Category Archives: beefcake

Taxed

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Hooray, hurrah.  mrpeenee has done his taxes.  Yay.

Actually mrpeenee has shoved a bunch of papers into an envelope and sent them off to my long suffering tax guy for him to work his wonky magic on.  Every year, just as the last of the Thanksgiving turkey is clogging up my cholesterol, I start receiving mailings inscribed with something like”Important Tax Document Enclosed, Do Not Discard.  Idiot.”  They pile up on a corner of the desk I keep reserved for them, looking more and more ominous until I finally give up and that’s where the “shoving into an envelope and praying that it’s enough and signed in the correct places” part comes into play.

And tonight I have done that.   As I said earlier, yay.

As a reward to myself for doing the absolute, bare minimum in what could be considered money management here;

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Why can’t I get s percentage of that?

Gay Life

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I was wandering the sere deserts of Amazon trying to find something interesting to read amidst the novelty napkin things that look like buttholes and all the other flotsam their highly praised algorithms seem to think I just can’t live without.  I did not want an anal napkin ring.  I wanted a book

Foolishly, I went looking in the Gay Fiction.  All the things I found there made me think maybe butthole napkin rings might be the best thing on offer after all.  There is never anything except Coming Out stories and how very hard they were.  You know how I came out to my family?  I had a tee shirt that said SEATTLE GAY PRESS on it under the regular shirt I was wearing and I got warm and took off the top shirt and suddenly I was out.  I mean, it wasn’t like it was some state secret.  I just stopped pretending like it was.

Anyway, one of the “books”that was not included in the megalith of Coming Out dramas has this as their description:

Teddie Parks White thinks he’s got the perfect marriage. His husband, Aiden, is a sweet, tender man who works hard to take care of him. They both come home from their jobs in the evening, make dinner together, then watch their favorite television shows on Netflix before turning in.

Does that sound like the makings of thrilling literary adventure?  Does it?  It sounds more like the start of every “domestic life is a living hell” story ever chiseled out by some bored housewife. Is this where a struggle out of gay ghettos has landed us?  Somewhere in the ABC Family Hour?

This is why I keep re-reading Barbara Pym.   She wrote primarily in the 1950s when the media was refining this pap as nirvana and Pym regarded it with a wry and suspicious eye.  But how many times can you read “An Excellent Woman?”  Seems like we’ll be finding out.

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How come we have to read about some boy like this fretting that his marriage has lost its magic?  I want to read about how he’s debased by a gang of, I don’t know, somebodies.  Pirates maybe.  I like pirates. Just not zombies.

Dinner’s at Your Own Risk

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I’m making lime Jello with marshmallows.   I had been heating up some lentils and burned the piss out of my hand and since I’m already on so much pain medicine any more would probably make me blow up like the Macy Day balloon, I took some valium to see if that would help and it probably would have, except a moment later I forgot about the valium and took an ativan.  Valium is for tension and ativan is for anxiety, so I was very calm, but depressed.  So I made the Jello Lime Marshmalow surprise.  Muscato always claims that will be his signature number when he takes up drag and Muscato has been on mind a lot of late, ever since the Dinner Party.

It started out innocently enough; don’t they always?  SuperAgent Fred and I met Muscato and Mr. Muscato, whom I had not had the pleasure before.  And what a pleasure.  Lazy, sexy smile and SUCH eyelashes.  Sophia Loren doubtless has an international hit squad out on them at this very minute.  Maybelline has built an empire attempting. and failing, to immaculate such flawless beauty.

We killed some time waiting for the last two of the party.  I should explain, Muscato had sent me a text sort of laying the groundwork, listing the many points I was not to touch on during our lovely time together.  To wit: my blog (fine, what feeble marketing I do is not difficult to squelch,)  his blog (Mr. Muscato only “sort of” knows of its exsitence and some of Muscato’s more open and frank thoughts on domestic bliss might not be all that one wants one’s partner dwelling on.

