In Which We Explore Not Much


Having just bragged about my culinary expertise, I am here to report that for dinner tonight, I am having a bowl Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.  You know why?  Because I am a motherfucking adult and I want to.

Did my previous post about the glorious San Francisco weather seem a tad sketchy, even by the admittedly low standards we maintain here at mrpeenee World Headquarters? Mmmmmmmmmaybe.   I had spent quite  a while hammering out what could only be described as a diatribe about an argument I had been involved in with a some Neanderthal. It was cathartic, explaining how brilliantly I defended my position and how stupid his hair was, but once I finished it and read it over, I realized it was dreadful.  Mostly “And then he said….  And then I said….  And then he said….”  I know you guys get on my nerves but even so, you deserve better than that.

And so I deleted it and dashed off the little bulletin about how nice nice weather is.  Also, this just in, lollipops.   I suppose I could have included something on kittens, but living with the terror that is Saki leaves me sort of tepid to that whole idea.

Super Agent Fred continues to steam along with his art.  My favorite current series, Nekkid Guys in Gold Leaf, is particularly fine.  He’s planning on participating in Open Studios, so if you find yourself in the Bay Area November 4 or 5, come on by to see the master himself and buy some fucking art.  He’s listed in the catalogue both as Tim Gately and Super Agent Fred.


Nekkid Guys in Gold Leaf

Lastly, we’re planning a Yahtzee tournament Friday evening with a group of friends collectively know as the children, solely because they are all young enough to be my offspring were I given to spawning and not because of their IQs.  I swear.

Weather Gurls


One consistency about San Francisco is the absolute lack of rain during our dry season, April through October.  So the big storm this weekend was a thrilling Big Event.  Over the dry season, dust and grime settles in a beige layer all over everything and when the first rains wash all of that off, we’re universally delighted to see the crisp clean colors.  Especially since the sunshine out here is unusually brilliant.  Sun so bright the shadows look like they’re cut with an xacto blade.

Super Agent Fred and I spent this dazzling afternoon in the most aimless way possible, coffee and manicures; absolutely the best way to celebrate such spectacular weather.


Open the curtains and revel in the sunshine.


Misadventures in the Kitchen


I am an accomplished cook.  Not bragging, merely stating a truth.  I make excellent osso buco, chicken and sausage gumbo, banana pudding, potatoes daupehnois; I cover the motehrfucking waterfront.

I learned, early on in my so-called adulthood, that if one wants to eat well, one needs to cook well.  And so, I taught myself.  After R Man died, though, I stopped cooking.  I drifted into surviving on cold cereal and cookies and sandwiches from the deli and, every lazy man’s fall back, pizza.


Last week, though, I suddenly stepped back into the kitchen and starting slinging hash,  It wasn’t something I deliberated over.  One afternoon, I just decided I wanted to make a chicken pot pie and you know what?  It was delicious.  I have since cooked almost every night.  A lot of the things are simple, but simple doesn’t always mean easy.  Red beans (one of my absolute favorite things to eat) are simple, but it seems to be easy to make bad ones, god knows I have choked down my share of them.  Mine, on the other hand, could compete against any old New Orleans grannie’s and I would hold my own.

Also, that favorite of Ladies’ Clubs everywhere, chicken salad.  I have to make two versions because Super Agent Fred, who’s staying here a lot these days while painting, hates all forms of pickles and mustards, a bias I view as bizarre.  So I make a poached chicken/celery/mayo base, split it in two, put his away and then finish mine with relish and capers and tarragon mustard.  It would make strong men weep.



I’ve also taken to baking, never a strong suit of mine.  I think cooking, which you can usually tinker with as you go along and correct is an art and baking, where you combine elements, add heat and hope for the best is science.  Still, in the last few days I’ve put out a carrot cake (from R Man’s dear, sweet little aunt’s recipe, in her own dainty, old lady handwriting) that was nothing short of dynamite and a sherry cake, luscious and full of a very potent kick of sherry, it was teatime with someone’s Victorian auntie.


