Beaster

Standard

Yet another Beaster. Meester Beaster, I believe.

Painting the stupid office led (somehow) to cleaning out the garage. While I was in the middle of disinterring crap from ages gone by, I ran across a trunk of R Man’s stuffed full of old letters and cards and his yearbook from when he was a delegate to Boy’s State (isn’t that adorable?)

Mixed in with the other ephemera was a letter addressed simply to “Beaster.” That got a good laugh, let me tell you. R Man was the most courtly, gentlemanly being since Victoria’s regent shuffled off and he lived life with an unstuffy gravitas that charmed everyone who knew him. He was also fond of a little rough sex, so certainly I wasn’t the least surprised about this form of address.
There was no signature. I guess the writer supposed anyone he was calling “Beaster” would recognize him. In this, I believe the author might have been a tad bit over-confident. R Man, and, indeed, anyone worthy of the sobriquet “Beaster,” cast a wide net and counting on him to remember every fawning toff was just sort of delusional. Also, counting on R Man to be pleased with a nickname as sappy as “Beaster” was pretty unlikely, but that’s neither here no there.
For myself, I initially called him “Daddy” and then for years never got around to coming up with anything else. Inertia. It happens. Eventually, that morphed into “Doo-doo” and then “Doo-doo Head.” Again, neither here nor there.
Speaking of icky, TMI babytalk between longtime companions, he called me “Peenee.” Perhaps you had wondered where “mrpeenee” came from? Perhaps you should have. I recall how annoyed I was the first time he slipped up and called me that in front of our friend Ricky, who then adopted it enthusiastically as what he referred to me as for years. Of course, R Man and I called Ricky “The Felonious Little Tart” so I suppose we were all even.

About mrpeenee

A former bon vivant and terror of a number of New Orleans bars in the mad, gay 1980s, I'm now quietly retired and widowed in San Francisco. I have a crooked nose due to an unfortunate Frisbee accident.

13 responses »

  1. Well, what was in the letter, or is that gauche of me to ask?

    Husband's nickname is “E” for Erik. But to me, he is E. When introducing him as “E” disbelieving people will think that their ears are full of wax and start calling him “Ian”. Hilarity, ensues.

    Like

  2. Miss J should have mentioned she loves a nickname after knowing someone a good long time. One doesn't just start addressing another person in any old way after just a few encounters. Miss J actually hates that.

    Like

  3. My evil side must ask: Did you recognize the handwriting?

    And my sillier side wants to know which names Saki associates with each of you. Actually, not that silly — I was named after my father, and several family pets correctly learned the nicknames used to distinguish between us. And also knew what “Not you, the other one” meant!

    Word verification is “messes”. Hope you're not making too many by cleaning out the garage.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s