Coup d’Wut?


I’m trying to regard the astonishing details of the US Capitol riot with the sober attention they deserve. A mob of violent insurrectionists tried to overthrow the results of an election in my country. OK, that’s serious. But how can I keep a straight face when every story about it reveals how closely it resembles Monty Python gone bad? The most important center of our government was easily taken over by, as someone wrote, “Duck Dynasty and some guy in a Chewbacca bikini.” I don’t know where the line between sedition and farce was, but these guys ran right across it long before they smeared shit on the wall.

Republican apologists are now claiming the part of the country that is not actively delusional is over reacting and making too big of deal about “just a protest.” Just a protest where the political leaders of our country had to be evacuated, rioters beat one cop with pole holding an American flag and killed another one with a fire extinguisher, and just coincidentally came to town in vehicles loaded with serious firepower. Some reporters have pointed out how many of the rioters had guns, but I’m from Texas, I understand carrying a gun pretty much everywhere, rolling to the Dairy Queen with your gat. Why else would you have a gun rack in your pickup? This is America, 4% of the world population and 46% of its guns. I’m pretty sure a majority of the attendees at the Houston Garden Show are packing heat. So, yeah, they brought their toys to the party. Idiots.

What is beyond the pale are the yahoos that brought pipe bombs, molotov cocktails, zip ties, and other not-messing-around equipment. These buffoons had plans, as they made abundantly clear on various platforms, and it’s only luck that they didn’t go anywhere. Yes, I understand they were probably the minority of the hooligans, that most of the other morons involved thought they were going to just another MAGA rally and Idiocy Festival. Their numbers don’t matter; their intent was violent insurrection. That the other feckless nitiwits decided to break into the Capitol alongside them and try to invalidate the election just on a whim doesn’t make them less culpable, it just makes them despicable.

I saw a video some airhead posted of herself strolling over to commit trespass and mayhem but stopping on the way to admire a souvenir stand. What was someone like that thinking? “Oh, come on, it’ll be a hoot, like when the sorority trashed that motel in Florida on Spring Break.” Maybe they would just squeeze in a quick afternoon of treason before they had to go pack to fly home the next day. Not. Heeheehee.

So now all that’s left is to watch these buffoons react with indignity when it’s pointed out that what they were involved in, no matter how little they planned it, was a crime. “Look, I didn’t mean to hold up that liquor store. This guy was there with a gun and it just seemed like a good time to demand all the money in the till.” As much as I want Trump punished for his role in inciting these clowns to “… fight much harder….” against their own country (and oh, how I want it, I want it bad) I want these MAGA Barbies and MMA wannabes to have to serve time for their actions. It’s the least the Law and Order party can do.

Guys serving up their very own riot:

A guy who fills out sweatpants is a guy for me.

A cowboy for Amber

Pete Kuzak for Mikey

dmitry averyanov for me

And this guy for fans of butt chops everywhere.

This guy cause of those freaky nipples, but mainly because he seems to be getting packed into a crate.

More butt chops.

In Which We Are Restless

As a matter of fact, I do. What’s it to you?

The scene: mrpeenee’s tasteful boudoir in the teeny tiny wee hours of the morning. Mrpeenee hangs in that sweet nether just before actual sleep when suddenly his legs start to jerk and shudder. Once again, Restless Leg Syndrome has attacked our hero.

This syndrome is a real thing, not just some huckster medical problem dreamed up to fill late night ads with questionable remedies and modern day snake oil. Oh yeah baby, I am here to testify that is really a real thing. A few years ago it started out as a weird sensation in the soles of my feet and an undeniable urge to jiggle my legs. No amount of jiggling was ever sufficient, eventually I always have to get up and move around. Dr. Google admits there is no effective treatment, but suggests mild exercise, stretches, or soaking in a nice warm bath. I don’t have any particular problem with any of those, and in fact, they usually do help. The problem is the get-out-of-bed portion of the program, As I mentioned, these episodes always occur when I am all tucked in, cozy and sleepy bye bound; leaping to my feet in order to knock out a quick round of yoga is so very not welcome. So I resist, lying there and twitching and trying to talk sense into my feet.

