In Which We Vote

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I got my vote by mail ballot on Thursday and I fully expected myself to procrastinate because screwing around is my default setting. I had visions of screaming down to the post office at midnight, November 3 to cram my ballot into the mailbox only to find out they were all mysteriously “out of order.”

Imagine then how very pleased I was to wrap it up last night. Boom kazoom. I had run across a number of tensely worded articles about people having problems with their ballot and mailing it in and I was concerned. Would I be able to pass this test? Pffft. Nothing to it. The ballot is exactly the same format we always use and the envelope to mail it back just requires you to sign and date it. I’ve had a harder time filling in the membership for sex clubs. Our old friend the crazy monkey on crack could probably handle it.

The races were the usual tussle over spending more money for stuff. That’s my digest of them anyway. It’s San Francisco, we almost always pass any request for more money. Our city and county budgeting process is basically “Sure, what the hell.” I was heartened to see in the state Senate race one of the candidates was named Starchild. I find San Francisco’s oddball ways endearing and have been saddened to see them slowly fading over the years I’ve lived here. So running across some old hippie, probably Radical Faerie gunning for state office lightened my mood.

Saki, of course, insisted on participating. The ballot was 3 long, double sided pages and I was plowing through them when he wandered over to see what I was so interested in that wasn’t him. He immediately cast his vote by sticking his paw on some lady named Alida in the Board of Education race. I explained it was important to make informed decisions even on races I didn’t give a fuck about, but he stuck by his girl Alida. Eventually I voted for her, mostly cause I didn’t know anything of the other candidates and was unwilling to investigate because I wanted to get to bed.

Guys who get my vote

What is it like ot go through life looking this bee-yooo-tiful?

Part 86 of our ongoing series “Is that Your Tanline or a Birthmark?”

I don’t know what got his applause, but I’m for it too.

I sort of think I have featured this guy recently, but who’s complaining?

The always charming Buck Hayes of Colt Studios, aka Rex Morgan

Our usual present for our friend Mikey from Chaturbate. He likes ’em thuggific.

In Which We Are Teased

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I had a dream last night that several people were visiting me in the home I grew up because it was Christmas? Maybe? Included in the mix was a very attractive young man I was sort of chasing apparently in the hope of, as Marvin Gaye said, making romance. I ran into him emerging from a shower, complete with sexily tousled hair, when he began flirting with me. Yay, right? Many yays, in fact. And then the dream turned into my doing laundry. Aw man, get with the program, dream scape. Cock blocked by my own subconscious.

The dreary wildfire season continues here, with the smoke not nearly as bad as a few weeks ago, but with random days that come packed with smoke flavored air and the skies a harsh silvery gray instead of the deep, clear, Surfin’ Safari blue we are entitled to. Weather forecasts had offered the possibility of rain this weekend, which would have helped immensely, but now they’ve hemmed and hawed their way out of that prediction. Stupid meteorologists should keep their wishful thinking to themselves.

Living on the edge of desert where we only get wet weather 5 months out of the year, the start of the rainy season is a big deal for San Francisco. By this time of the dry season, the dirt collected on my windows has gone from being thick to being sort of furry and the dog shit on the streets has been there so long, it has petrified. Some of them have become landmarks “Yeah, it’s two doors down past the pyramid shaped poop on 15th Street.”

So when the forecasters dangle the prospect of showers before us and then retract them, oh so very unpopular. They attempt to cover their unattractive asses by claiming something like “Oh, when we said rain in San Francisco, we meant the San Francisco Bay Area. And by “the San Francisco Bay Area” we meant the counties north of here that have nothing to do with the Bay whatsoever.” Bitches.

Naked mens, cause that’s what everyone wants anyway:

I wish.

Put the Photoshop down and back away from the nekkid guy.

I haven’t mentioned before that I quite like small dicks (although it’s probably not apparent here,) but not if their owner decides he wants to prove that he can be a top. Nuh uh.

Pretty hair, nice dick, and he’s growing cactus on his windowsill. What more do you want?

Speaking of pretty hair….

Redheads continue to be irresistible.