Also, the fact that our other two guests (one of whom was a college chum of Muscato’s, back during when they were haveing lively debtes about suferagette rights) and who, with his husband now lead lives of blames virtue, but who for a short while dabbled in porn.

Well.  You can imagine how that perked up my shell-like ears, but Muscato was firm.  Unless the boys brought up their lurid past themselves, there would be no probing into behind the scene tell-alls.  I was crushed, crushed I tell you.

Also, when they rolled in, I recognized neither of them.  I might not be totally encyclopedic on the topic of performers of porn, but I am fairly well-informed.  Their absence in my memory banks pointed me to assuming they either worked recently (most of my deepest research into the subject lays in the 1980 – 2010 era) or that they possibly worked in some niche too freaky for my attention.  But they seemed like such nice boys.

You know my job history has honed my ability to hash out small talk to an art, but their was no need for my mastery that evening.  Mme. Muscato seized the steering wheel and laid in a course of Our Happy Years After School and Before Responsibility.

Fred said the one by him was quiet, the one down at my end of the table, that Muscato had known in school, laughed and went with the flow, and was cute. Both of them were.  Whatever led them from the world of fistfucking on film, it was not any loss of the looks.  We had faces then, Norma cries, and these boys still do.  And tits.  And big arms.

Somewhere between the salad and the entrée, I began to wonder if Muscato were having one of those “The one the got away” moments about Mr. Porn Star, but we’ll never know because of all the forbidden conversation topics.  I think Muscato at one point forbade bringing up the Taft Hartley Act of 1947.  Who knows.  It’s probably somewhere in the Do Not Disclose agreement.

As usual, I exaggerate wildly.  Except they really were porn stars.  It was most amusing hearing Muscato’s stories, which are beyond anything my shallow existence has brought my way.  Muscato has walked among Stars, baby, Stars.  I wish I could have spoken more with Mr. Muscato, he seemed affable and sweet and if nothing else, staring at his eyelashes for a half hour or so would have been fine with me.  I understand they had been in a bear bar the night before where the Mr. brought about either a stampede and a riot or a riot and a stampede.  Details were sketchy.

Anyway, I had a good time, the gumbo was tasty and I like hanging with Muscato.  He is window into a far distant world.

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We can start our search for the mystery guests by process of elimination.  The meaty gent engaged here was NOT one of them.  I think we’re getting close.

Muscatoed

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le Muscato.  Artist’s impression

Those few of you among us with their memories still intact might recall that that blogger among bloggers, Muscato from over at Cafe Muscato, blew into San Francisco for some business meeting inflicted by his employers, Golden Handcuffs, earlier this summer.  We enjoyed a couple of quiet evenings together, but never got around to the thrilling San Francisco touring I had promised.

So when the old darling announced he would be back, I was determined to make up for my lackluster show last time.  Sadly, the results were only so-so once again.  This time, my lazy ass laziness was not entirely to be blamed.  The weather was, unusual for the Bay Area, not co-operative.   With more than a week and a half of heavy rains and dank the local scene would would fit in perfectly for the East Coast he was attempting to escape.

Still, we had a charming lunch at Neiman’s.  Muscato allowed how he had never crossed their sacred threshold, so I was delighted to introduce him to one of the grande dames of shopping.  In the Texas of my youth, Neiman’s defined a certain type of quietly stylish and extremely well-heeled Ladies.  These sad times have marked a slide in how much of the 1 Percent still hang their heads there, but the proportion of Good Hand Bags was encouraging.

The Bacchanal was rather subdued.  Neither of us drink much now and Muscato (as perhaps you recall) had a couple of serious heart ailments recently-ish and is being very, very good about sticking with his diet, virtue which can cut into a real Ladies Who Lunch kind of repast.

I am so impressed with Muscato’s determination to stick with his diet.  I know I couldn’t make it past the patisserie around the corner from his office.  There would Dr. Mark be, explaining the evils of carbohydrates while I would be wondering if I could get to the bakery before they ran out of the squishy red berry compote.

