Another Year Older


Oops, oops, I have once again forgotten my own anniversary. July the something (I’m too lazy to look it up) 2007 was my blog’s first post, so yay for me. Among bloggers, 14 is a ripe old age, an antique, in fact. When I first started airing my dirty laundry, there was quite a little gang of fellow bloggers to keep me company. Their number has withered away, it’s true, but I still remember them fondly. Perverts, most of them, but amusing perverts.

My blog’s musty old age is not a testament to any particular stick-to-itness on my part. All of my storytelling tends to wander quite a bit (maybe you noticed? Shut up.) and I think I started some damn story all those years ago and have just never finished.

So let’s raise a toast to mrpeenee, god love him. Here’s to never getting to the point.

If I were to get anniversary presents (it’s not too late,) I would hope this might serve as an inspiration.

Big, hard, and thoughtful. What could be better?

“I’m workin on a man/with blonde hair and a tan,” Dr. Frank N. Furter.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s always trouble.

Flag Ship


Gay Pride came and went last month, perhaps you noticed? The enormous parade and celebration at its end here had to be canceled because of Covid, but that didn’t stop a sizable wave of tourist descending on us. Not canceled was one of my favorite elements of the whole hoohah, the little banners flapping from all the streetlight poles the length of Market Street, the main street of San Francisco.

They’re very pretty and certainly add a festive note to the street, but the best thing about them is that they just pop up. Even after all these years, they never fail to surprise me. One morning, they just appear, installed overnight apparently by busy little elves. Or I suppose fairies would be more appropriate.

Also under the heading of “gay banners,” or possibly “fag flags,” we have the leather / s&m flags. There’s always been a lot of overlap between the two communities and so it makes sense that they share a flag.

Queer leather / S&M. It’s black and blue, get it? Get it? Oh, never mind.

Thin Blue Line bullshit icon.

What I find so amusing is that these flags of a decidedly deviant sexual gang are very similar to the ones of the police-positive, borderline white supremacist thin blue line ones. I think it’s hilarious that these pea brain, police brutality apologists not only share the basic design of a gay banner, but that of a freaky sex gay banner.

“Excuse me, are you showing support for police, opposition to the Black Lives Matter movement, or do you just want to get your ass whipped and stuffed by some guy in a pair of chaps?”

Gentleman letting their freak flag fly:

I like your hat.

Affordable rates by the hour available.

Love that satin-y skin.

I used to know this guy’s porn name, but it slips my mind.

Speaking of S&M, there’s always the popular boxer fantasy for you.

You know what this guy smells like.

I like your hat, too.

In Which We Say Goodbye to a Dear Little Buddy


There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a cat curled up on your lap while you sit reading Barbara Pym for the bazillionth time. It’s just the right amount and it emphasizes how cozy the moment is in a cold, hard world.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. Saki was settled in my lap on top of the blanket he claimed years ago. It was a position he and I perfected long before all the odd times of the last decade. The very sweet vet who had come over to my place gave him three injections, 10 minutes apart (morphine, valium, and ketamine, I thought about asking for some of that good stuff, but I was distracted) and Saki got loaded, fell asleep, and just drifted off. That’s how I want to go.

I was very sad that day, but actually, the hardest part was resigning myself to it and then scheduling the euthanasia. Just saying the words on the phone to the receptionist was almost impossible. But he had stopped eating 4 weeks ago. It became obvious the choice was putting him to sleep or watching him starve to death.

Even now I expect to see him somewhere, like he’s been taking one of his naps and wandered back in to see what I was doing. I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and for second think that it’s him.

Anyway. This end, regardless of how easy or painful it is, is always obvious in the beginning when you take on a pet. The chances of outliving them are very small and you have to know that this is coming. So let’s all take a moment to remember all the ridiculous cats and dogs that have been in our lives and made them better for the time they shared with us.