I honestly think the exercise or bath is extraneous, all I really need is to drag myself out of bed and move around some. Often just getting a cookie is enough, and if it isn’t, at least I have a cookie. But usually simply leaving my bed does it. My feet feel victorious, they have once again shown me who is the late night boss. But just to keep things interesting, they have raised the ante of late; now I get the thrill of involuntary muscle movements on top of my feet issuing non-negotiable demands. My legs jerk and shudder and flail, sometimes my shoulders get in on the action and sometimes (my personal favorite) my whole body will lurch and manage to achieve a brief liftoff before crashing back to bed. I don’t know how that is possible. When I’ve tried to recreate it consciously all I manage is to irritate Saki.

I know it’s just one more stop on the down hill journey of aging and I have a long list of complaints that are worse (looking at you, prostate.) At least it’s not constant, I haven’t had any attacks in several days and I’m grateful for it. So my lower limbs have decided to try tap dancing as a new hobby? This is where I’m supposed put in some sappy remark about how it could be worse. Fuck that. I DON’T WANT TO GET OUT OF BED.

Boys who it would be nice to be in bed with:

Mmm, arty.

My, what lovely clear skin. Especially the bit covering those luscious butt chops.


Yeah, he’s beautiful and muscley, but I was mostly struck when I ran across this picture on Tumblr by the long list of comments swooning over his black support stockings. Cause you can never be too freaky for Tumblr.

Fat dicks on parade.

“I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay. I sleep all night and I work all day.”

Fast Away the Old Year Passes


Squeaking in right under the wire, mrpeenee manages to crank out one last post in 2020, and a time related to boot. 2020, while unarguably a craptastic year, was also the 40th anniversary of my landing in New Orleans to start a really beloved spree there. I can see how lucky I am that I cannot pick one single Happiest Time in My Life, and the idea that my New Orleans life is not a hands down winner is amazing, but that’s what you get when you also have an existence in San Francisco with R Man competing against it. The burdens of a happy life.

The author as a youth in the French Quarter of New Orleans. The author was also very cranky about being dragged out of bed after a very long night of carousing, one of oh so many. Oh so very, very many.

And my time there was giddily happy. I was young, homosex was kind of hip and certainly widely available, the food was so incredible, I made wonderful friends (all of whom are dead now. Alas,) I met the love of my life, and the vivid nature of New Orleans, so bawdy and loud and colorful and above all else, happy, embraced me and I embraced it right back.

The old girl (New Orleans, not me) is full of quirks, especially in regards to traditions, and there wasn’t one I turned up my nose at. Voodoo, parades and how to navigate them, MARDI GRAS, poboy sammiches, a drag queen named Blanche whom I learned not to cross, the list goes on. I remember looking around my first French Quarter apartment and marveling at the massive cast iron hooks that latched the shutters close. When the house was built in the 1840s, the pirates those hooks had originally been designed to foil had pretty much gone the way of legend, but New Orleans does not forget easily and those hooks could come in handy. “I’m living in an antique,” I thought, but then learned to appreciate the hardware when I discovered tourists would do just about anything to peek in at my humble flat.

Yeah, it wasn’t all laughs. I was poor as a poor rat and there was that darn old AIDS, I didn’t care. I’m sure at 25 everyone is just forming their personalities and I was just lucky that I was able to develop mine under the tutelage of such exuberant old whore. New Orleans made me the slightly dented man I am today and I’ll always be glad of it.

Let the good times roll.

Dreamy, with glasses no less.

It was wonderful to find myself somewhere that the importance of naps was understood.

Oh, to be young and hedonistic once again.

Tall, dark, handsome strangers in deserted back rooms were an important part of those times.

Adieu, New Orleans, mon amour



Guess what? I am not going to complain about christmas for once. Nope. Not me, nosirreee. While I annually find the fake sentiment, the whole jolliness-on-demand bit, and ESPECIALLY the music painfully annoying, this year I have escaped all of it, thank you Little Miss Pandemic. Obviously the solution for me is to shut the door on Thanksgiving, burp, and then not open it again until Boxing Day.

I’m in a particularly good mood today because I had a crippling neckache for more than a week that finally settled down this morning, Saturn and Jupiter managed to align without raining down some kind of Aztec apocalypse (which would have been the definitive 2020 xmas present) AND…

From me to me.

