In Which We Return


Here’s what I think: if nobody has made porn titled Suck Session, they should. Also, why is scratching a scrotum so difficult?

Yes, I know I’ve been sort of absent for a while, I have no excuse, I was just being lazy. Diane von Austinburg blew into town recently and that was nice. We didn’t do much except to make a French onion soup savory bread pudding. So delicious, it’s worth its complicated name. I’m sorry you couldn’t have any, but there wasn’t enough anyway cause I ate it all. We had some lovely lesbian kind of bread so we cut that up in rough chunks, put it in a pan, covered it with a plain custard with no sugar in it, layered on thinly sliced onions that had been cooked and cooked until they were practically dissolved and then covered that with gruyere. Deeeelish.

Diane left and I immediately got sick. Fever and achy and soooo much snot. I was worried I was back in covid land, but I wasn’t. It was just a regular old cold, even if it was a particularly juicy one.

So aside from eating and blowing my nose, I haven’t been up to much of anything. I have enjoyed watching Mrs Davis, a wacky TV series that is sort of easy to summarize, but difficult to explain why it’s so amusing. A nun takes on a worldwide AI system that she believes is evil. That’s it, that’s the summary, but there is so much more going on. It cheerfully abandons any kind of reality and really leans in to looney tunes storytelling.

Also it has Jake McDorman and Chris Diamantopoulos in their panties, co-starring McDorman’s mustache, in one of the funniest homoerotic scenes ever. Two thumbs up.

Guys who would improve any homerotic anything:

If his dick was any bigger he would have to back up out of the room to get it in the frame.

What a little angel.

Don’t fall off the chair sweetie, you’ll hurt yourself.

Too much hardware.

Turn up the damn lights.

Summertime and the livin’ is easy.

Speaking of summer, remember to hydrate.


Ruggery Valdivia has appeared here before. I’m always glad to see him back

Lastly, tits.

In Which We Add to the Palm Springs Story


In the past, I have been assured by people who are knowledgeable about this that I have pretty feet. Nice to know. I was thinking about that here in Palm Springs because I’ve been walking around barefoot much more than I ever do in the big chill of San Francisco. In its own small way, it seems sort of luxurious, almost decadent.

Padding shoeless around this house may very well be the highlight of this trip; the desert doesn’t really do much for me. Our adventures have mostly consisted of going out to dinner. A couple of times I’ve considered either the pool or the hot tub, but both are way too cold to be actually tempting. I’ve tried heating the hot tub up, but even after I mastered the not terribly intuitive controls, it took so long to even reach tepid that I had lost interest. Lounging in a hot tub is just the sort of sleazy entertainment I would have embraced when I was much younger, but now seems to have lost its charm.

The closest mrpeenee gets to sunbathing.

The funeral which was the actual reason for coming down here was this afternoon. As unhappy occasions go, it wasn’t bad. A largeish group of strangers standing around, chatting. It reminded me very much of the business events I had to attend when I slaved away for the SBA. I considered turning on my well honed schmoozy charm, but I didn’t feel like it, plus it didn’t seem like the kind of gathering where that would have gone over in a big way.

I was also very struck by the chandelier in my bedroom.

Guys I wish were in my bedroom:

Most of today’s nekkid dudes are guys who seem familiar, but whose name eludes me.


B&W always makes smut so much artier.

If you need a hand getting out of those panties, I’ll be glad to help.

Number 11,586 in our on-going series of Lunks We Love.

I do know this guy’s name, Kiefer Cooke.

In Which We Are Groovy


I have temporarily relocated to Palm Springs along with Diane von Austinburg. We’re here for a funeral, but we are also going to be hanging out, cuz that’s what you do in Palm Springs.

PS is terribly groovy, there’s just no other way to describe it. It’s entire existence is centered around swimming pools. There is an abundance of sleek mid-century modern houses and the weather is almost always somewhere between balmy and miserably hot. We’re lucky that we are here during the balmy end of the spectrum.

Diane very cleverly found us a huge house on the north side of town which is famously “The Windy Side.” R Man and I visited here many times over the years and heard that truism over and over but this is the first time I’ve actually stayed up here. I was looking out at the palm trees being battered by the wind and thought it looked familiar but couldn’t place it until I realized it is exactly what a hurricane looks like, just without the rain.

