A Cornucopia of Not Much


Please join me in wishing our dear Diane vonAustinburg congratulations.  The old thing is slipping the leash of employment and retiring, I think on Friday.  I am not sure about the specific date because whenever I would ask her for it, she would airily reply “Just 17 more days” as if I was going to get out my fucking calculator and calendar and astrolabe and figure that out.  Obviously, Diane has not caught on to the “not working” part of not working.  Instead, I’m just going with wildly guessing, a technique which led to my flunking algebra in the 9th grade.


I couldn’t decide what to get her as a gift, so I fell back on the tried and true method of just springing for something that I would want myself


Congrats, sqweetie!

On a recent morning, I was lying in the dark, about three quarters asleep and looking forward ot closing in on the last quarter, when some damn Evil and Adorable cat busted into the room and commenced squalling in a really unnecessarily strident manner.  Ugh. I got up, berating him the whole time, which always helps so very much, only to find his food bowl full and no ravening jackals at the door, as his manner seemed to imply.

He and I stared at each other across the living room with him maintaining his air of demanding to see the manager.  It dawned on me we had gone through this same not very amusing show a few times earlier this summer and it was always on a foggy morning.  That’s when I realized the little shit was incensed that his sunshine was missing and insisting that I replace at once.

He wanted me to fix the fog.  Dick.


Why can’t something like this ever wake me up and demand attention?

Also, a pat on my own back.  Completely undeserved of course.  I have been honing my skills at procrastinating (which were already very impressive.)  by ignoring a small spate of tasks and paperwork that had been pitifully calling out for my attention for the last 3 months.  I would occasionally look at them and then go have a cookie.  But this afternoon, I suddenly turned my laserlike focus on those bad boys and dealt with a tax bill, an insurance question, and a scheduling conflict.  Woo hoo!  To reward myself:


The world’s most beautiful man.  Hair like that needs to be properly admired.  Sir, I salute your coif.

Lastly, one last cute guy.  Cause you can never have too much.


Another shout out to our Chaturbate Romanian friend Mikey who is very particular to men in, or even better, largely out of , blue

In Which We Examine the Internet


Because I am terribly au courant, and not because I am a lazy slug, I spend a great deal of time staring vacantly at pictures brought to me by the magic of the internet.  Of course, most of these images are nothing but smut.  Isn’t that basically what the world’s greatest advance in knowledge sharing is used for?  Still, in amongst the endless torrent of filthy photos I stumble across some that engage me for reasons other than engorging my bits.  Without further dithering, let me share some of my favorite recent examples.


Isn’t this adorable?  When I said they interest me for reasons other than smut, I didn’t mean to imply these pictures are totally without smut content.  But what struck me with this one was the boys’ cheery wholesomeness, emphasized by the fact they let the little one stand on a box so he could pretend to be the same height as a real person.  And then they all took turns buttfucking him happily ever after.


I know it can be hard to tell, but the shorter one has several big booby girls buried in among his tatts.  I suppose they may imply “straight boy” to some more naive than I, but I know the big one climbs up on him like a ride at Disneyland whenever he wants to


I’ve always been sort of puzzled by gay men who only want to fuck other queers that look just like them. My own Rman and I couldn’t have appeared less similar and still been from the same species, but that’s just how we rolled. These boys have taken that whole clone/mirror image thing to a new level by not only having matching muscles, but identical haircuts.  That takes preplanning for sex that I was never capable of.


Some of these guys are attractive to me even as they exhibit some peculiarity that just makes me wonder.  This one, for instance, has those beautiful eyes, those massive biceps, and that hoodie his granny knitted him.  Hmmmm….


I know, I know, abs sculpted like an ice swan at a fancy buffet, but what struck me was the English as a Second Language tile work in the background.  Did they misspell “Welcome” or “Well, Cum?”   These are the kinds of things that keep me up at night.


You can’t really expect pornography to come up with the greatest of graphics, so I’m willing to let this artist’s shaky grasp of proportion and perspective slide, but the content still could be a little clearer.  What is he threatening the strapped down guy with?  Is it a… thermos?  Is he menacing his victim with promises of tea?


This charms me so much, and speaks so strongly to my own white trash heritage.  How can one boy be so appealing and ludicrous at the same time?  This has the whole “Hitchhiker Porn” niche tied up in one picture.

mrpeenee Turns Twelve


“Turns twelve” as in this is my blog’s twelfth anniversary, not as in “mrpeenee has sexual relations with twelve mens.”  Although that would be ok too.

When I started, I had no idea I would reach such a lofty milestone.  I’m pretty sure if I thought about it at all, I would have assumed I’d be dead by 2019.  So far, I am not.  I have no opinion on the whole sorry affair.  Apparently, if you keep going you reach birthday number 12.  So happy birthday to my little blog.