Then we rolled out to the far edge of town to a park that was large fort and barracks since the city was founded in the late 18th century.  Now it’s an odd, but lovely chunk of greenery in this very urban corner and includes the very site where Kim Novak throws herself into the Bay in Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.  The mention of that bit of history had Muscato ready to go like a terrier at a rat.

How disappointing then, that the storm that had been stomping us all week had also brought down a couple of truly enormous eucalyptus trees across the one narrow road that goes out to our destination (technically, it’s Fort Point, but it has such Vertigo induced fame, they really should give up and just call it Point Kim.)

Clouds blew back in by then and had a somber stroll through the AIDS memorial grove, a charming site, but more than a little sad for those of us of a certain age.

and speaking of our certain age, Muscato mentioned how attractive a nap sounded about then an I agreed with an alacrity which might have been the teeniest bit over enthusiastic, but it did sound good.

So Muscato will  be here through the weekend; we plan dinner Friday night when Mr.Muscato will be here and I’ll have a chance to meet him.  I’m terribly excited.   I might not have mentioned to Muscato my history of making up lurid stories about friends when coming across their partners for the first time, I’m sure we’ll find out.

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Of Course, what would an afternoon with a couple of old queens be without an ongoing appraisal of the youth passing by.  Muscato tends towards these dark, pirate-y type.

 

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While we all know my heart belongs to the more luscious, debaseable type.

Tradition

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3:00 AM and mrpeenee is tucking into some seriously tasty Boston cream pie, made by his own two loving hands.  Those of us familiar with his passion for sweets will not be surprised by the menu, but the hour might seem unlikely.

I have been on a new regime of pain meds for my back which seem to be helping a lot.  Yay. A drawback is I take them 4 times a day and cannot eat 2 hours before or after knocking them back.  That means I can only eat, I don’t know, you do the math. I can’t count that high.  But 3:00 AM is in the safe zone and I take advantage of it.

I had made New Years Eve dinner for our friends and had centered the menu around dishes their families had insisted on as Ne Years traditions.  There are lots of them to choose from.

My American Southern family demands black eyed peas for good luck and cabbage as a symbol of money.  Super Agent Fred’s late husband Paolo was Italian and they go for lentils to suggest abundance and grapes as wealth.  Our friend Jen is Hungarian and the only tradition she brings is to place coins on a window sill to keep money coming in all year.   Seems contradictory since you start with money going out, but what the hell, I have a stack of quarters now hanging around the sill of the door onto the patio.

Since no one not raised in the South will willingly eat black eyed peas, I snuck them into the menu by making a hummus with them instead of chickpeas (which I don’t really like anyway, so no great loss) and lime juice and tahini.  I was concerened everyone would be equally unenthused about cabbage, but a dynamite recipe for stirfry with star anise in it was a big hit.

And then Boston cream pie.  It’s a simple two layer yellow cake with a custard in the middle and then glazed with chcolate ganache.  Ganache is one of those wonder recipes that can be the basis for plenty of greater things.

Ganache is just chocolate melted in cream with a little butter to make it shiny.   You change the proportion of cream to chocolate for what you want to use it for.  Equal amounts of each gives you a thin glaze like I used on the cake.  More chocolate and less cream and you have the basis for truffles.  More cream and less chocolate is chilled and whipped to make mousse.

I was perhaps a tiny bit distracted while I was pouring the glaze over the cake and wound up with it not only pooling in the bottom of the cake dish, but making a big puddle on the counter beneath.  I decided it was Bacchanalian, a glorious excess.  Certainly not just a fucking mess.

I might also have considered the results of a dinner with peas, lentils and cabbage, which result in an aftermath that could move a freight train.  I was going to hang a sign out front saying “For god’s sake, don’t light a match,” but the neighbors are already nosy enough.