So maybe I am jolly. What’s it to you?

Also, I’m afraid we may be putting too much pressure on 2021. All this talk about how “It can’t be as bad as 2020….” Those of us who grew up with a misbehaving older brother (god rest his delinquent little heart) know how annoying the demands that somehow we make up for their criminous behavior can be. So let’s just focus on being glad to have escaped 2020.

Bon voyage

And now, Crixmas presents for all you, naughty or nice, I don’t care. Although I do have a pretty good idea which one is which:

Big beefy christmas.

Cowboy christmas for my dear niece Amber.

While I don’t like random tattoos like this (pick a damn design and stick with it) I am amused by that nipple that looks like it’s been chewed on like old christmas candy.

I always wanted a circular window. I think they’re cool.

Sandy Claus or horny old goat? You decide. A christmas present for Mikey.

I’m going to start including more men not flashing their bits, but who are worthy of admiration nevertheless.

And finishing off with another big ‘n beefy. It’s my xmas theme.

More Dental Drama


I had to go back to the dentist again today. Readers might remember I have shared with them numerous visits over the last 2 years of varying annoyance, discomfort, and expense. I have now spent more time with my dentist (actually, make that plural, I have two because I am just that special) more time with my dentists than I have with my friends, thank you quarantine. We have shared so much time together I have to assume we qualify for domestic partners benefits.

Today’s trip was the conclusion of two previous adventures. One was a simple little root canal (I am alarmed that I have become so inured to dental torture that I classify root canals as “simple”) that I had last month and for which I got the crown today. The other is just the latest installment in a tooth opera which began in February of 2018. 2 0 1 8. Does anyone else remember 2018? Have unfinished business from then?

To recap for those of you not paying attention, and I know there are plenty of you, I developed a hole in my jaw bone. The tooth above the Bone Hole TM required a root canal (do you see a pattern here?) which then had to be filled and then refilled every other month for a year. Hilarious. Finally, I don’t know, the dentists got bored or something and they pulled the tooth. They also had to pull the tooth and crown next to it because the Bone HoleTM tooth had anchored a bridge. Which brings us to today where I was being fitted for a removable partial bridge to deal with the gaping maw in my lower teeth. Altogether, 3 hours in the chair today, which turns out to outlast the Xanax I started with.

I have not taken up a new sideline in creampie porn. That’s the dried goop from the mould for the bridge. Shut up

Oddly, I was lucky enough to have almost no tooth problems during most of my so-called adult years. I’d go in and get my cleaning, they’d say “Lookin’ good, mrpeenee.” “You too Mr. dentist,” I’d reply as I returned to a life of excessive pastries. All that changed when I crossed the magic barrier of age 50. Fifty, when your prostate swells, your mouth revolts and declares itself the Glorious Independent Republic of Oralslovakia, and those darn kids will not stay off your lawn.

Proving my theory that my dentist and mouth are conspiring against me, while finishing the crown, the serene highness dentist discovered a tooth just rotted away, but which had been hiding it’s decay behind the crowned tooth. “Oh, that’s going to have to go,” the dear little man said. Have my teeth decided to abandon ship? Are things that bad? Fine. See you next time.

Toothsome young mens:

A work of art.

We must have just missed the vampire.

Yet another example of mrpeenee’s love for the Big Lug.

Uptown funk gonna give it to you

Just hangin’ around in the toilet, office.

The disagreement over cut versus uncut will never be solved, but everybody likes great big nuts.

Finally, here’s a cheerful farewell. The vaccine is on its way, lockdown cannot last forever, enjoy the weekend.

New Old Shoes

Thinkin’ Creamy P.

One of my many charming quirks is that I don’t like to own a lot of clothes. My wardrobe is minimal, to say the least; I’m sure there are homeless people with more outfits. Certainly, snappier ones. I dress every day in the exact same selection: tennis shoes, jeans, tee shirt and hoodie. Since this is chilly old San Francisco, sweaters make an occasional appearance. It is pretty much the same groundbreaking appearance I made in first grade and I assume I will cling to it until I move permanently into an urn.