My best birthday present has been the return of the Mistress, Infomaniac.  It’s very exciting, but you still have time to get in a better present and then YOU  would be the star.  Mistress’s return is especially thrilling since she was AWOL for so long, I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who thought she had hung up her blogging pen.

God knows the path to hell is littered with plenty of other erstwhile blogs we were friends with.  A long gone commenter once mentioned “I decided long ago not to comment on the wayward and vanished, fearing that uttering their names would bring certain demise.”  That was Kevin, from The Lisp, a blog that now consists of a single heading that reads “Well, that Was Fun.”  So I guess since his theory seems all too fallible, I can safely salute some of my fallen faves.

Oh Thombeau, of Fabulon and other kicky sites.  Adieu Cafe Muscato.  Wither Night is HalfGone?  So long, The Other Andrew.  Avast Mean Dirty Pirate.  Long gone, the glamour of Felix in Hollywood.  Lost, lost, Designing Wally and his A Queens’ Queen – Stranded in the Forest….   Norma (who still trolls about in the comments, thank god) and her Mitten Drinnen.  And who could forget TJB from Stirred, Straight Up, with a Twist?

I could go on, but ugh, who wants to hang around a graveyard?  They were all fun, but it was just one, etc., etc….  I really miss them, crawling through all their snarkery was the highlight of my days.  And yes, I know some of them simply migrated to Facebook or Twitter or jail, but this is as social as my media gets.  I suppose I will simply remain a lonely beacon, glad of the few other hardy souls still hanging on, and see if I make it to Number 13.

Lucky us.

Birthday Boys:


I was looking for a naked guy with a 12 (cause it’s the blog’s 12th anniversary.  Get it?  Oh, never mind.) and I got this far and decided 86 was close enough.


Cause I’m a sucker for pretty boys with luscious lips and big tits.


In memory of Jason, over at Night is Half Gone, who was very squeamish about combining sex and priests.  But then, he was very close to being a nun himself, so, youknow.


For our Romanian friend Mikey, who’s very fond of this sort of thing.


Cause he’s just so darn pretty.

Scene on the Street


As I’ve mentioned, living the life of a shut-in is perfectly fine with me, but even so, occasionally I must brave the outside world, cause them eclairs are not going to walk over here from the bakery.   That’s when the charm of San Francisco’s vibrant street life once again smacks me in the face.

Herewith, my life outside:


On Gay Pride day, the Gay Marching Band of San Francisco dropped by outside my window to serenade the cat.  He was unimpressed. Hard to blame him, it was difficult to make out what exactly they were playing, but whatever it was, they were playing it with plenty of verve.


Also celebrating Pride was this guy, who runs likes this ALL THE TIME, but who had dyed his hair pink for the occasion.  How he is not dragged off and accosted on a daily basis is beyond me.  Probably a lack of local initiative.  Although, maybe he IS dragged off and accosted daily and that’s what keeps him running through the hood.


The view out of the stairwell exit for my building, with all the churches here about.  In fact, the street at the end of the block is named Church Street.  This photo includes the Greek Orthodox, the Basilica of Mission San Francisco de Asís (which is the original mission that established San Francisco,) part of the roof of the Mission, and St Matthews Lutheran Church.  This place is just crowded with houses for various and sundry lords.



Even as San Francisco’s gay neighborhood, the Castro, is sanitized and memorialized as a kind of diorama of its sexual outlaw history, occasionally the old spirit will rear its defiant head, such as in this charming graffiti of Divine.


Imagine my annoyance when, a few weeks later, I saw the image had been defaced.  And by whom?  Ranting homophobes?  Nope.  Drag queens posting bills advertising their upcoming shows, that’s who.  How could a self respecting drag queen fuck up such a charming picture of the legend herself?  Have they no sense of their own fucking history?   No wonder I brood too much.

Also, some cute street side mens discovered here and there on the great internet.


All those muscles and not enough brains to figure out the reason his bike won’t go is the two flat tires it’s equipped with.  Sweetie, there is no app that will help you with that.


Nothing flat with this boy, except, I’m sure, his abs.


The astonishing and enthusiastic David Zongoli.


The Eternal, Adorable, and Evil Saki


I am determined to knock out something resembling a blog post before midnight so that I can count it as being timely for Saki’s birthday.  Yes, the evil little bitch is 12 years old today.  Sort of.  When we rescued him from Cat Jail (aka Animal Care and Control,) our vet estimated he was 9 months old.  Since that was April 2008, we decided his birthday must be in July and the best birthday in July would be the 7th.   Thus we declared his birthday was 7/7/07.  So Bon anniversaire to my pal, Sakihito, Emperor of Market Street.


Birthday nap.