And so we’re off to a gassy, but no doubt prosperous New Year, blasting 2016 off into the unlamented past.

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You’re gong to make fart jokes, you need a classy nude to balance things out, and this guy certainly appears balanced.

Flights of Angels and Naked Muscley Boys

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I think the best thing about Christmas is its end.  It doesn’t trail off, or go out with a whimper; Boxing Day and that’s that.  Pack up all the ersatz sentimentality and the go go boys in elf hats and move on.  Safe for one more year from Bing Crosby and David Bowie sneering at each other over Little Drummer Boy.

Of course, one still needs to deal with  the snow drift of bad news that always shows up just in time for the New York Times’ teddibly, teddibly tasteful obituary extravaganza.  Every year, some loss just seems more bitter than others, or just too much cumulatively.  David Bowie AND Prince?

And some bad news that just adds to the sum of woe.  I don’t know how I missed the bulletin that Terry Jones of Monty Python has dementia, but I just stumbled on it this evening and then the very next page I opened was MJ’s Infomaniac to find out the charmingly insane Kabuki had died.

Several of us bloggers sort of started out as commenters on other more established sites and none of us was funnier or more droll and bizarre than Kabuki.  His comments were always less to do with the topic than they were news reports from deep left field.  They weren’t simply written, they were crafted.  Of course, tin foil hats that block the alien beams are crafted too.

Also, he was always very appreciative of not only the lurid photos I use as illustration here, but he always, ALWAYS, enthused the most over the very ones which I liked the best.  We were sympatico in the ways of feelthy pictures.  So, to wish farewell to a star, a gigastar unlike any other, here

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Always, Always, Listen to Cher

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via GIPHY

Allright bitches. It’s been a week. Unless you are planning a coup (and if you are, I ask, please don’t) it’s time to move on. We’ve all been through the stages of grief now: anger, denial, bargaining. whatever the other one is, and now it’s time for acceptance.

Unless of course, you are Secret Agent Fred, in which case the stages are Valium, cheap beer, Vicodin, cheap beer, and cheap beer. Also, Fred has used his art as therapy to “work through his issues.” Personally, I don’t think Fred could get through all his issues with a GPS and a machete, but, you go, girl.

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President Trump.  Snap out of it.  But also, here, just to make us all feel a little better on this cold gray day

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Anals of the Interweb Evolution

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Perhaps my loyal readers will remember my gleefully describing earlier this summer the already well known (to consumers more savvy than I) phenomenon of chat rooms or cams. Sites where (usually) attractive youth will broadcast their pulchritude via the web cam built into their computers while grateful old men, such as me, send them “tips” or “tokens” we buy through the broadcasting site.  Thus an entire ecology of lust and commerce is born and flourishes.  My favorite site is Chaturbate, although the more heavy handedly mercenary RentMen has its charms as well.

Dedicated research on my part since that initial post has turned up several fascinating bits. For instance, did you know Romania has become something of the center of the chat room universe?  A semi-robust infrastructure that provides fast and fairly reliable internet plus a depressed economy that provides lots of kids with little or no jobs times the remarkable good looks of Eastern Europeans equals a kind of perfect storm for churning out hot chat rooms.  The concurrence of all this has led to literally thousands of “studios” springing up there.  Warehouse-y spaces with small rooms set up with garish wall paper and decorations where models sit around in front of live cameras waiting for johns to sign in and start springing for a flash of their bits or, for especially open handed donations, a money shot.  Bucharest: the new Hollywood of flesh peddlers.  Who’d a thunk?