And then, of course, a fall.  Nothing will flatten your hubris like a cooking disaster, except, possibly a sexual disaster.  But we’re talking cooking here.

I just wanted a spice cake.  They’re easy, I just take a boxed mix and add nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper (and instant pudding, another Ladies’ Club trick that results in a lovely moist and rich cake.)  I thought I would finish it with a brown sugar frosting and that’s where it all went so terribly, terribly wrong.

Most brown sugar recipes call for boiling the sugar in butter to melt the crystals, but boiling sugar makes me nervous.  Any splash or dribble on your skin burns like a particularly torturous hell, plus the liquified sugar is glue that sticks to your skin while you’re cursing and squealing and trying to get it off.

I found, instead, a brown sugar buttercream frosting.  I love buttercreams, their taste, their texture and their foolproof easiness.  In fact, I have the recipe for the basic one memorized.  No great feat since it’s “1, 2, 3.”  One stick of butter, 2 cups of powdered sugar and 3 tablespoons of milk.  Cream the butter and sugar and then add the milk a little at a time until you get the right consistency.

As usual, this mnemonic is actually just a rule of thumb.  You need about a half teaspoon of vanilla as well, but that doesn’t go with in with the 1, 2, 3 thingy.  You can adjust the amount of sugar however you want and I don’t think I’ve ever actually measured the milk; you just dribble it in SLOWLY.  The change in the consistency is so quick and so drastic it will make you believe in alchemy.

So I came to this new recipe pretested,so to speak.  The problem was I was also making a quiche at the same time and was paying most of my attention to it.  That’s my excuse anyway.  In reality there is no reason why I would read a direction calling for FOUR cups of powdered sugar and not have some serious pause.  Sometimes you just trust in the recipe.  Sometimes you get fucked in the ass.

I got ready to add the milk and realized the mixing bowl looked like I had simply dumped a bag of sugar in it.  Which is pretty much just what I had done.  I got the consistency down to something spreadable, put it on the cake and had my first bite.

As Diane von Austinburg will attest, I have quite sweet tooth, but even I cannot choke this bitch down.  It is remarkably similar to what eating the contents of a sugar bowl with a spoon must be like.  The frosting was so overwhelming, I’m not sure how the cake was, but I plan to try to save it by scraping off the sugar festival and replacing it with another , more restrained buttercream.


I was so amazed how bad the result was, I went back to re-read the whole, in case I had had some kind of Alzheimer’s moment.  That’s when I noticed the site’s name was “Two Sisters Crafting.”  Could there have been a more obvious warning sign?

On Demand


I was visiting with my friend Mikey over on Chaturbate this evening and the subject of this blog came up.  Mikey has been very sweet about encouraging his followers (of which he has FORTY THOUSAND.  He’s deservedly popular) to drop by over here.  He was also very impressed when I shared one time with him the number of men I estimated I’d had sex with (11,815.  Sort of.  The story of how I came up with that is available here ) and so this evening, apres the splooge fest, he insisted I write a post here about my most memorable sex.

The problem with being a slut in the big league numbers that I am is that “memorable sex” is sort of hard to come by.  Along about the 3,000th sodomy, things sort of blur together.  Still, Mikey instructed me to write a story and I would hate to disappoint him.  So instead of the single most memorable nasty act, here is a sort of omnibus of mrpeenee’s hijinks.

A note to our readers of a more delicate sensibility: the following will, obviously, be lurid.

I met a young man on the street in New Orleans and invited him to repair to my maisonette.  As I was slurping away on his nice long piece, he had the bright idea of shoving my head as far down on it as he could.  What he failed to account for was that I had only recently completed lunch and thus rewarded his energetic push by puking coffee all over his lap.  One of those occasions when no amount of apology will suffice.