We celebrated by playing a rousing round of Chase the Intruder Tennis Ball, which is me rolling an old tennis ball through the apartment while he watches and occasionally runs in a totally ineffective manner.  I must sign off now, as the birthday boy himself is annoyed at me paying attention to the computer and has commandeered the keyboard to make me stop.

Also, more naked guys, cause that’s all you pervs really want.




I know I don’t usually post headless guys, but gracious, do I really need to justify this?

Chicken Chokin’


Masturbation.  Good for acne, teenage heartache, boredom, and insomnia.  It’s the last that brings up the point today for I, once again, seem to have forgotten how to fall asleep.   For a long time I thought I was the only one who knew the secret that rubbing one out could help get to sleep (not that it has with this latest episode of Insomnia Tonight.)  The internet showed me that I was wrong, again, and that everybody knows that old trick.

Today and tomorrow are Gay Pride Weekend, perhaps you’ve heard of it?  The sidewalks below my window are jammed with celebrants wandering around, looking for something to do.  My own celebration will feature going to tea at Neiman Marcus later this afternoon and buying some fabric to reupholster a stool.  That seems plenty gay to me.

Along those same lines of general contrarianism, today I bring a roaster of cute guys not flashing their bits.  Yes, men who are attractive even without a junk closeup.




All dressed up and ready to party.  Girl.


Do butts count as bits?


I almost forgot this one.  How could that happen with eyes like that?


Gay Teeth


I had a root canal in March.  Not the highpoint of my spring, but not bad either.  Didn’t hurt, but it gave me an excuse to make sure everyone I knew was sympathetic.  It turns out they should have saved their sympathies for the follow up visits (yes, plural) which were considerably more uncomfortable than the original.  Being the over achiever that I am, the whole sorry mess was caused by a hole in my jaw under a molar that arose from an infection there.  The root canal allowed the dentist to pack it with antibiotics and these follow ups were him pulling out the temporary filling, looking to see how the infection is doing (completely impervious) and then stuffing the filling back in.  Ouchy.

Mostly, I don’t mind, even the ouchy part is just shy of actually hurting.  The office is in the very most fancy schmancy part of San Francisco, just down the block from Saks and the Louis Vuitton boutique.  Appropriately enough, it’s decorated in this pricey, usleek sci-fi aesthetic.  The walls are frosted glass, the views impressive and the chairs are motorized works of art.  All the chair pieces are individually adjustable, your legs, your back, your head; for all I know, your spleen.  That’s where what may be the worst part of the treatment comes in:  I am about a foot too big for the ridiculous things.  I sprawl out of them at both ends and no amount of adjusting can squeeze me in.

The dentist is dear little thing, bald with big sad brown eyes who has a commanding view of my chest since that’s what he comes up to.  His assistants are even shorter, so everyone there hoovers somewhere around my elbows.  It’s very much like being treated by hobbits.

When the good doctor was whaling away on my mouth this last time, I was concentrating on not thinking about what was going on.  From my safe place, I had a sudden fantasy of him perched up on my chest to get access to the back of my gaping maw, sort of like a capuchin monkey.  The resemblance is pretty striking.  The picture made me snort, which made me choke, which is a problem when someone has their fist in your mouth.

Well, anyway, it’s Gay Pride in San Francisco and that means we are now officially gayer than gay.  Here in the Castro neighborhood, the epicenter of queer life, Pride celebrations last for more than a week, culminating in the big parade next Sunday.  Before then there are minor parades and festivals and high minded seminars and low comedy and my chiropractor in semi-drag (his description) cowboy costume for the Gay Men’s Choris version of Ghost Riders in the Sky.  Don’t ask.

Every year, well aware that Pride is on the horizon, I am still taken by surprise when I look up walking home from the grocery and realize the sidewalks are jammed with lesbians and German tourists.  “Oh, right,”  I think, “Pride.”

My own contribution to the celebrations and as a counter to my teeny tiny miniature root canaler is Nick Pulos, seriously massive weightlifter and part-time Greek god.  Standing 6 foot 5 and weighing in at 290 lbs. with a beard you could smuggle drugs in, Pulos is the kind of man that makes you glad to be queer.




Tragically, there are no publicly available pictures of Mr. Pulos man meat.  Believe me, I have searched

And yes, the Gay Men’s Chorus really truly is singing Ghost Riders in the Sky.  I just assume they will never be able to touch the devastatingly bizarre collision of Peggy Lee covering it:

Happy pride everybody!  Go suck a dick!

Readers Write Back


Well, hooray for all my blog friends.  The previous post contained, among other debris, 3 pictures of the kind of men you wouldn’t mind meeting in a dark alley,  Constant readers of mrpeenee were able to identify 2 of them, as well as provide the artist of the flying-goat-and-tiger-in-space (thank you Mitzi) AND discuss the origin of the photoshop disaster.  Turns out that all that’s left of the original is the lovely head and the weird hand.  Which raises the question, was the head and hand picture photoshopped onto the dick and nuts picture or the other way around?  And, again,WHY KEEP THE FREAKY HAND?