You Google the phrase “naked guy with cat” and you get some pretty amazing results. To wit:

I know, not naked, but too cute to ignore.

Hard to believe, but the kitten is even cuter than the lanky, doe-eyed beauty

If you haven’t done this with your cat, are you really trying?

“put me down RIGHT THIS MINUTE, or you’ll be sorry”

Not one, but TWO oozy woozums.

I know, not naked again, but the cat is Saki’s double.

Can you pick out the kitten?

Surely if your Grindr profile just read “I have glasses and a cat,” the internet would melt.

Oh, keeses. Many, many keeses.

I think anyone who’s ever lived with a cat recognizes this classic pose of a squirming cat in one hand and something you don’t want to spill in the other and know that tragedy is eminent.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see this man naked. The I’m including the picture is the story that went with it which was about a cop who rescued a kitten, much adorbs, and which described said cop as 28 years old. Not to be bitchy, for once, but does this guy look 28? Is that in dog years?

In Which We Are Sad


Well. Well well. Saki has cancer. He’s had a bad cough for the last month, but I convinced myself it was allergies, god knows everybody else has them. Lately though, he is lost a tremendous amount of weight and had become withdrawn and lethargic. Finally, last week he stopped eating altogether, so I surrendered and took him to the vet.

Tests, x-rays, antibiotics; she called yesterday with the bad news. When I took him in, I told her I was not interested in any treatments if it turned out to be cancer. I know my decision was very strongly colored by my experience going through treatments like that with R Man the two times he had cancer. Seeing how miserable he was then was bad enough.

Also, years ago, in regard to our last cat, the very beloved and saintly Maggie, R Man and I had agreed aggressive or extreme medical treatments on an animal is frequently unwarranted. Saki would have no idea why I suddenly decided to start torturing him on the regular or why he felt so wretched. I have the ability to protect him from that, so I will. Saki has had feline leukemia for as long as we’ve had him, so with his immune system weakened by that, I’m not even sure he would survive the treatments.

The vet offered surgery to see just what kind of cancer it was, but that’s only important for determining what treatment to use against it. Since I’m not going down that road, I decided to spare him at least the stress and discomfort of the surgery. As the vet said, we’re in hospice care now.

I guess the only bright spot around here these days is the antibiotics have been really successful already. He’s perked up and is actually eating, which is encouraging. I’m mostly just carrying him around while I rub his face, which is his favorite thing next to sleeping in the sun and we have plenty of that. So he’s happy and I’m resigned. One day at a time, that’s all you get.

Naked guys, even in the most difficult times, they’re there for you.

Beautifully hairy

I incorrectly claimed last Sunday was Gay Pride; it’s actually June 27. Our apologies.

What would June be without the serendipitous collision of Gay Pride and Father’s Day?

Dreamboat Eric Rio, a long time favorite here at mrpeenee, Inc.

Insert stupid “hard at work” joke here.

Insert stupid “to boldly go where no man has gone before” joke here.

Gay Pride of course requires the obligatory Village People YMCA salute.

One last daddy for the road.

The End is Nigh


I’m going to publish this post in two parts: the first, tonight, to commemorate the end of the CDC’s Covid-19 pandemic restrictions, and the second, tomorrow night, to see if the day has brought any radical changes.

I think a lot of people have been looking forward to June 15 as a kind of watershed; I know I have. It’s just that I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking forward to. Since the CDC said you don’t need to wear masks outdoors, the only times I’ve masked up have been my daily trips to Peet’s Cafe. I put on my mask at their front door to walk to the back and pick up my order, and then take it off as soon as I sit down. It’s hardly oppressive.

I also will wear it here in my apartment building, but only when someone else is at hand. Most often they too will usually scurry to put on their mask and we both apologize. It’s simply theater now, with each other as our audience. San Francisco has a greater than 80% vaccination rate, including me; the tiny, tiny chance that I will become infected and then interact with someone who has not been able to get vaccinated or who refuses to is not realistically probable. By now we’re all just putting on our masks as a matter of politeness rather than preventing disease.