As usual, a little something for the Chaturbate gang. Mit ein umlaut.

Buns

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Our dear friend Jen is going through some serious bad health news lately. Her friends are rallying around her, as she deserves. Part of that rallying was her sister, who obviously understands how to really rally since she sent Jen a box of Cinnabon cinnamon rolls. Jen, in turn, very generously shared some of them with me. Jen is just that sweet.

As it turns out, it was rather like sharing a dime bag of heroin, the cinnamon rolls are that addictive. I am now a little more than halfway through the third box I’ve ordered since Jen got me chasing the cinnamon flavored dragon not quite a month ago. It is going to be so embarrassing to wind up in rehab over a bunch of pastries.

I was vaguely aware of Cinnabon since they are omnipresent in the airports of our fine country. I had never tried them out because who wants to deal with sticky sweet rolls when you’re trying to get on the damn plane? I now know they are also major players in the shopping mall food court battle grounds. Fortunately, they also offer mail order. Or maybe that’s disastrously; depends if you see them as suppliers or enablers.

The rolls show up fresh and inviting, coy and deadly, with a container of extra icing, in case the goo is not already thick enough. Sort of the crack to mix with heroin for an 8 ball to extend the addiction metaphor. Directions recommend microwaving those bitches for 25 seconds. I was suspicious of this since my experience with microwaved bread has been universally terrible, but the gods of junk food apparently protect them because they emerge warm and tender and irresistible.

The luxury of having fresh cinnamon rolls on demand is impossible to exaggerate. I am tucking into some even as I type this, trying hard to keep the stickiness off the keyboard and Saki, which is not easy. The boxes contain 15 cinnamon rolls which means I’ve polished off 45 of them in about a month. I don’t know whether to be concerned about my problem or proud of my restraint.

Obviously, buns of boys:

I’m not sure if that tanline is from a speedo or a bandaid.

Rowr.

I’m a white boy, but ain’t nobody this white. Maybe he’s an alien. Maybe it’s Maybelline. And where are his pores?

Somewhere, some rich old man is really glad to see this guy.

Baseball booty.

Also, not a butt shot, but I had promised our friend mikey this rassler.

About Time

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I am trying really hard these days not to think in terms of “when all of this is over,” because that implies there is an “over” up ahead. At the very start of all the Covid madness, in April, somehow I latched onto the idea that there would be a big change by July. Perhaps you’ve noticed July is in our collective rear view mirror and no particular change happened except more people died. I shifted into “maybe in the fall….” and then “there’s going to be a vaccine….”

All those artificial deadlines are just a sucker’s game. I kept being disappointed because a finish line I set up never materialized. But that’s my point now: there is no finish line, there never is. Life just goes on. I don’t want to use the cliche “The New Normal” mostly because I think the people who do use it don’t really mean it or they wouldn’t be talking about normal being new.

So what’s normal now? You go to walk out the door and run a mental check list “Keys, phone, mask.” You walk up to a store and look down at the ground for markers on where to stand. No one shakes your hand anymore. You haven’t entered the Twilight Zone, it’s normal. We’re here now; take a breath and get comfortable.

Castro Street

All these people seem to have settled in perfectly well. This is my greatest irritation these days. Restaurants and bars all over town jumped on the permission to open back up as long as it was outside. Since then, sidewalk seating has flourished and the joints all took over the parking places in front and turned them into gay little cabarets.

And the lemmings flocked in, as you can see. I don’t understand. Did I hallucinate a pandemic? These guys are cozied up right in each other’s unmasked faces, yakking and spewing. I don’t feel comfortable walking through these crowds, let alone settling into them for brunch. But you have to edge your way through them since they have laid claim to the sidewalk and all that’s available for pedestrians is a narrow strip down the middle. As I scurry past, I can smell their nasty perfume and whatever bottomless special they’ve ordered. The possibility of infection seems ot hang heavy in the air.

You can avoid the whole sorry mess by detouring out into the bike lane, which is what I did a few times as a form of protest. But stepping out into the street in San Francisco is even more dangerous than breathing aerosolized Covid particles launched by some drunk East Bay brides maids’ party. Forget that.