One night at the tubs in Los Angeles (which I always found appealingly and appropriately ratty) I was lounging in the doorway of my room, just waiting for some company.  A very, VERY well built boy kept circling by slowing down to ogle, but never committing to crossing the threshold.  Finally, about the sixth loop by, the guy in the room across the hall stepped into his path and told him “Just go in there and get this over with.”  Which the built boy then did.  I remember the fucking, but what I more fondly recall was that queen’s intercession.  God love her.  The kindness of strangers and all that.

That also brings to mind conversations I’ve had with my dear chum Kevin.  He and I are members of the Brotherhood of the Very Large Whacker and we have discussed before how amazing it is that men who will not spare us a second glance when we’re at a bar or someplace else with our clothes on, will lunge at us, feet already in the air, at the baths or a sex club or someplace where they can see our dicks.  It just proves the old advertising truism “You gotta show the goods.”


naked men happen.

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.

I used to have a guy I was very fond of at Blow Buddies who would park himself at one of the holes and stay there for hours.  He was slim with beautiful wavy dark hair and very proper looking.  One would never clock him as a dick pig unless one saw him going at it in the Milking Room.  I liked to come up behind him, pinching his nipples and feeling his throat where I could feel the various dicks making their way down his gullet.

Oh, dear god, how could I have overlooked this?  My Most Memorable Sex?  One night I was at a dark and dumpy bar in New Orleans that had excellent loud music and an unlit back room where the sluts of the French Quarter would gather to exchange blow jobs.  That’s precisely why I was there, leaning up against a pool table, taking on whoever felt like going down on me.  A hand grabbed my dick and I ran my hand through the hair on his chest.  (what a fool I always have been for a beautifully hairy chest) and then up to his lush beard.   “Would you like to leave here?” he asked.  I would.  And that’s how I met RMan, the love of my life.



In Which We Go to the Fair


I have a long held distaste for street fairs.  Always the same crappy crafts seemingly aimed at stoner white boys with dreds,  food concessionaires burning gristle and claiming it’s fajita, and bands that sound like they only met moments before taking the stage and whose singer and lead guitarist are working out their differences by performing two different songs.  And the crowds shuffling along not really sure why they have wound up there; people I would not sit next to voluntarily on a bus.

So what was mrpeenee doing at the Castro Street Fair on Sunday?  Shilling for his dear friend Secret Agent Fred.

Fred is one of those very rare creatures: an artist who actually creates art.  He works steadily on drawings and paintings and odd little collages, his style evolving over the years, but always charming, interesting pieces.  As his weak spot is marketing, they tend to pile up rather, lately in my garage.  I thought if we got a booth at the fair, the public would see his genius for a change and snap some of them up.

I was right, too.  We sold 13 or 15 pieces (we forgot to keep count, that’s the kind of big-time merchants we are) including one before the fair even started.  I think more useful than the sales was the encouragement to Fred from all the people who stopped by and were loud with their cries of admiration.  Cheap motherfuckers.



Also, let me make a correction.  I have, for all this time written about the artist as SECRET Agent Fred when, in fact, the correct name is SUPER Agent Fred.   I prefer my way, but it’s his nom de artiste.


Also a big hit were his gold leaf nekkid boys series.  You would have been amazed how many respectable middle aged gay men would stop and snigger at them like schoolboys who’ve just discovered the Venus de Milo has nipples.

Anals of the Interweb Evolution


Perhaps my loyal readers will remember my gleefully describing earlier this summer the already well known (to consumers more savvy than I) phenomenon of chat rooms or cams. Sites where (usually) attractive youth will broadcast their pulchritude via the web cam built into their computers while grateful old men, such as me, send them “tips” or “tokens” we buy through the broadcasting site.  Thus an entire ecology of lust and commerce is born and flourishes.  My favorite site is Chaturbate, although the more heavy handedly mercenary RentMen has its charms as well.