This house, much like the rest of the city, has cornered the market on groovyness. Low slung and open with terrazzo floors and huge sliding doors out onto the patios. It’s kind of absurd for two elderly, bookish nerds who have no interest in the pool or the hot tub, but we got it anyway.

photographic proof:

welcome home, Don’t let the cactus on the right stab you.

hip, tasteful, comfortable, what more do you want?

if you want me I’ll be poolside

look how big this fucking backyard is. That is a bocce ball court in the distance.

also my closet, which is only slightly smaller than my bedroom at home, has a fur rug in it. Cause, reasons.

Celebrating Palm Springs’ gay life with a collection of nude dudes:

You know he’s trouble.

I’ve never seen a two-tone dickhead. Not that I’m complaining.

There’s bougainvillea here too, and it’s as spectacular as this boys buttchops.

What a nice kitchen, but clean that floor.

He could use a ladder to climb up on that.

Such tasteful smut.

Hello daddy

In Which We Consider Street Life


I had opened the curtains in my room and was lying on the bed just sort of basking in the light afternoon sun. The thought lazily crossed my tiny little brain that it was so peaceful. Then it occurred to me that I live on a four-lane very busy street the traffic on which includes a street car which is essentially a little bitty train. So maybe peaceful is a relative term.

That brought to mind the subject of public shrieking. Not “help, help, Timmy’s fallen down the well. Again,” but rage screaming. “I’m going to kill you motherfucker” screaming. I admit I have been guilty of it, shocking as that is to hear, but that has fallen to the past since I no longer have a car. There is a connection there. Screaming: you’re either a lunatic or driving or both.

Wednesday April 5 is not only the start of Passover, it’s also my birthday. I’m an Aries.

I will be 68 years old. For years I have made jokes by announcing “I’m an old man,” obviously relying on the irony of the fact that I wasn’t really an old man. My, how people would laugh. Then I started noticing people stopped laughing and just sort of reacted with “Uh huh. . . . And?” Fine.

So to pull the frayed threads of this post together, a couple of weeks ago I was walking, wandering is probably more accurate description, up Market and crossed the massive intersection of Church Street. A crowd of people going in the same direction surrounded me but cutting through them, like a salmon going up river, an old black guy passed all of them and walked up to me and held out his hand in a fist bump.

I fist bumped him back of course, it was only polite. Things like that can be a good luck omen sometimes. Or something. I wondered for a while why he had chosen me out of all those people, then I realized he had identified with me, another broken down old man shuffling down the street and he was both congratulating and encouraging me. “You go girl, you go,” that fist bump said. And I appreciate it.

Men who are so very not old

Gary Taylor, formerly of All American Guys, and his POSSIBLY enhanced penis.

I forget his name, but he is one of those Falcon Studio bitches. Do your own damn research.

It’s my birthday and I like big arms./

Of course, I like big asses too.

And big tits. His name is Taylor, that’s all I got.

And big, fat dicks. Meet Andrei Karenin from the always reliable Bel Ami studio.

Speaking of really fine buttchops.

I’m also very fond of shiny dickheads.

Lastly, my most favorite buttshot in the world.

In Which We Walk in the Park


Our dear friend Diane von Austinburg blew into town Sunday and we had a most charming time together. Diane always longs for the chilly, foggy embrace of San Francisco’s normal weather, perversely, the weather almost always turns sunny and warm the day she gets here and doesn’t break into the gloomy norm until she leaves. One of the things I like about her visits is that she brings such beautiful weather with her, even if she doesn’t like it.

This time though, the rain came down in buckets most of the time she was here. The one notable lovely day was Thursday when we took advantage of the sunny skies to go visit the botanical garden in Golden Gate Park. I usually make a point of going this time of year just to go see the wildflowers there; I haven’t felt much like doing it of late, but this year my new pain medicine is so much less sedative that I was able to get up and head out. Yay.

There’s been tons of news stories about the super bloom of California’s wildflowers this year so I had high hopes. Hopes which were crushed when we got there and not a single wildflower was an evidence. How many? Zee row. It didn’t really matter, the park is gorgeous anyway and it had been so long since I was out there I had a wonderful time just walking around. Photographic proof follows:

The bamboo collection is always worth a look-see.

Stylish succulents.

Ceanothus is one of my favorite California native plants.

Gazania is a great flower, I think originally from South Africa, which does really well here.

Camellias love San Francisco too.

There used to be a wonderful collection of Asian magnolias in one corner of the botanical garden. This is pretty much all that’s left of them, I was griping about their disappearance to Diane when I realized I was remembering them from visits 30 years ago. Time marches on.