So this is the New Normal. Same as the Old Normal, just something new for mrpeenee to gripe about.

Men I wouldn’t mind being shoved up close to:

Next to godliness

I know it’s not really Henry Cavill, but I’m going to watch Enola Sherlock soon and he’s in it and I’ve been hoping his Sherlock Holmes might do a brief Dick Dance in it.

Wow. Buttchops.

I’m pretty tepid about tattoos. I was more struck by their dicks having the exact same curve, but in opposite directions.

mrpeenee’s weakness, hunky, not particularly pretty mens.

You know they cancelled COPS. A good idea, the argument that it glorified police behavior is iron clad. But the format of it remains genius. Everybody likes chase scenes, they’re the high point of every shoot ’em up, action movie. So create a series that is nothing but the chase scene, no dialogue, no character development, no characters for that matter, just chases. Whee.

Before. Also, After.

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A short list of people who have demanded pictures of my hair after I have complained bitterly about how hideous it has become without a haircut since February because, apparently, humiliation doesn’t count unless it’s public:

  • Our dear friend Diane von Austinburg
  • Our niece Amber
  • The Fashion Sensation
  • Mikey from Chaturbate
  • In fact, the whole sorry lot of chums from Chaturbate

Insensitive louts, all of them.

So all right, all right here’s photographic proof of the sorry state of hair I live with

But not any more, chicken lickers, because on Monday San Francsico reopened barber shops and Thusday I scurried down to my beautician of choice and GOT MY MOTHER FUCKIN HAIR CUT. Whoo to the hoo.

It took forever, both because of the volume to deal with and because Jeff, my barber, was glad to see me after so long and it turned into a bit of yak fest. But finally. after 40 minutes and about 5 pounds of hair, my head returned to normal. No tendrils wandering around my neck, nothing tickling inside my ear, I was able to walk down the street without being self-conscious about looking like yet another San Francisco Crazy Old Man. I was so very pleased I found myself making odd barking noises in the shower as I washed off the cut hairs. Arpff, arpff.

Speaking of before and after, here’s last Wednesday morning with out now famous Day of the Dead sky

This is 9:30 in the morning

and a more normal shot from just now for comparison.

The nasty choking ash infused air seems to have let up somewhat, even though the fires are still raging all around us. I have the windows open and a pleasant breeze that does not smell like the Salt Lick BBQ Joint is filling the house. The sky was more blue yesterday, but I am happy to take what I can get. You know why? Cause GOT MY MOTHER FUCKIN HAIR CUT.

What pretty eyes.

Looks cozy

That is an earth mover.

The key to my heart.

In Which Irony Annoys Us

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San Francisco recently ran headlong into a coincidence which registered mightily on mrpeenee. For one, Blow Buddies, our most beloved sex club, closed after 32 years of splooge splashing, a great deal of which was mine. And for another, in the same week, San Francisco lifted the local ordinance that banned bath houses here.

A little background via the way back machine. Bath houses are sex clubs where gay men go strictly to have homo sex. Bars required meeting people and small talk and negotiating and learning people’s names and blahblablah. Baths were straight up walk into someone’s room and start fucking, which is why I found them so darned irresistible. R man said that when he lived here in the 70s, there were dozens of them, some of them specialized, like for fisting or guys with fetishes for truckers.

The tubs (as they are also known) were emblematic of the casual, easy, anonymous recreational fucking that defined a large segment of the gay world, but because of that, they were vilified by homos who wanted to be more accepted by straight society. “We’re not all sluts,” they would bleat, tears welling in their prissy little eyes. “I am,” I replied, as my friends and I lined up for another round of eager sodomites.

Ah, but then AIDS blew into town and suddenly there was a hunt on for somebody to blame, so of course, the sluts took the hit. A local gay reporter named Randy Shilts published a very influential book in the mid 80s called The Band Played On. Shilts was one of the assimilationists who blamed sluts for queer’s bad reputation and made closing down the baths here his mission. And he was successful. In 1985, San Francisco passed the law that forbid sex clubs to have private rooms with doors that closed, which pretty much define bath houses.