So we’ll see what happens tomorrow. I think more than anything else it will simply be a marker that we have come through this finally. I know the pandemic is not over and done, but I’ve been longing to reach this point since March of 2020. We all deserve to feel relieved.

Well that was a whole bunch of not very much.

Again, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting; there isn’t really anything that’s been imposed on me that I wanted out from under, or forbidden that I was eager to snatch up. I haven’t been wearing a mask outside for a couple of weeks. My plan was to glare at anyone who was still wearing one, but I forgot. And there were plenty of people still masking on the sidewalk. Like less than half, more than a third. Call it 42 percent. Maybe 42.5.

Most notable was the re-emergence of tourists. At least I think they’re tourist; people shambling along aimlessly while they stare in at each storefront as if they were hoping that would be the San Francisco Gay Ride they were hoping for.

Since it’s June, even with Pride canceled, there’s still the annual uptick in same-sex couples walking along hand in hand. Oh, it’s so sweet, I can barely stand it. Confirmed bachelors and Sapphic sisters towing one another down the street. I know there are plenty of places where that would not only be uncomfortable, but even possibly dangerous, so I do not begrudge them that simple pleasure. Just get out of my way, I’m late for my chiropractor.

Anyway here’s the report: we seem to have made it through, so yay for us. I know high minded folk are scolding that we have learned nothing from this long difficult time. And maybe we haven’t, but I remember when R Man was dying and I kept thinking “I wish I could get back to my old life,” because there’s a sweetness to your day-to-day life and sometimes savoring it is not a bad idea.

Guys worth a wait:

In Which We Are Conditioned


Woo hoo, I bought an air conditioner, the kind that just sits in the middle of the room like a dorky guest and not the kind of hangs out the window like god intended. It may not seem like a radical step, but San Francisco exists in a temperature bubble of rarely lower than 50° or higher than 75° (10° and 23° for the celsius-minded among us) so conditioned air is just not a necessity for us. R Man and I had lived here several months before I looked around the apartment and demanded, suspiciously, “Where’s the air conditioner?” There wasn’t one and the possibility of living without it verged on insanity to my little Gulf Coast bred mind.

But…. But the last couple of years, September, the time of San Francisco’s true summer, rolled around with temperatures in the 90s and sometimes even over a hundred. Everyone in town was sweaty and outraged. I decided then that returning to the air conditioned habits of my youth was just something I needed to resign myself to.

So now I have an air conditioner, I just need to figure out where to put it. The only problem with living a well-appointed life like mine, is that when I get a new addition, such as an air conditioner that’s about as big as a large-ish laundry hamper, I have to make room for it by jettisoning something else. In this case, I’m getting rid of two wicker trunks full of photographs.

Because I want to keep some record of the happy life I lived with R MAN, I’m editing them down based on the criteria that if the picture doesn’t have anyone in it, it’s gone, outta here. I’ve barely scratched the surface and already have a huge pile to throw away and a very small pile to keep. A trip to Paris, friends from New Orleans visiting, our first apartment in San Francisco; so many pictures, so few good ones.

Picturesque guys:

Daddy, cause isn’t Father’s Day coming up soon?

The guy who causes all that hubbub down at the gym showers.

I do hope he’s happy being a bottom.

She works hard for the money.

Meanwhile, back at the gym.

In Which We Support the Arts


So I bought a painting. I like it very much, the crisp lines, the appealing colors, I just think it has a casual charm.

The artist says it’s called Wave; I suppose it’s from the Excessively Obvious school. He’s a very nice guy I met on the street this afternoon while he was touching up some of his graffiti, graffiti which covers lots of the plywood put up along Market Street storefronts when the BLM protests were happening. The protests are gone but the plywood lives on now as a canvas for Brett. He wouldn’t tell me his last name, which is pretty understandable, I guess, since what he’s doing is not excessively legal.


