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.

Who is that Unmasked Man?


With the CDC dropping their requirement to wear masks outdoors and since I am now fully vaccinated, I decided I could take my mask offI walking up Market Street for a cup of joe. It was breezy and the sidewalk was very underpopulated, so it was to maintain more than a social distance, but I still felt like some subversive rebel, my fist raised high with a crumpled mask in it. Actually, it felt more like those dreams where you suddenly notice you’re naked. Oops. Mostly, my face was cold.

No one else out and about was naked faced, but no one particularly seemed to mind either. The lone notable exception was the lady who glanced at me and then pointedly scurried over to the very edge of the sidewalk to give me the most space possible. I may very well have been overly sensitive since it does seem difficult to scurry pointedly, but I was not in the mood for editorial remarks from other pedestrians. Yeah, go play in traffic, bitch.

Am I ambivalent? Oh, yeah, enthusiastically ambivalent, if that is possible. As some guy in the New York Times put it, “Nothing is changing, but it’s happening quickly.” Yet another piece of wisdom that should be destined for tee shirt immortality.

In other things that are not news, recently-ish, there was a bunch of youtube videos about people popping in and out from behind a blanket to confuse and concern their dogs. I guess the point being to prove they were smarter than the dogs. Congratulations. I decided to try it out on Saki. I held up the blanket he usually sits on my lap with and then played a quick round of peek-a-boo. Was he concerned I had somehow disappeared? Huh. Guess again. His whole attitude remained one of haughty disdain, as if he couldn’t decide whether to feel disgust or pity for me. I now realize that if I ever need to turn to him for an alibi, he will be worse than useless. “When was the last time you saw mrpeenee on the night of the murder?” the cops will demand. “Beats me. Which one is mrpeenee?”

Guys i’d like to play Clue with, in the library with the dildo:

I think this guy looks a lot like my dream version of Chris Meloni, who is pretty close to dreamlike to start with.

First up in our Bathing Beauty series tonight.

And then next to godliness, baby.

Finally, Mr. Wet Meat, tasting to see if he’s done.

Actually, beefiness may be next to godliness, now that I think about it. And I think about this a lot.

Eeks, a rhino. Better let me handle this.

In Which We Continue Missing the Good Old Days


The lads at Chaturbate and I were chatting, cause that’s what we do, and our philosophical ramblings led to the agreement that gay pornstars are just homelier than they used to be. We had no opinions about lady pornstars, but smut actors of the sodomite flavor simply are doggier than they used to be back in the Glory Days.

Before: Doug Perry, circa 1990
After: Bo Sinn, America’s newest sweetheart. I was going to come up with more examples of ugly porntsters, but, you know, yuck. I don’t even like looking under a bandaid.

Why would that be? Why, as access to feelthy pictures has gotten so much easier, would the guys in them have become so short on looks? I assume it’s all because of technology. Isn’t everything?

Pornography and prostitution have always toddled along hand in hand. The boys cranking out such deathless masterpieces as Daddy Ike is Collecting the Rent were typically turning tricks as their main employment. Their movies and photo shoots were basically advertisement for their rent boy efforts. The better known their booty was, the more they could charge for it.

As the internet blossomed, porn studios thrived. No longer dependent on dirty book stores or discrete brown envelopes, they were in high cotton. Then, about a decade ago, with the rise of cam sites and websites like OnlyFans, the actors realized they could cut out the middleman and get straight to the customer. Which they did. That means the studios are now starving for talent and are stuck with whatever they can scrape up at the rent boy bars’ last call. And so now we have a surging demand for vintage smut, movies where the actors actually have faces, cute faces, and don’t look like something out of The Walking Dead. If you want me I’ll be reviewing Colt Studios 1984 offerings.

Guys who don’t break the mirror:

In Which We Go to The Bathroom and the Movies


Oh dear. I was having a moment with my digestive system earlier today. I had gone for my daily coffee-and-a-bun at Peet’s Cafe and when I got home, everything between my collarbone and my upper thighs decided to stage a revolt.

All the organs involved laughed at my feeble attempt with Alka-Seltzer to calm things down and seemed determined to immigrate. I took to my bed not exactly praying but simply moaning “oh baby instant Jesus” over and over again. Sometimes to break up the monotony, I would whimper something that sounded a lot like “Mommy.”Things would calm down all too briefly just long enough for me to form the misguided thought of “well thank God that’s….” only to interrupt myself with the more timely breaking news of “oops.”

