moved.  Stay 6 feet apart?  Wait, maybe it should be 13 feet.  Wear masks outside?  Well, OK, but you know they only help if they fit absolutely “properly” and nobody is putting them on right anyway.  Lockdown for 30 days?  Maybe more like 60.  Maybe all summer.  We’ll let you know.

I know this is truly for our own good.  People are dying.  And I don’t want to side with those loser protestors in Michigan and Kentucky and other places I never want to visit anyway.   Also, all we have to do is stay home; it’s not London in the Blitz or Paris during the Terror.  Let me make clear: I am willing to do what it takes to not die cause I am a fucking saint apparently.  Just cut me some slack, OK?  You stay on your side of the sidewalk and I will stay right over here.

I realize I have been loading up the smut portion of my posts with big dicks.  Dick, dick, dick, even though I really prefer buttchops over wienies.  So today’s exhibit will feature the booty side of things.  You’re welcome


Skinny, but firm.




Front AND back at no extra charge.  Thanks mrpeenee.




Showering ecstasy.  A smut classic.


Social Distancing taken to an extreme.