So that meant gay men stopped having sex and the AIDS crisis ended. Uh, actually, no. Instead, because gay men still demanded anonymous, no-fuss sex Blow Buddies opened in 1988, a sex club without private rooms and which forbid anal sex, the primary sexual way AIDS is transmitted. And lo, the sluts were joyful and sang hosannahs.

I’ve sung the praises of Blow Buddies before:

speaking of sex clubs, my all time favorite is here in San Francisco, called Blow Buddies.  It manages to bring together the two strengths of the gay community: sex and design.  Plus the music is good, so that’s actually three strengths.  But as to design, let us turn our attention the Milking Room, as our friends call it.  A largish room with a platform about waist high built around the edge.  The platform is equipped with a partition on the outer edge, pretty much chest high, with a hole in it, just the right height for someone, someone like me, to stick their dick through.  The genius is apparent when you realize this means someone else, again, me sometimes, standing on the floor of the room has their mouth at just the right level to suck on the cock thus presented, thereby avoiding the sad discomfort of kneeling all night for glory hole sex.  Genius.

R man and I were so fond of the old joint we wound up as regulars, going every Sunday evening as dependably as old Southern ladies going to church. Praise Lawd. And now it’s dead, done in by Covid and Grindr. I gave up all that sex foolishness a decade ago, but I still will miss knowing it was there providing a safe haven for all my cock sucking brethren. Farewell and thanks.

Did I mention our old chum Mikey is going to the beach?

In Turkey, where I imagine men look sort of like this.

I really like the wallpaper here.

Bath houses were noted for their plumbing.

And for comfortable places to lounge.

Dedicated To Amber

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I know it might not be clear based on the grouchy tone of this blog, but I am a cheery sort, not given to allowing travails to burden me.  Chipper in fact.  But recently I felt mopey.  Who knows, maybe being stuck between two bouts of oral surgery in a global pandemic with a world that refuses to understand the difference between “comprise” and “compose” had just got me down.

I moped.

But then, out of the blue, my beloved niece Amber blew in to save the day.  I think it wouldn’t take long to to convince most people that saving the day is something Amber is quite good at.  She is the most accomplished and successful of all my near relatives (as far as success in my family goes, the field is not terribly strong.  My grandmother Marshall was related to the Naus and Capitola Nau became the mother superior of a bunch of nuns in Galveston in the 1920s and one time I won a ribbon that said “My Pig Won” at a very odd party, but that’s about it.  Nevertheless, Amber would shine even in a much more talented gang.)  She runs a real estate company in North Texas and I get the impression her title might be Ass Kicker.

Anyway, she and I had been texting back early in the summer and I had been nostalgic about Texas peaches, which are the finest in the universe, bar none.  I was also whining about how I missed my mother’s peach preserves.  My mother and her mother were aces when it comes to turning fruits into jams and jellies and compotes and whatnot.  I have vivid memories of those gals slinging  plum preserves in an un-air conditioned East Texas kitchen in summer when the temperature in that room was pretty close to that of the sun.

Mama (yeah, I called my mother “mama.”  I’m from the South.  You got a problem with that?)  Mama had real talent for wild plum and dew berry jellies (Jelly has the pulp and skin removed so that it’s clear and smooth; jams do not so they’re chunky,) but her true genius was peach jam.  Oh, dear god, I weep knowing those heavenly jewels will not be coming my way again.  They glowed with a translucent golden light, the slices of peach firm, but tender and the flavor a burst of summer in a jar.  I weep.

Anyway, Amber remembered my whinging about missing out on those glories and she sent me 3 jars of peach preserves from a farm stand near her house.  They are absolute nectar, rich and full of sweet peachy goodness.  They are delicious, but no touch on mama’s.  But isn’t that what mothers are for, to set a benchmark no mere mortal can match?

One time I had been visiting my parents and was headed back to New Orleans loaded down with several mason jars of mama’s best.  This was before airport security was raised to paranoid level Orange, or whatever they call it now, but somewhere along the line I did have to have my bag rifled through by a couple of bored goons, some white kid and some older black lady.