Dedicated research on my part since that initial post has turned up several fascinating bits. For instance, did you know Romania has become something of the center of the chat room universe?  A semi-robust infrastructure that provides fast and fairly reliable internet plus a depressed economy that provides lots of kids with little or no jobs times the remarkable good looks of Eastern Europeans equals a kind of perfect storm for churning out hot chat rooms.  The concurrence of all this has led to literally thousands of “studios” springing up there.  Warehouse-y spaces with small rooms set up with garish wall paper and decorations where models sit around in front of live cameras waiting for johns to sign in and start springing for a flash of their bits or, for especially open handed donations, a money shot.  Bucharest: the new Hollywood of flesh peddlers.  Who’d a thunk?

My personal dalliances with these site has opened an entirely new and delightful facet to my quiet little life.  Our principle players include:


Mikey, aka Playwithme55, is my favorite.  Sweet and charming and guileless, he has a huge fan base (understandably.)  Some of the fans (including me) have taken to nattering along amongst ourselves in the chat portion.  There is the video on the left of Mikey flogging his enormous keilbasa while we crack jokes and catch up on what’s going on in the less lurid portion of our lives in the column on the right.  I was discussing the difficulty of getting one’s children into a good school in Berkeley just last night all the while keeping an eye on Mikey’s luscious titties.  It’s very endearing and a lovely little community.  Also, I should mention Mikey has a wired up dildo called a Lovesense shoved into his poop chute and each time we tip him he gets a jolt.  It’s hilarious to watch him squeal and dance around.


Also funny is John (Secret Agent Fred and I refer to him as Sponge Bob Square Ass) an absolutely gorgeous and goofy mountain o’man who also utilizes a Lovesense.  He’s on Chaturbate as johnandkitty .  He looks like a bouncer in a really scary bar, but is, in fact, the sweetest thing walking around on two colossal thighs.  COLOSSAL.  They look like they could crush, I don’t know, things.  Me, for sure.  I actually get him to sing ridiculous pop songs (Bonnie Tyler’s It’s a Heartache is one of our faves) while I zap him repeatedly.  I have laughed so hard at the sight  of this Hercules yelping and lurching and warbling “It’s a heartache, nothing but a heartache…” that I almost pissed.


Guiverno, over at RentMen, also has a substantial following and its terribly gratifying to have him blow them off when I show up and insist we adjourn to a “private chat” so I can tell him a story while he works on one of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen.  And I’ve seen a lot.  Early on in our virtual relationship, I discovered he’s wild for me to tell him long, filthy, very detailed smut in which he is the star.  I have wheedled what are his type of men and kinds of scenes he’s into and now customize the filthy tales  I provide him on demand.  He was particularly fond of the threeway in the toilet where the fat guy blew his load on the blond football player’s face while Guiverno gave it to him up the dirty back road.

994dbdc7bfe0eb2718fbe56c8a96266bb592eee4_500x500-jpg-cb_watermarkKarlosz99 (Do you love these stagenames?) just wants me to marry him.  He has no idea what I look like or what my personality is, but he does have a firm grasp on the concept that trading an improvident existence in Bucharest for a semi-rich widow in San Francisco would be a step in the right direction.


Then we have Brutus.  Brutus and I have gassy conversations to pass the time while he masturbates a really lovely long wiener.  I mentioned this blog just tonight and he professed to be aghast that I would have a forum dedicated to rambling on mostly about my day to day life.  “What about losing your privacy?” he fretted.  “How can you let everyone know all the details of your life?”  I didn’t want to be rude, but I finally had to point out he was airing these concerns while sitting naked on a web cam with cum drying on his stomach.  He’s a sweet boy, but doesn’t seem to grasp how irony works.


Finally, let me mention the snippy queen, whose name eludes me, but who, during my only visit to his room took great offense at some remark I made that implied possibly he was a prostitute.  Uhm, OK.  Let’s see, you’re working on a site called RentMen.  I considered explaining all that, but I just moved on.  Cause thanks to the wonders of this modern age there are literally thousands of other cute boys out there waiting for a generous old queen like me.