I tried to distract myself by going grocery shopping online for delivery. Just more proof that pretty much every decision I have ever made has hinged on the logic of “What the hell?” Everything I considered buying made my guts sort of lurch, so I thought I would at least be restrained from the impulse buying that adds to my grocery bills so disastrously.

Eventually I fell asleep or passed out (is there really a difference?) and woke up just to wait for the delivery. I briefly and foolishly considered tacos for dinner, but a revival of my lurching squeamishness changed my mind. Cottage cheese, tea, and toast, that’s for me.

In less queasy news, the Chaturbate Sunday Night Movie Society took on Godzilla vs Kong and I’m not sure who won. The movie (it is not a “film”) is a loosely strung together series of plot holes randomly broken up by some 3D IMAX fight scenes/fodder in which it’s impossible to tell what’s supposed to be going on.

At one point I texted “I keep losing track of what the evil corporate scientist is doing,” but it turned out not to matter. About two thirds of the way through, after Kong and Godzilla have dedicated themselves to bashing each other’s brains out, suddenly a robot Godzilla pops up. Wut? Where did that come from? Again, it didn’t matter.

The only reason for the robot was to turn the whole thing into one of those mismatched cop/buddy movies, like 48 Hours, Lethal Weapon, or Rush Hour. Evil robot pops up and now the sworn enemies have each other’s back and, I don’t know, homoeroticism blooms or something.

Since I didn’t have to worry about following the plot, I could muse on how what are essentially B movies have turned into gigantic, gibberish blockbusters which cost dump trucks full of money. I’m not wholly opposed to them, I’m a huge fan of Godzillas and zombies, but I would prefer them to be good Godzillas and zombies. Recently the Society watched Mayhem which is a cheerful romp in bloody gore starring Stephen Yuen. It probably cost less than the coffee budget for one of the CGI teams of Godzilla versus Kong and I liked it better.

Even I, who can get sunburned from the light off my laptop, am longing for some beach time.

Saki has taken to wandering into my bedroom and yowling at me for no real reason. He just wants to raise hell.

Speaking of pussy

An old favorite here at mrpeenee Inc. A pretty face, red hair, and big muscles. Yes, please.

From our extensive collection of big lunks.

There is nothing like a fat cock to fill up your hand.

I really hope that Chinese tattoo translates as “For Rent.”

Birthday Boy

My biography in one panel.

I am so adept at wasting time that I can’t even get up a post about my birthday on my actual birthday. Yes Monday, April 5th, was the day, not just for me but for Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, and Gregory Peck. It’s a big day for big names. Also, apparently, for procrastination.

So how did I celebrate my anniversary? At half past midnight on the sacred day, I got out of bed to pee and managed to step on my glasses and break them. The very first thing of the very first day of my 66th year. I refuse to regard it as an omen. I had been thinking for a while I needed a new prescription for the glasses since the world has been steadily getting fuzzier and fuzzier. This just pushed me in the right direction.

Hot Foot, Drum Stick (aka The Children, I decided they needed jazzier names) and Super Agent Fred had come over the Saturday before and we went up to the rooftop garden for scones and champagne and lots of chit chat. It was more low-key than the swelligant event it sounds like, but it was lots of fun.

And now tomorrow I get my second shot. Quite a birthday present. I’m sort of surprised at how thrilled, excited, and pleased I am to get all the vaccination behind me. Shoot ’em up baby.

Anyway, you just get old and birthdays are no big deal. This one has had everything I wanted and then some. Thrills, chills, shots, and scones. What more could I want?

And now birthday suits:

Hey. Get off your phone and get on my dick.

It’s been sunny, but chilly here in San Francisco. I look forward to more basking temps such as Mr. Fat Dick here is enjoying.

I like your jock. Did your granny crochet it for you?

I was talking to Miss Lady Girl Thang and I told her, I said to her, I sez, “Honey, that choker doesn’t go with anything. Not just anything you’re wearing, but anything in the entire universe.” Honestly, she’s a mess.

So I was hanging out with Pepper Spray and I had to tell her, “Honey, you can either wear Burberry plaid or those hideous patterned stockings, but you can’t do both.” Bitch is a walking dumpster fire.

This is my ideal birthday present, if you’re still wondering.

Crisp white sheets and a big muscley ass, that’s what we like. Amirite?

Oh. Hello daddy.