The kid spotted the jelly and immediately became suspicious.  I tried to explain “They’re just peaches my mother put up.”   The phrase “put up ” was apparently not in his vocabulary, so that made things worse and complicated by the fact I couldn’t think of a synonym that could replace it.  After a few back-and-forths, the black lady, who obviously had recognized at a glance the preserves for the treasure they were, finally stoped rolling her eyes long enough to wave me through.  A good thing, cause I would have gone to jail rather than let go of those babies.  I briefly considered giving the lady a jar as thanks but then remembered “Fuck that.”  I was barely resigned to sharing them with R Man; she was out of luck.

Amber has recently requested a cowboy themed nekkid guy section, as she pointed out, she’s from Texas.  I know not every uncle and niece connection might revolve around horny cowboys in the all together, but what the hell?  Turns out I’m from Texas too:

tumblr_ecf3340ce5c1713c36f5a8cdb3becffc_7e1f22ad_540Boots up, bitches

jd-amos+coltstudio-3Searching for this smut made me remember that at one time, cowboys were a regular part of gay porn.   But somewhere in that last 20 or 30 years, they seem to have lost out as part of the pack.

Steve-Kelso-gay-porn-star-COLT-Studio-Group-hairy-hung-muscle-bear-14

The Village People picked those ridiculous costumes as a representation of all the cliches in gay smut at the time, but while cops and construction workers and leather daddies still remain strong in the porn pantheon, naked cowboys are now just sort of quaint.

cby06I have to admit, they’re never did much for me; if I wanted my dirty fantasies pre-packaged, I’d probably lean more towards the “rich old man and innocent pool boy and largish dildo” end of the spectrum.

74Still, a lid for every pot and all that.

DHPwlPHVYAIUwh6And looking for these pics made me realize that the old tramp trope is still alive, more so than I would have thought.

03Sometimes with really peculiar set dressing.

unnamedSo here’s your nekkid cowboys Amber.  Yeehaw from your loving uncle P Nee.

In Which We Go Back under the Knife. Dammit

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In my last scintillating post about my dental woes, I mentioned that since the procedure I was initially dreading fell through, I was going to have to face another, more elaborate one some time off in the misty future.  Well, the misty future came calling on Monday when my regular dentist’s office called to set up an appointment for pulling the tooth that was causing all this and setting up the bone graft.  This week.  Thursday in fact.

I hadn’t been looking forward to the whole sorry mess looming over me, but this headlong attitude of attacking my poor mouth right now was more than I expected. Looming might have ben unpleasant, but a little looming to give me some time to mope more effectively wouldn’t have been amiss.  As the brilliant Diane von Austinburg pointed out, I have only got back into solid food.

The whole day was just a mad, gay whirl.  I had teeth cleaning coming up soon, so I just combined it and the extraction to maximize the excitement.  During the cleaning, the half-wit hygienist managed to knock out a filling; when the dentist went to put a new one in, he found another filling next to the missing one was loose and needed replacing.

The goddamn hits just keep on happenin’.

By the time we had yanked the tooth out (painlessly) I was unsurprised to hear from him that the Bonehole™ was bigger than he’d expected and we couldn’t proceed with the bone graft.  Damn.  Bone graft is ground up bones from cadavers; getting a zombie-mouth was the only bright spot in the whole mess as far as I was concerned and now it’s off the table.

Since I will not be going down the zombie-mouth path, we had to scramble to yet another plan.  The latest one involves allowing my mouth to heal for several months, yay, and then trying again.  So here we are, back to looming.  I’m ok with that, I could use a little less attention being paid to the inside of my pie hole.

Boneholes™ you can use:

tumblr_p2kgdujirZ1wh3bz6o1_1280

Look, a living Ken doll.

 

tumblr_p57sjkq46X1wwptg9o1_640Daddies are always welcome around here.

tumblr_c0ce232e400b5c27f238da0ba140a726_11a8f32d_1280Who doesn’t adore a well fitted Pussy Pants?

tumblr_bc10b9b36641eae0e41a3aa6cd95a004_5183a4f6_500The allure of a big lug, Number 4,744 in the series.