Summer’s End


Every year, there’s come some sad, sad time when I buy peaches, after having ridden on a tide of peachy deliciousness for weeks, thinking “I know it’s late in the season, but surely there’s time for one more peach.”  This is the kind of delusional thinking that can only lead to heartache.  This year, we actually made it all the way to day before yesterday, thank you global warming, before we hit the wall of peach apocalypse. Apeachcalypse.

Secret Agent Fred and I were wandering aimlessly through the farmers’ market in the Castro (and let me just mention a farmers’ market is not a destination which anyone who knows either of us in the slightest would expect of us) when I was suckered into a booth filled with peaches and nectarines, two fruits which I think are proof of the existence of god.

The sort-of-cute hippie boy working the stand swore allowing them to sit a few hours in the sun would ripen them.  Lying bitch.  The whole batch has been lounging in the sun like some out of work pop star in rehab for two gloriously sunny days with absolutely no discernible results.  They look like peaches, but that’s where the similarity ends.  No scent, no taste, no god of stone fruits.

We were also flimflammed into a couple of batches of basil with dreams of pesto dancing in our pointy little heads.  The less said about that particular debacle the better.  I made the pesto and it turned out that’s what the garbage disposal is for.

The maddening part of this is that these few weeks at the end of August and early September are the few real summery times we get here in San Francisco.  Even then, after a few balmy days, the fog blasts in and we’re back to our parkas, laughing at the tourists in their shorts and sandals and hypothermia.

OK, OK. Autumn.   Time to move on to pears, the magic of root vegetable, and avoiding pumpkin lattes.  I have recently discovered a new brand of tea called Numi that features a line of white tea flavored with rosebuds.  Very ladylike (just like me!) and flavorful so I’m sort of set for the fall.


Adieu, oh boy of summer.



Bring on the Bitches of Autumn

Calling drpeenee


Because of my fucked up bad back, several years ago, my doctor put me on a daily regimen of Vicodin.  Was I OK with that?  Fuck yes.  I like Vicodin and Vicodin likes me. I eat a bunch, climb in bed to float off to Vicodinland and Saki gets to sleep on my limp, but still breathing corpse.  Everybody wins.

Then, about a month ago, my doctor’s associate said he needed to talk to me about my dosage.  I had been bracing myself for this. Over the last couple of years, the federal government has been expressing a frowny sort of attitude towards opiates; apparently the death rate among teenage hillbillies was skyrocketing as they munched their way through Mawmaw’s medicare supplied dope.  Personally, I think white trash doper kids OD-ing before they’re able to pass on their stupidity genes is nothing to fret about, but you let loose that opinion and people get all “Dr Mengle-y.”  Anyway.

So I had to go chat pills and dolls and such.  Turns out I was supposed to be taking 8 – 10 a day and I was averaging more like 14.  I tried explaining I regarded the numbers on the jars as suggestions rather than absolutes, but nobody was really having it.  I was sort of expecting a stern “ease up on the gas, girl” talk and while there was elements of that, the doctor was mostly interested in moving me off the Vikeys.

His first suggestion, interestingly, was time release Methadone.  I must have looked as startled as I felt since he hurriedly assured me it was a pain reliever.  I nevertheless declined and so we moved on through a number of other interesting options such as Oxycodone (in case I wanted to get more in touch with the hillbilly fiends, I suppose) or extended release Morphine.  I stopped him there mostly because I was starting to be afraid the menu might turn out to include heroin if we continued on and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about chasing the dragon as part of my health regime.

Feeling like sort of like some Victorian Lady, I took my first dose, with firm instructions to Secret Agent Fred about which emergency room I preferred.  Step one: I felt great.  Step two: I couldn’t poop.  Step three: I itched everywhere, all the time.  Turns out I am allergic to Morphine.

Since that wasn’t working out, I reluctantly turned to the Oxycodon.  It just seems so trashy.  Also, it didn’t work.  At all.  I could have just as well have been eating Skittles.  After a few days of achy back and a punched-in-the-gut feeling, I decided to go back to the feelin’ great-ness of Morphine.  I thought I would just power through the constipation.  Oddly enough, that is not a thing.