One recent improvement; in the 1930s, William Hearst bought a medieval castle in Spain, took it apart and shipped it here where he stored it in a barn until he could get around to reassembling it, but the barn and the plans for the castle burned and they couldn’t put it back together. Hearst then “donated” the stones to the park (in reality, he just dumped them because he couldn’t use them) and they sat in a pile in a little used corner. Recently though, the park has started using them as hardscape in various gardens.

Like this.

A beautiful day in the park.

Naked guys:

Red in the bed.

Ooh, arty.


Tall, skinny white boy with big dick. Sounds familiar.

I love the way your turquoise boudoir goes with your Fleshlight collection.

I’m thinking Photoshop.

I love those porny sunglasses.

How romantic.

In Which We Decorate Then Undecorate


In less than 2 weeks I will have lived in this apartment 5 years. In that time, the furniture in my living room has sat in the exact same place I put it the day I moved in. I’m one of those homosexuals who regard decorating as a participatory sport and so of course this sorry state of affairs could be tolerated no longer.

The problem is that I am just one old man, and a feeble old man at that so hauling a couch and a sizable credenza around by myself was a laughable idea. Hahaha. I laughed and then I hired a couple of movers to come in and help me move stuff. They were a nice couple of guys, amenable even if they seemed baffled by my idea of just shuffling the pieces around.

Let me introduce the players here, a large curved couch, a sleek credenza, and a stylish pair of low chairs. The room is in the point of the flat iron building I live in, which makes for an interesting but difficult triangular room to work with. Plus the great big windows help hide the fact that it’s a tiny space.

There is a large dead space between the couch and the chairs and I thought if I could just rotate the pieces so that the dead space fell in the entrance, the whole room would work better. I don’t know why that idea didn’t work out, probably something to do with geometry or physics or another one of those stupid subjects I never paid attention to.

Anyway, the boys and I wrestled all the furniture around and around and none of it was successful. One of the drawbacks was the lead mover overcame his initial skepticism to join in enthusiastically with suggestions. They were all idiotic, but they were suggestions. He seemed particularly struck by the apex of the triangle and kept struggling to shove something up in there.

Eventually I just threw in the towel and had them put all the furniture right back where it started and then paid them $200 for having helped me, as the b-52s put it, “dance this mess around.”

boys I wish I had had move me:

Look, he comes with his own scrim.

The luscious Marbys Negretti

Our old friend Mikey!

I only recently discovered this is the large and in charge blonde beauty, David Cihacek

Beefy redhead Ryan Hayward from Colt Studios.

All that and he can read, too.

What a sweet looking guy.

You know getting sloppy wet at the car wash is a long time smut classic.

His dick almost leaks out of the frame.

Fancy don’t let me down./

Get your feet off the ceiling./

What’s with the ceiling lately?

In Which We Are Medicated


Lalala, another day, another medical crisis. I mentioned a while ago that I had started a daily regimen of a pain medicine called Opana. That was about 5 years ago and things have gone along just fine since then. Of course this is America and pain management, especially with an opioid, is tricky business. The government has forced doctors to treat pain control like a luxury that you have to prove you are worthy of.

anyway. This month my pharmacy broke the bad news to me that they had stopped making Opana. Oops. I scrambled back to my doctor in a panic because running out of pain medicine is not a good idea. The doctor said “oh. okay. Here try this new stuff. It sounds pretty okay.” I’m paraphrasing but that’s pretty close to the sense of the conversation.

The new drug instead of a pill is a film you stick on the inside of your cheek and it dissolves. I am thrilled with it, it has whipped my fucked up back into submission and it seems much less sedating than the old stuff. Yay. Since it was only one film every 12 hours, it’s also convenient.

The problem initially was that one every 12 hours fell a little short and meant that I actually was starting to go into withdrawal towards the end of the dose. I called the doctor back after a very uncomfortable night and he said “oh just double the dose. What the hell?” Again paraphrasing.

So now I’m back to dosed up, pain-free and sassy. It’s a wonderful life if you don’t weaken.

naked men I’d like to hang with.

Just a giy. Just a guy with a great big whacker. Whack it baby.

I know his ass isn’t particularly shapely, but he seems so darn cheery.

A friend used to call these guys “thug lite.”

Crimes of Photoshop.

Our old friend Gian Luigi Volti. Now available for rent at reasonable rates. Apply within.

Barrett Long (I love that stupid name) who has been around since long before photoshop and has always had that generous amount of man sausage so, happily, we can rest assured that it is real.