Brett’s work inhabits the intersection of a personal Venn diagram of mine. For one thing I have admired the graffiti for a while and had considered writing a blog post about all of it. It’s just one of the many ideas I have for post that I never got around to. I got lots of ’em.

The other part of the diagram is just one of those serendipitous charms of living in a small town. A few years ago Super Agent Fred and I were noodling down Castro Street when we saw some guy with his paintings spread out on the sidewalk trying to sell them. I announced to Fred that I was going to buy one when we returned, but by the time we got back the guy was gone. I now know the artist was Brett.

I have regretted not being more on my toes about snagging that picture. I never connected the long-lost painting with the graffiti I so admired, but after I complimented Brett on his graffiti work, he offered to show me a couple of pieces he had in his car. As soon as I saw them I realized they were from the same hand as the works I had missed out on and made up for dithering and losing previously by buying the painting right then.

I am so grateful to fate for putting Brett and his paintings back in my path. And so now I am an art patron, a regular fucking Medici.

Guys who are works of art:

I have such a weakness for pretty boys.


Like Depeche Mode says “Words are very unnecessary”

When I first saw this, I really hoped those Hello Kitties were tattoos, but much closer examination proves gthem to be just stickers. How cruelly disappointing.

I adore Speedos that show a bit o’ crack.

What a little sweetie.

In Which We Are ID’d


On April 5th 2020, my driver’s license expired. Perhaps you remember April of 2020. It was jam-packed with the excitement of a brand new pandemic and lockdown. To celebrate the plague, the Department of Motor Vehicles, everybody’s favorite branch of hell, shut down just days before I started vaguely thinking about renewing my license.

Eventually they sort of reopened, but only to deal with people who’d had an appointment before they locked down. That was not me. They would deal with that backlog first and then start whittling down the new backlog. I would occasionally check in with their website to see how the backlogs were going, but they were never interested in me. That was okay, it’s hard to scrape up a lot of enthusiasm about visiting the DMV. Plus their site had so little information about how you could get an appointment, it might as well have had a page that just said “Go away.”

So the anniversary of my expiration rolled around and I thought I would make another pass at renewing my license. Imagine my surprise when I was able to snag an appointment. The date was today, the place was the DMV office, and I was there.

San Francisco’s DMV office. A cinder block box with fluorescent lights, no windows, and a permanent fog of misery. In my previous experience with it, it had been crammed full of crazy losers who should never have been let loose near a car, let alone allowed to pilot one. But social distancing has actually benefited the joint by cutting down on the crowd, if not the craziness.

I’m pretty sure everyone goes into the DMV braced for some kind of tortuous living hell. But I have to say today was not bad. There were only two people in the line ahead of me for those of us with appointments, unlike the substantial one for people without appointments (aka “suckers”) and after I cleared that hurdle, I was able to sit down and wait. And not for very long.

The whole place was staffed with ladies (I always refer to males I don’t know as “guys” and females as “ladies.” That’s just the etiquette with which I handle the world.) ladies in masks and behind plexiglass shields. Since they were seated while I was standing up, it couldn’t have been harder for us to understand each other unless we had been performing in mime.

Nevertheless it all went astonishingly smoothly. I got through some checklist, squeaked through the eye exam, and got photographed. Fortunately, I was not hoping for some glamor shot. All I wanted was to look respectable, a look that said “Officer, I don’t know where all that cocaine came from.”

And then in the very final stage, the very last step, so close to being finished, it all went to hell. After the picture I was thinking “well that wasn’t so bad” when I got directed over to the kind of frustrating chaos everyone expects from the DMV.

The lines for entering into the written test area as well as exiting from it, the final step for those of us renewing, the last part of registering your car, and, I don’t know, maybe people who had just been bad all washed up together to make one aimless cranky mob.

