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?

In Which We Go Traveling


I celebrated the recent ninth anniversary of this blog by not blogging anything.  It’s a little trick I’m quite fond of.

Instead, Secret Agent Fred and I took off for Seattle.  Diane von Austinburg was going to be there for a conference and we decided a train trip up there would be amusing. We were wrong.

The trip, which is an hour and a half by plane, was 24 hours long.  By the last two hours, we were huddled whimpering in our roomette.  At one point, we wound up in some snack car that claimed to have a bar.  The bartender refused to sell me a club soda, something about it “wasn’t on the cash register.” So I demanded a bourbon and soda, hold the bourbon.  The bartender asked Fred “Is he the one that always wins the arguments?”  Yes, yes I am.  Now give me my fucking club soda.

Seattle itself was pretty and boring.  It always is.  I lived there in the late 70’s and literally left because I thought it was just too dull.  It was nice to hang with Diane, although I spent so much time in my very nice hotel room sleeping, we didn’t get together much.  She recently emailed to apologize about something or the other.  I don’t know what she was talking about, but when people want to beg forgiveness for something I don’t remember (which happens more than you might think; I’m not very good at paying attention,) my policy is to accept graciously, with my lips slightly pursed, as if to imply that I’d rather not discuss The Unpleasant Incident.  What the hell?  Whatever they’ve done, or think they’ve done, I’m sure I’ve dished out worse, so let’s just call it even and move on and let me forget something more important.

Such as the bar Fred and I went to one night.  It was in a very schwanky hotel and yet it was the darkest bar I’ve ever been in where there wasn’t actual sodomy going on somewhere close at hand.  Also surprising: the metal covered trunk being used as a table at our seats had a drawer which, when opened, revealed blood along its lip.  And not just a little blood.  Think serial killer evidence.


So am I ever leaving San Francisco again?  Nope.  Never.  If there’s some funeral you’d like me to attend, you’ll need to have it delivered here.

In Which mrpeenee Reveals His Shame.


I am not a political person.  I am a cynic who came of age with the hippies and then wound up surviving the worst of the AIDS plague and George Bush and I worked for the federal government.  I have, as they say, seen both sides now.  But that doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions, in fact, they are quite brilliant ones, naturellement.

Out at dinner last night a friend asked “Would you rather have Trump or Reagan as president?” and I said Trump.  Astonishment and concern flowed.  I think the general agreement was that I was suffering an udon induced stroke.

And even as I voiced my vote, I felt ashamed to have said it out loud.  I think Trump is detestable, actually a worse person than Reagan, a possibility unthinkable before this campaign.  My point was this: if you have two people trying to shoot you and one can aim and the other is a moron who is not quite sure which end the bullets come out of, which one seems more likely to cause damage?

Reagam was a monster who caused widespread and lasting damage and the reason he was able to do so was because he was capable of working in the halls of power.  Trump on the other hand, doesn’t seem like he could find those halls with GPS.  I understand he will be surrounded by much smarter men working for him who will know how to push the buttons, but still, evil and stupid versus evil and canny.  I said Trump.  Oh, the shame.  The shame.


Also, this guy.

More White Lady Problems


This afternoon, I was having a Day of Beauty/Spa Life in the Castro.  Got my hair cut and exchanged insights on the Walking Dead and proper zombie evasion techniques with my beauty operator, Jeff (who refused to see the brilliance of my theory that zombies can’t lift their feet high enough to climb steps, so just run upstairs.  Also, a fire axe is always handy.  Anyway Jeff’s an idiot.)  Went to the chiropractor and got well and throughly cracked.  Also, got my nails did.

That’s when the trouble hit.  Doesn’t it always?  The nail place was hushed, with quiet spa music noodling in the background, and I was ensconced in my favorite massage chair thinking how much I like someone else filing my hooves when this queen and her two lady friends busted in.  Miss Lady Queen Thing proceeded to expound in a booming voice to her gal pals just how to get a manicure.

What the fuck?  It’s not exactly a participatory event.  You sit back, let the manicurist go at it and then leave.  About all you have to remember is to only stick out one hand at a time.  I tired to keep my eyes shut and ignore the bitch, but immediately all the manicurists, who had been quietly going about their jobs and probably dreaming about the day they rise up in revolution, started chattering and giggling.  Sweetie, you can drop as far into Vietnamese as you like, but we all know who you’re gossiping about.

Still, it was a great manicure and on the way out, I saw the braying queen had picked the ugliest pukey green polish in the world.  Stupid bitch.


I swiped this from Jason’s Tumblr, over at Golden Fleecing  .  I realized what a fussy old queen I have degenerated into when the first thing I thought of on seeing it was “That boy needs a pedicure, stat.”



I was wandering up Castro Street in that sort of aimless way which is such an important part of my charm when I bumped into our old friend Gaye.  We caught up, which was easy for my part since I am a Lady of Leisure and thus the answer to “What have you been up to?” tends to brief in the extreme.  Gaye then enthused about a documentary she was off to see about minimalism.  She went on at some length about the importance of unburdening oneself when I finally interrupted to remind her that she and her husband own two homes, one of which is actually a compound, comprising a main house, two guest cottages, a barn, a shed of indeterminate purpose, and a pond.  A motherfucking pond.  Gaye had the grace to look sheepish.

I am no real fan of minimalism,  Oh, maybe in museums or gas stations, but as for home decor or a mode of living, no thanks.  I think all gay men of my generation can remember being hit with both barrels of decorating restraint in the 80s and I, for one, am still reeling.  Severe bleached wood floors, chilly white walls and the ambiance of an operating theatre.  Sex in those environs always carried with it the pleasant frisson of despoiling something, but then after, finding a towel to wipe up with was such an hassle.

True to my inner old dowager, I like stuff.  Tchotckes on tables, pillows on sofas, nice things for the cat to fuck up.  Stupid cat.  Not to the level of madness that Victorian spinsters hit, or some of the queens I have known who had to dust with dental floss to squeeze between all the bibelots, but still, some stuff.

I try to be mindful that too much knickknackery is a dead giveaway sign of having crossed over into old poofhood, so the other day when Secret Agent Fred dropped by and asked “What is that thing rolled up in the hall?  Is it a dead body?” I briefly considered going with the corpse angle to hide my shame.  In the end, though, I had to admit the truth.  “I might have bought another rug,” I said.  Airily.  Fred wondered where a new rug was going.  I assured him if I moved three of the existing ones around, everything would be fine.  That’s when I started to wonder if I have a problem.  Is there a home decor intervention in my future?  Is there redecorator rehab?

In my defense, let me point out it is a gorgeous piece.  In the late 1920s up until World War II shuttered them, there were several rug weavers in Shanghai that created these stunning rugs in odd, vibrant colors and charming pictoral designs like pagodas and lanterns and bamboos.


This one is the most beautiful tones of chartreuse and lavender and the design is something that I think is a geyser and a parrot, dahlias, and lotus.  Obviously, I had to have it.  And this is the LAST ONE.  I swear.