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.