I have one pair of Converse All Star tennis shoe (as a Southern boy, I do not call them “sneakers.” And I pronounce the word “tennis” as “tennie.”) and one pair of rain shoes, just in case California ever gets around to having another rainy season. The rain shoes are slip-on, shapeless clog affairs, from Lands End. I’ve been wearing them for twenty years and I’m only on my second pair.

Or rather I was on my second pair. Part of my refusal to die young is the resulting indignities of a body slowly falling apart around me. Pertinent to our story today is the neuroma I have developed in my right foot. A neuroma, for those of you who have not thrilled to one (not YET,) is what happens when a nerve in the ball of your foot gets stuck in the sheath that surrounds it. The nerve is constantly irritated, as are the sufferers of neuroma. It’s very difficult to describe any physical sensation, the closest I can come with this one is that it feels like an itch inside your foot instead of on the skin.

The treatment is to wear orthotics, which is a fancy word for shoe insoles. Orthopedists customize them to fit your foot, charge a bazillion dollars to Medicare and everybody has a cookie. The relief mine provided was immediate and amazing. I am convinced. The only problem is shoes come with insoles already. If you’re lucky, you pull the old ones out and shove in the orthotics. The problem arises when the insole is sewn into the shoe, as was the case with my old rain shoes. There is no way to get them out so I had to go shopping (ugh) for shoe replacements.

It’s not that I’m particularly picky about shoe fashions (see above) it’s that finding ANYTHING for feet as big as mine is a challenge. Once one crosses the size 11 boundary, one enters a black hole of box cars, barges and gunboats. Shoe manufactuers might as well erect a sign “Take what you can get and be grateful, freak foot.” So I Googled “men’s shoe size 13 orthotics.” I might as well have skipped all that and just searched for “ugly shoes. Big.” I think it was the “orthotics” bit that pushed us over into Creaky Old Man territory. I finally gave up and picked a pair more or less at random just so I could go back to bed and hoped they were less hideous in person. Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

I’m not going to belabor the point, you can see for yourself. Even with the sad attempt at racy details, they are still the fashion sensation of the season at Shady Pines Retirement Center. They certainly are supportive. As I told Diane von Austinburg, I could faint in them and they would probably hold me upright.

Even with my low threshold for shoe stylin’, I was not feeling these boys. So I went back to trolling for something that made me feel slightly less geriatric. A swipe through Lands End informed me the old pair I liked are called “mocs” for some unknowable reason. With that magic term added to the search, I stumbled on a pair very like my old ones, but with removable insoles. Love them. I can only hope they last me until I shuffle off this mortal coil. Probably wearing them.

Soft shoes and hard guys:

What lovely, satin-y skin

An old favorite of ours, here at the mrpeenee Big Wienie Institute and Snack Bar.

He’s thinking deep thoughts.

You know, rain shoes would work in the shower, too.


The Many Rugs of mrpeenee


Many years ago, R man and I were in New York with some friends and we decided to visit ABC Carpets. The main store, known among us as the Mother Church, was way, way downtown but worth the trip. ABC was the most beautifully stocked home decor store in the world. It always looked like where your most stylish friends got all the finds that left you simmering with envy. Furniture and art and accessories and (not surprisingly) rugs, all displayed like aspirational dioramas, Aladdin’s cave for decorating.

All my rugs at their annual spa day at the rug washer.

And for some gay men (like me, fer instance) who regard decorating as a sport, spending the afternoon prowling through the store (it was huge, an old brick warehouse converted into chic habitat heaven) was the equivalent of straight guys going to a go kart track, a thrilling way to spend the day.

That afternoon was my introduction to Chinese Art Deco rugs, a big ol’ stack of them that dazzled me, cause they’re, you know, dazzling. Typical rugs made in China are the same old kinds everybody thinks of when they hear “Oriental rugs.” An overall pattern, usually geometric, in a limited palate of cranberry reds, dark blues and beige. Blah blah blah.

These Art Deco rugs are just the opposite; they incorporate large open fields empty of any design, pictorial elements rather than simply geometrics, and vivid, wild colors, like turquoise and fuscia and chartreuse. It was the crazy hues that caught my eye at ABC that day. They reminded me of the brilliant Technicolor in 1950s movies.