A few poop free days of feeling sort of sick to my stomach, but gloriously sans pain, Monday afternoon, I started vomiting with a volume, explosiveness, and general exuberance that would have been impressive If I weren’t at the delivery end of things.

Off to the E.R., one I had been to many times with R Man and which I had always been impressed with.  Now that it was my turn, no such luck.  The triage nurse couldn’t have expressed her disdain more clearly if she had stamped “JUNKIE” on my forehead.  I kept trying to explain neither the Morphine nor the Oxy was my idea.  Nobody cared.


Why is this never my Emergency Room experience?

Four and half hours dry heaving in the waiting room gave way, finally, to a very cute doctor who casually explained I was having a reaction to both drugs and since they were both time release forms, I was going to be sick for a while.  See ya.

Since I am burdened with HIV, I am leary of hospitals as it is, regarding them as nothing more than big petri dishes of infection waiting to happen.  Sure enough the patient in the cubicle next to me, who insisted on informing anyone who passed by that she, too, was a nurse, turned out to have contracted drug resistant E Coli.  I had never even heard of it, but it raised what little hair I have left, especially since the only thing dividing us was a set of curtains that looked like they came from Pottery Barn and my steely resolve not to make eye contact.  The fact she got the same shitty treatment I did was only slightly comforting.

Now I’m home. off Morphine and Oxycontin and wondering if I should have held out for heroin.


You are never going to get your good rectal thermometer back just standing around talking about it.


Joyeux Anniversaire


I am not good with anniversaries.  Remembering them takes paying attention and that is so very much not my strong suit.   The one for this blog last month, Saki’s birthday (Happy Birthday, you little shit!) the commemoration of Texas’s independence from Mexico, all of it drifts by on the tide of me thinking about something else.

That’s why I was so impressed with myself when, earlier this evening, I was floating on the edge of a nap and suddenly recalled that in 1976 (America’s Bicentennial and an orgy of far too much redwhiteandblue) somewhere about the middle of August, I had sex for the first time.  Forty years of dick sucking!  Amazing.

I still remember his name, Nick Coffee.  When Mr. Coffee and mrpeenee met.  I now realize it was probably the single worst blow job I have ever given, but everybody has to start someplace.  Native talent will only take you so far.  I no longer have any idea what he looked like, dark hair, maybe?  Still, he came equipped with a penis and that’s pretty much all that counted.

I suppose it might be possible to track down Mr. Coffee’s wife and ask for his picture, but that seems like a lot of trouble, in more ways than one, so in lieu of that, let us gaze on my single favorite smut image in the world: Mike Betts from Colt Studio having removed a tuxedo and parked in front of a Chinoiserie screen.


As Nina Simone would say “Let me sit on top your knee / Take care of business.”   Also, Happy Anniversary.

Cast Your Vote Now


So I have wasted the whole evening trying to come up with a post about having my house painted.  Amazingly, it turns out home maintenance is not that amusing.  The only part I’m pleased with was describing the scaffolding as looking like it could take some medieval catapult, and I’m mostly happy with that because I spelled “catapult” right.

I’m having the house painted, blahblahblah.  Next.

Instead, let us turn our collective attention to naked young men, always a happy topic here at mrpeenee.

A while ago I ran across this fine young specimen and was very taken with him.  When I used him to illustrate a post (I think about Saki going to the vet, but of course) a number of readers seemed enthusiastically happy with him as well.



Now in my ceaseless patrolling of smutty byways of the interweb, I have run across this photo.


Doesn’t it seem to be the same viking-ish youth?  It does, doesn’t it?  Let’s put it to a vote, shall we?

Also, if anyone has any intel on him, or knows where any more of his oeuvre might be, I’d appreciate the heads up because who better to turn to for that than my readers?

Isn’t that better than details about the primer coat?