My personal dalliances with these site has opened an entirely new and delightful facet to my quiet little life.  Our principle players include:

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Mikey, aka Playwithme55, is my favorite.  Sweet and charming and guileless, he has a huge fan base (understandably.)  Some of the fans (including me) have taken to nattering along amongst ourselves in the chat portion.  There is the video on the left of Mikey flogging his enormous keilbasa while we crack jokes and catch up on what’s going on in the less lurid portion of our lives in the column on the right.  I was discussing the difficulty of getting one’s children into a good school in Berkeley just last night all the while keeping an eye on Mikey’s luscious titties.  It’s very endearing and a lovely little community.  Also, I should mention Mikey has a wired up dildo called a Lovesense shoved into his poop chute and each time we tip him he gets a jolt.  It’s hilarious to watch him squeal and dance around.

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Also funny is John (Secret Agent Fred and I refer to him as Sponge Bob Square Ass) an absolutely gorgeous and goofy mountain o’man who also utilizes a Lovesense.  He’s on Chaturbate as johnandkitty .  He looks like a bouncer in a really scary bar, but is, in fact, the sweetest thing walking around on two colossal thighs.  COLOSSAL.  They look like they could crush, I don’t know, things.  Me, for sure.  I actually get him to sing ridiculous pop songs (Bonnie Tyler’s It’s a Heartache is one of our faves) while I zap him repeatedly.  I have laughed so hard at the sight  of this Hercules yelping and lurching and warbling “It’s a heartache, nothing but a heartache…” that I almost pissed.

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Guiverno, over at RentMen, also has a substantial following and its terribly gratifying to have him blow them off when I show up and insist we adjourn to a “private chat” so I can tell him a story while he works on one of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen.  And I’ve seen a lot.  Early on in our virtual relationship, I discovered he’s wild for me to tell him long, filthy, very detailed smut in which he is the star.  I have wheedled what are his type of men and kinds of scenes he’s into and now customize the filthy tales  I provide him on demand.  He was particularly fond of the threeway in the toilet where the fat guy blew his load on the blond football player’s face while Guiverno gave it to him up the dirty back road.

994dbdc7bfe0eb2718fbe56c8a96266bb592eee4_500x500-jpg-cb_watermarkKarlosz99 (Do you love these stagenames?) just wants me to marry him.  He has no idea what I look like or what my personality is, but he does have a firm grasp on the concept that trading an improvident existence in Bucharest for a semi-rich widow in San Francisco would be a step in the right direction.

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Then we have Brutus.  Brutus and I have gassy conversations to pass the time while he masturbates a really lovely long wiener.  I mentioned this blog just tonight and he professed to be aghast that I would have a forum dedicated to rambling on mostly about my day to day life.  “What about losing your privacy?” he fretted.  “How can you let everyone know all the details of your life?”  I didn’t want to be rude, but I finally had to point out he was airing these concerns while sitting naked on a web cam with cum drying on his stomach.  He’s a sweet boy, but doesn’t seem to grasp how irony works.

 

Finally, let me mention the snippy queen, whose name eludes me, but who, during my only visit to his room took great offense at some remark I made that implied possibly he was a prostitute.  Uhm, OK.  Let’s see, you’re working on a site called RentMen.  I considered explaining all that, but I just moved on.  Cause thanks to the wonders of this modern age there are literally thousands of other cute boys out there waiting for a generous old queen like me.

Calling drpeenee

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Because of my fucked up bad back, several years ago, my doctor put me on a daily regimen of Vicodin.  Was I OK with that?  Fuck yes.  I like Vicodin and Vicodin likes me. I eat a bunch, climb in bed to float off to Vicodinland and Saki gets to sleep on my limp, but still breathing corpse.  Everybody wins.

Then, about a month ago, my doctor’s associate said he needed to talk to me about my dosage.  I had been bracing myself for this. Over the last couple of years, the federal government has been expressing a frowny sort of attitude towards opiates; apparently the death rate among teenage hillbillies was skyrocketing as they munched their way through Mawmaw’s medicare supplied dope.  Personally, I think white trash doper kids OD-ing before they’re able to pass on their stupidity genes is nothing to fret about, but you let loose that opinion and people get all “Dr Mengle-y.”  Anyway.