I didn’t work for the government for almost 30 years without developing an instinct for avoiding that kind of trap. The two guys who’ve been in front of me in the photo line were obviously about to panic. How much sympathy did I have for them? I’ll give you a hint, it starts with z and it rhymes with zero. I cut them off, stepped around the scrum, and told the lady who was directing (hahahaha) the mayhem “The camera lady told me to go to window 32” as I walked past her.

The window 32 guy, who was serenely oblivious to the bedlam on the other side of his counter, stapled a bunch of papers together and handed them to me with a cheery “See ya.” Not if I can help it, buddy. Amazingly, the whole thing only took 42 minutes. Hopefully I will be dead by the time this new license expires and even if I’m not, I’m just going to pretend like I am.

Guys with a license to thrill:


I gotta go, my ride is here.

Suntan season is upon us. Are you ready?

Statuesque. shapely, and suckable. The 3 S’s.

I don’t care what he told you, this guy is not taking a nap.

neither is this one.

In Which We Give Up Breathing

My motto.

My buds over on Chaturbate and I have spent the last few weeks enlivening our evenings watching Mikey whack his big whacker by complaining about our various and sundry allergies. It’s nice to have something to share with your friends.

I’m sure you all know the story: cough, cough, squish, squish, splut, splut. Every few days I think the allergy has given up, the worst is behind me, I have overcome pollen. But then I suddenly realize I have turned back into a walking puddle with every orifice dripping. Every orifice in my head, I mean

I never had any allergy problems until I crossed the dread 50-year-old threshold. Suddenly I was attacked by every pollen particle in the Bay Area. Each spring, I am waylaid by hay fever, or, has Eva Gabor in Green Acres put it, “I get allergic smelling hay.”

This snot season hasn’t been particularly bad, but it has dragged on a hell of a long time, appropriate for a year that has lasted several decades. I deal with it by popping antihistamines on the regular. I’m not ashamed that my youth was enhanced by any number of controlled substances; it’s just lowering now to have my drug of choice be Benadryl.

Men to take your limited breath away:

Oh my

Commenting on the last post, Monsieur DeVice mentioned how fond he is of freckles.

Today’s butt is brought to you by the color red.

I’ve decided to stop worrying about PhotoShop and regard it simply as a fantasy enhancer.

See? Fantasy enhanced.

I think this might be au natural rather than PhotoShopped. Discuss among yourselves.



Look. I got new shoes. This is no small deal for me since I pretty much only own one pair of shoes at a time. My sainted mother had very peculiar ideas about money, mostly that you didn’t spend any. Ever. When it came to shoes, we were lucky we didn’t walk around with leaves tied to our feet instead. So she passed down to me the conviction that one pair at a time was just how you possessed shoes.

A few years ago, I decided to overcome this block and I bought two pairs of shoes, like some kind of crazy wild man. I put one pair in the closet, promptly forgot about them, and wore the other pair until they were ragged. So, new shoes, woohoo.

I’ve always sported the exact same uniform I switched to when I escaped diapers: t-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes, which I refer to as “tenny shoes.” People who call them “sneaks” are weaklings; I can’t decide whether to feel pity or contempt for them. I know some gay men revel in choosing their costume. I am not one of them. My ideal outfit is one I can put on without thinking about it.

My tenny shoe of choice has been Converse for decades. Not because I think they are fashionable (The idea that I have any style consciousness is pretty hilarious,) but because they are the exact same shape as my feet. On the rare occasion I buy new ones, I don’t have to break them in. I slip into them and boom, they immediately fit perfectly.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

O my golly gosh, NAKED MEN:

Whenever I see a group shot like this, I immediately play a version of Fuck, Marry, Kill, except mine is all just Fuck, but in which order? In this case, I’d start with second from the right and then just proceed in alphabetical order.

Just love them pretty blondes.


When I was a teenager, I used to have such crushes on boys like this.

If this isn’t one of your favorite POVs, what is wrong with you?

The always charming Chris Rockway.