The pictures they incorporated ranged from the normal like lotus and cherry blossoms, stylized rocks, clouds, and vases, to oddities like parrots, tea pots, fountains, gramaphones, all kinds of things. I had one rug that had a pier going out into a lake to end at a small pavillion. Instead of being symmetrical, their designs were balanced: a large complex scene in one corner with the corner next to it empty, using negative space like abstract painters would later.

I fell in love, but like so many love stories this one was hampered by money, or rather by my lack of money and also by the fact we lived in a one bedroom apartment with a real lack of rug space. Eventually we managed to buy a gorgeous blue and white silk rug patterned on Delft tiles. A big local department store was going out of business and they marked this rug down 10 percent lower each week. We’d go visit it every Saturday like a friend in county lock up. It got down to 80 PERCENT OFF and we finally sprang for it. One of my greatest bargains ever.

When we bought our house, we suddenly had plenty of acreage that cried out for rugs and over the years I collected lots of them. One I found in a used furniture store and it was so dirty, I had my rug washer pick it up directly from the store so I wouldn’t have to deal with all the filth. I had thought it was various shades of brown (mostly dirt brown) so imagine my surprise when it turned out to be maroon and gold.

Speaking of my rug cleaner, who is insane but amusing, he GAVE me a room size one he had hanging around the shop that I love. I had to explain to him the background is ochre and then I had to explain what “ochre” is.

Being back in an apartment means when I accrue one rug, another has to go. So the ochre rug meant I had to ship off the fabulous green and lavender one I was so fond of to my niece Amber. She has a big house, with plenty of places for various orphaned rugs a fond uncle needing to find a place for them might fill up.

Guy’s I’d like to have on the carpet:

Hit the beach baby

The guy’s pretty ok, but what I really like is the t-shirt.

I’ve seen this guy in a number of different pictures where his dick always looks this impressive, which makes me think this may actually NOT be photoshopped for once. Wow.

We actually DO make passes….

… at guys who wear glasses.

Speaking of Photoshop, I’m including this (besides the cuteness of him) because not only does his dick look like it’s been run through the photoshop mill, but even the towel does, too. The towel? The towel?

I’ll Like Who I Like


I have once again been called out about my preference for big, flawlessly muscled men. A commenter from a long ago post (a side note: why do readers bother commenting on posts I put up years ago? They show up in a section of my blog dashboard I never go to. I read and reply to comments in the most recent post by going to the bottom of the post. Any more than that is just asking too much of a frail, old blogger. Anyway) this commenter he says to me he says “Do you really like these ridiculous muscle guys? What’s wrong with regular men? ” “regular men” being code frumpy and tubby, the missing elves.

A) they are not ridiculous B) of course I prefer them, that’s why I feature them so darn much and C) shut up. This is not the first time someone has challenged me about my preference for men who look like they could put greek gods in the shade. I don’t understand their attitude; do they think i’m going to say “Yes, yes, it’s true. At last I can admit my secret shame that I am hot for homely guys, that Marty Feldman makes me lose control.”

Nuh uh. Back in the days when I was busy serving up mrpeenee Sex to the masses, I could walk into a bathhouse, drop my pants, and have a line of “regular guys” (NO SHOVING.) Not bragging, just the facts ma’am. So why would I long for those schmoes in my fantasies? I want what I can’t have, isn’t that the point of fantasy? “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” and all that.

These malcontents think they can shame me out of salivating over the massive and the beautiful? Fat chance. If society’s concentrated efforts at shaming me and all my homo brethren out of following our perverted path failed, how do these commenters think they can control the finer points of my personal freak?

My personal freak, some of the faves, anyway:

Mark Wolff, before his really unfortunate surgery.

Max Veneziano. So big, so smooth.

Mike Betts. I know these not only spell out my tastes in naked men, but also represent a pretty specific era of smut, namely, the late 1980s.

Doug Perry. What can I say? I think it was a golden era.

Jake Tanner. Why the pendulum of popular porn tastes has swung away from these demigods in favor of what looks like whatever is left in the local hustler bar after last call is beyond me.

Billy Herrington, who had a surprise career resurrection more than a decade after his days as a smut beauty when he suddenly became massively popular in Japan.

Konstantin Kamynin, actual proof that I do occasionally surface into the current century. Maybe against my will, but still….