So I had to go chat pills and dolls and such.  Turns out I was supposed to be taking 8 – 10 a day and I was averaging more like 14.  I tried explaining I regarded the numbers on the jars as suggestions rather than absolutes, but nobody was really having it.  I was sort of expecting a stern “ease up on the gas, girl” talk and while there was elements of that, the doctor was mostly interested in moving me off the Vikeys.

His first suggestion, interestingly, was time release Methadone.  I must have looked as startled as I felt since he hurriedly assured me it was a pain reliever.  I nevertheless declined and so we moved on through a number of other interesting options such as Oxycodone (in case I wanted to get more in touch with the hillbilly fiends, I suppose) or extended release Morphine.  I stopped him there mostly because I was starting to be afraid the menu might turn out to include heroin if we continued on and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about chasing the dragon as part of my health regime.

Feeling like sort of like some Victorian Lady, I took my first dose, with firm instructions to Secret Agent Fred about which emergency room I preferred.  Step one: I felt great.  Step two: I couldn’t poop.  Step three: I itched everywhere, all the time.  Turns out I am allergic to Morphine.

Since that wasn’t working out, I reluctantly turned to the Oxycodon.  It just seems so trashy.  Also, it didn’t work.  At all.  I could have just as well have been eating Skittles.  After a few days of achy back and a punched-in-the-gut feeling, I decided to go back to the feelin’ great-ness of Morphine.  I thought I would just power through the constipation.  Oddly enough, that is not a thing.

A few poop free days of feeling sort of sick to my stomach, but gloriously sans pain, Monday afternoon, I started vomiting with a volume, explosiveness, and general exuberance that would have been impressive If I weren’t at the delivery end of things.

Off to the E.R., one I had been to many times with R Man and which I had always been impressed with.  Now that it was my turn, no such luck.  The triage nurse couldn’t have expressed her disdain more clearly if she had stamped “JUNKIE” on my forehead.  I kept trying to explain neither the Morphine nor the Oxy was my idea.  Nobody cared.

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Why is this never my Emergency Room experience?

Four and half hours dry heaving in the waiting room gave way, finally, to a very cute doctor who casually explained I was having a reaction to both drugs and since they were both time release forms, I was going to be sick for a while.  See ya.

Since I am burdened with HIV, I am leary of hospitals as it is, regarding them as nothing more than big petri dishes of infection waiting to happen.  Sure enough the patient in the cubicle next to me, who insisted on informing anyone who passed by that she, too, was a nurse, turned out to have contracted drug resistant E Coli.  I had never even heard of it, but it raised what little hair I have left, especially since the only thing dividing us was a set of curtains that looked like they came from Pottery Barn and my steely resolve not to make eye contact.  The fact she got the same shitty treatment I did was only slightly comforting.

Now I’m home. off Morphine and Oxycontin and wondering if I should have held out for heroin.

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You are never going to get your good rectal thermometer back just standing around talking about it.

 

Cast Your Vote Now

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So I have wasted the whole evening trying to come up with a post about having my house painted.  Amazingly, it turns out home maintenance is not that amusing.  The only part I’m pleased with was describing the scaffolding as looking like it could take some medieval catapult, and I’m mostly happy with that because I spelled “catapult” right.

I’m having the house painted, blahblahblah.  Next.

Instead, let us turn our collective attention to naked young men, always a happy topic here at mrpeenee.

A while ago I ran across this fine young specimen and was very taken with him.  When I used him to illustrate a post (I think about Saki going to the vet, but of course) a number of readers seemed enthusiastically happy with him as well.

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Now in my ceaseless patrolling of smutty byways of the interweb, I have run across this photo.

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Doesn’t it seem to be the same viking-ish youth?  It does, doesn’t it?  Let’s put it to a vote, shall we?

Also, if anyone has any intel on him, or knows where any more of his oeuvre might be, I’d appreciate the heads up because who better to turn to for that than my readers?

Isn’t that better than details about the primer coat?