In Which We Go Under the Knife. Sort of.

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I’m compiling a list of foods that make toothpaste taste nasty.  So far I’ve come up with:

  • Orange juice
  • Peanut butter
  • Tuna fish
  • Gatorade
  • Oreos
  • Mint Oreos
  • Fudge covered mint Oreos
  • Garlic

This is, obviously, a living document as I continue to brush my teeth and think “Yuck” about some combination.  Feel free to add your own problematic food products.

Speaking of dental horrors, I know it can be hard to remember a time before viruses and lockdown, but more than a year ago, I discovered I had a hole in my jaw as the result of an infection (fascinating details here).   I had been scheduled for oral surgery (a phrase guaranteed to snag even as wandering an attention as mine) in the middle of March, but then quarantine hit and I had to postpone it indefinitely, gosh darn it.   The sad thing about this particular indefinitely is that it ran out and so I found myself back at my endodontist’s office yesterday being just the bravest little man you’ve ever seen.

Once I was shot up with so much novocaine my fucking ear was numb, the good doctor peeled back my gum (and that is exactly as much fun as it sounds) only to announce in mournful tones that there was not enough bone left to proceed with the festivities and we would have to cancel the procedure.

The poor thing was distraught.  My bonehole had let him down and I spent a while trying to simultaneously hide my relief and consoling him as best my benumbed mouth would let me.  Also, the phrase “bonehole” is my newest, favorite insult.  It sounds very much like what my friends and I would have hurled at some other, less desirable queen in a dank queer bar back in the 80s.  “Get lost, you fucking bonehole”  I think I will have to trademark it.  Bonehole ™.

Of course, no narrow escape comes without cost, in this case another, much more elaborate dental action.   I sort of blanked out during part of the explanation, but as best I can recall I will have the tooth above the Bonehole ™ extracted, a bone graft shoved into the Bonehole ™ (bone grafts come from a cadaver.  I’m going to have some random dead guy’s bone in my mouth.  Yeah baby,)  the gum stitched shut till the graft heals then cut open again to put in a tooth implant.  By the time they finish, I will have a genuine zombie/cyborg mouth.

All of this sounds both painful and expensive, a combination I particularly loathe.  My tiny brain can easily get on board with paying just about any amount for an Unlimited Rentboy and Bottomless Cocaine party, but coughing up money, actual, for real money, and lots of it for something that hurts just offends my sensibilities.  Although considering how numbingly dull my life is these days, I might very well be looking forward to the entire ordeal by the time it rolls around.

Candidates for the Unlimited Rentboy portion of our evening:

tumblr_oth2qb4Swb1uvpjdso1_500Also, I’m supposed to be on a liquid diet until Saturday.  I’m already craving potato chips.

 

tumblr_inline_pos1e8Yk151uk8t2j_1280Cause if you have Unlimited Rentboys running around loose, somebody has to be in charge.

 

1530385914355Haven’t I mentioned before how I have a weakness for cute dofuses?  Attractive dolts with that blank, startled look that says so clearly “I never have before, but OK.”

 

1982154_1398966470156654_5924547494252113395_nThis is simply not the time to be picking up random young men on the roadside.  Unless you really need to.

 

4094be9974f471c8c1e1f55ac58453eaWowza.  Let me repeat.  Wowza.

 

tumblr_inline_pptxuyk2kE1t8f7w9_540Did I mention my liquid diet?

 

 

GoFundMe Results and a Mikey Update

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A very big thank you to everyone who stepped up with the GoFundMe effort to help our friend Mikey’s father.  Together we were able to raise $2,650; please pause for a hearty round of applause.

Mikey’s father has returned home to finish recuperating from having the stent put in his kidney.  Mikey assures us his father is achy, but doing better and “has his legs beneath him,” which I’m assuming is a good thing.  Maybe? Probably.

Brain and I were talking with Mikey the other evening and he was so grateful and so touched by everyone’s help, he got overcome with emotion while trying to just say thank you.  So I’ll say it for him.

Thank you guys.