Isn’t it romantical?

Truth in advertising. Not much butt action this week, sorry.

In Which We Are Glad All That Is Over


Diane von Austinburg was supposed to come out to visit this week and at literally the very last minute, just before she was calling Uber to go to the airport, I had to back out because I was still sick. Dammit. She was very understanding and supportive; once again it’s obvious I don’t deserve such good friends.

That was Tuesday and absolutely one of the low points my voyage through COVID-land, but then the next day I was fine, annoyed, but fine. And today’s the first day I’ve tested negative and don’t have a fever, so hooray. I remade my bed and took a shower and now actually feel so much better.

So I wrote that last paragraph on Thursday and I have had so many ups and downs since then (today is Saturday.) Mostly, I feel very much that I am still recuperating and frequently have felt every minute of my age. I’ve made myself go down to the cafe and back each day and each time I am pretty wrecked by it. I know this is just recovery and it’s normal, but I also feel like I wouldn’t have been so puny even just a few years ago. Secret Agent Fred got COVID the same time as I did and has bounced back much more quickly and he has cancer.

I know I just need to be patient and that I am recuperating, it’s just that I want to get back to being lazy instead of laid up.

naked men:



Everybody’s up on the roof these days.

Except for the ones brooding in the toilet.

This guys and his sweet, sweet ass again.

Yet another example of our “big, dumb lug” fave.


So sweet.

In Which We Succumb


Well, fuckety fuck. I had managed to sneak through our national nightmare of the pandemic without catching COVID until today. I had had dinner with some friends and Secret Agent Fred on Saturday and then today he texted me to tell me he had tested positive. He encouraged me to test myself and so I did, foolishly confident that I would, once again, turn out to be negative. HAH.

In my defense, I don’t have any particular COVID symptoms, no fever, no aches, and nothing wrong with my senses of taste or smell. All I do have is a scratchy throat and a dry cough; I’ve had worse after a night at the sex club. If Fred hadn’t told me I’ve been exposed, I would have just thought this was a mild cold. As Diane von Austinburg pointed out, “We cough all the time, who notices?”

I haven’t been out or interacted with anyone since we had dinner Saturday, so just providentially, and because I lead a life of quiet self-isolation, I’ve been admirable about keeping my virus to myself. I’m going to continue to just stay home, fortunately I’ve just stumbled on a book I like so I’m all set.

UPDATE: so I put this post aside yesterday and in the 24 hours since then, I have gotten sicker: aches fever, chills. It’s still not bad but man the chills shake me up like a tiny little earthquake that is focused solely on me myself. Oh boy. The sole bright spot is that my throat isn’t all scratchy and itchy.

I’m supposed to score some Paxlovid tomorrow morning, which is a good thing because I’m starting to get that confusion that fever brings on for me.

so since I can’t think straight enough to write anymore I’m going to log off and turn the blog over to everybody’s favorite, nekkid guys.

Yummy is right.

In Which We Swear


When I was hired by the federal government, many many years ago, after the personnel lady had finished walking me through the mountain of paperwork involved in processing me in, she announced I needed to swear my oath. I thought she was joking, but no, all federal employees have to take an oath in order to work for the government. In fact it is the same oath the president takes when he is inaugurated.

And so I had to stand up, face the flag, put my hand over my heart (“it’s on your left side,” she corrected me) and faithfully promise the following

I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.

Over the years, I frequently quoted the bit about “…help me god….” Apparently my receptionist duties would include answering the phone, handling visitors, and taking to the trenches if the commie bastards ever got this far. I have no idea how most of my colleagues would fare if, say, Canada got tired of putting up with our bullshit and invaded, but some of them I’m sure would have gone full-on Rambo on those maple syrup swilling bitches. I suppose I’m just glad it never came to that.

guys I’d like to share a foxhole with:

Again, when face with hot porn action, mrpeenee focuses on the nice tile work.

But not even the finest tile could distract me from that manmeat.

Cowboy butt.

Red hair, perky nipples, fat cock, and clean sheets. Sign me up.

Ooh. Shapely.

It’s cold and rainy here today, a sunny patio accented with a massive willy seems like such a good idea.

As does lounging poolside in the company of a beautifully round rump.

He looks concerned. What’s wrong sweetie, tell daddy all about it.

And lastly, this guy. I recognize the angel wing tattoo as well as those meaty buttchops, I just wish I knew his name.