I had posed the post as a query for my readers to explain what was going on with said freaky hand, and you guys responded in thrilling form and then some.  I knew I could depend on you for details inquiring minds would want to know, but I was delighted with the surge of informed answers about the who, the what, and the excessively hung.  Here at mrpeenee inc. we always say, if you want to know the capital of Delaware, go to Google, but if you want the details about a humpy Latino go-go boy, turn to the gang of internet savvy poon hounds.

And now, a reward, of a particularly back door orientation, cause I am feeling the need for booty:


When tan line perfectly accentuates perfect butt chops.


And then, when tan line and tattoo perfectly accentuates perfect butt chops.


And then, when you don’t need either.


And the front side, too.

Pix of the Day



I have no idea why I find this illustration so darn amusing, but I do.  I think it quite hilarious, in fact.

And now, down to business.  Although I am always willing to flog a dead horse, I am genuinely not interested in harping any further on the whole Crimes of PhotoShopping which I brought up earlier.   But coincidentally, I ran across this odd specimen earlier tonight and I have to bring it to your attention not just to gripe about it, but in hopes that you might help me answer the whole Nancy Drew and the Riddle of the Right Hand thing going on here.


At first glance it appears actually less egregious than the earlier examples, but a close inspection will have eagle eyed readers wondering “What the fuck is going on with his right hand?”  Not only is it oddly proportioned, it also sort of looks like it’s been pasted behind his leg.  Was it borrowed from, like, I don’t know, an old Cher layout?  Does he have a growth, an extra hand on his hand?  Is it a mutation?  I know I am prone to jumping on the alien express all too often, but do you think he’s an alien?

Also, once again, this guy would appear to have already been phenomenally good looking.  So why would someone feel the need to run him up the PhotoShop flagpole?  And then not fix the remaining creepy hand/thing?

To make up for that, let’s move on to some more soothing specimens:


Two words: Duh Lish.  So very appealing, amirite?  and completely un-PhotoShoped.  I think.  I hope.


Yee Haw.   I ran across this and immediately (well, OK, not immediately, but pretty soon after I had examined all the salient points) thought he was posed in front of a giant Texas state flag.  My long lost heritage came to my rescue and reminded me the red panel goes on the bottom.  I can only hope the young man does as well.


And does this guy look like he would be a choice addition to any party?  Fuck yeah.

Operators Are Standing By


The mrpeenee Smutball Foundation, ever vigilant against threats to the vision of the numberless hoards fond of looking at muscley cute boys in various stages of undress, calls on you to join us in the fight against the scourge of the internet.  For even in this paradisiacal time of almost limitless booty shots and dick pics, there will always be malcontents who just have to fuck that shit up.  Yes, I am talking about Crimes of Photoshop.

These are not the simple errors of some poor photo editor who has forgotten to move the hand of a random supermodel whose thighs he was whittling down for the cover of  Us Weekly.  Nor is it the harmless noodling of the guy in accounting killing time before the quarterly budget meeting by pumping up some Brazilian soccer godlet’s biceps to look like something from the produce section.

These are villains who take perfectly innocent pictures of perfectly innocent muscle hunks perfectly innocently whacking their meaty goods and purposefully warp them into an atrocity in which the subject is inflated beyond even their already overwhelming proportions.  It is more than gilding the lily, it is sticking an air hose up the lily’s butt.

Exhibit A: in which every facet of the poor model’s body is facing in a different direction, nipples are askew, one of his arms seems dislocated, but we can’t tell which one, and his head is some teeny tiny afterthought.


Exhibit B:  in which an attempt to make the model taller goes tragically wrong.  You get to this picture in Tumblr and starting from his lovely thick hair, you scroll down, and scroll down, and scroll down looking for dick, or at least jeans until you wind up in the Twilight Zone of endless abs.   What is this, the Slender Man of soft core?


Lastly (in this post,  certainly not in the endless world of Internet naked men) we have a display of classic Photoshop fuckery in which muscles are distorted to the point that, again, the wee little head seems to have just dropped by for a visit.



We all understand, do we not, that these photos were originally of an Adonis who has already sculpted his body into such immaculate perfection the obvious conclusion is that he is, in fact, an alien.  These efforts at “improvement” on what is better than what 99 per cent of humanity can ever achieve are simply egregious.   Knock it off.

That’s why we’re asking you to join us in the fight against Photoshop Crimes.  These butchers against humpy guy photography must be stopped.  Won’t you help?


I do hope this what this young man actually looks like and that we can all agree to leave well enough alone.  Because this is plenty well enough.