Various. Also, Sundry

Been there, done them.

I think the long nightmare of my Bone Hole _TM saga may be drawing to a close. If you were lucky enough to miss my whining about this, my Bone Hole _TM is an actual hole in my jaw bone that led to an absolutely baroque series of dental procedures up to and including pulling the stupid tooth above it. Since the tooth next to it had been removed years ago for a crown, I wound up with a sizable gap in that neighborhood. Last week, I got a “removable partial” to deal with that and, please baby jeebus, finish up with the whole sorry mess.

I hadn’t realized when discussing this with my dentist that the “partial” in “removable partial” is short for “partial denture.” A denture. Yes, one more entry in our exciting If You Don’t Die, You Get Old sitcom. I also hadn’t realized how massive this bitch would turn out. I lost another tooth 40 years ago on the other side of my mouth. You couldn’t see it, it was the tiny tooth behind the canine so I just ignored it all these years, but my current dentist decided he would include a replacement for it as an anchor for the new partial. That means the structure reaches across my mouth behind my lower incisors and is enormous. Even I, who am fairly casual about sticking big things in my maw, am intimidated by it. When I manage to wrestle it in, it feels a lot like I had taken a whim to swallow a car’s dashboard but gotten stuck on the turn signal.

Of course, it helps a lot in chewing, but comfort is not a big part of its profile. I decided early on I would just put up with it when I’m eating, but I keep forgetting to put it in, so it spends most of the time lurking in the cabinet, silently rebuking me. Since I get enough of that from Saki, I’m considering a life of pudding and cottage cheese.

Changing gears, I’d like to address the plague of the all white room. I spend a fair chunk of time idly scrolling through Tumblr, mostly harvesting pictures of attractive, if scantily clothed young men for these posts. Perhaps you’ve noticed.

Who doesn’t love a good tanline?

Lately though, my Tumblr feed has been choked with image after image of these insipid white-on-white-on-white rooms, a design decision that I loathe. It’s nothing particularly new, this is the at least the fourth big go-round it’s had since the 1980s, but just because something won’t die doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

As far as I can tell, its appeal lies with it being easy to do on the cheap (anyone with access to a bucket of white paint has most of the look nailed down) and that it comforts namby pambies who are afraid of picking colors. I love color in decorating, strong, bright, dramatic hues especially. Here’s a secret: if you don’t like a color, you can change it. I know painting is a hassle, but do you really think trying to live with white floors isn’t?

These rooms are so insipid, so bloodless. I believe their current popularity rises in part from the de-cluttering gospel that writer Marie Kondo has passed on to her cult. Her motto is “Discard anything that doesn’t spark joy” which is fine with me, People cling to too much crap. Got it, and agree with it, but the problem is adhering to passionately to it brings you to these anemic spaces.

This sparks joy for someone? It would be like living in a tidy refrigerator. This type of decorating is committed to an absence of knick knacks, art, books, everything that adds warmth and color and personality to a room. Who would want to live without them?

Speaking of dealing with the gorgeous clutter that a full book case brings:

I’m not sure if they were trying to be ironic, but that image upsets me so much, so fills me with a disturbing rage, I can understand what opponents of pornography must feel when faced with something as beautiful as this

A personal problem, I think.

Lastly:

I loved my garden, but I’m tepid towards house plants. Even if I wasn’t I would still feel strongly against dragging in large, semi-tropical plants like birds of paradise or bananas, such as here to an environment where they will jsut suffer a lingering death. Indoor plants need to be able to tolerate the temperatures we like inside, the arid dryness of our homes and the insufficient light that comes from not being outside, and bananas are not going to do that. Knock it off.

But it’s not all complaints about teeth and bad design decisions around here. California has re-opened from our last round of lockdown, which I honestly expected to last until April, so yay. Because of that, I was able to spend part of this afternoon out on Peet’s cafe’s outside parklette knocking back a latte and a muffin. In these sad times, that’s what constitutes decadence. Also, I have a haircut appointment scheduled whihc is plenty enough to get me in a good mood.

Helping with good moods, our latest selection of mens

My motto. You got a problem with that?

The aptly named Dick Huge.

You know how I love a ginger.

Mike Branson, discovered back in the vaults, from a time when dinosaurs roamed the porn aisle.

Oh, he’s an angel.

Meaty.

I don’t understand how people get their butt do that. And how do you live with it once you do? How do you sit in a chair, or maneuver down the grocery aisle, or pull your fucking pants up? For that matter, how do people behind you in line at Starbucks resist just reaching over and squeezing it to see if it’s real? Anyway, we salute you, Butt Man.

More Dental Drama

I had to go back to the dentist again today. Readers might remember I have shared with them numerous visits over the last 2 years of varying annoyance, discomfort, and expense. I have now spent more time with my dentist (actually, make that plural, I have two because I am just that special) more time with my dentists than I have with my friends, thank you quarantine. We have shared so much time together I have to assume we qualify for domestic partners benefits.

Today’s trip was the conclusion of two previous adventures. One was a simple little root canal (I am alarmed that I have become so inured to dental torture that I classify root canals as “simple”) that I had last month and for which I got the crown today. The other is just the latest installment in a tooth opera which began in February of 2018. 2 0 1 8. Does anyone else remember 2018? Have unfinished business from then?

To recap for those of you not paying attention, and I know there are plenty of you, I developed a hole in my jaw bone. The tooth above the Bone Hole _TM required a root canal (do you see a pattern here?) which then had to be filled and then refilled every other month for a year. Hilarious. Finally, I don’t know, the dentists got bored or something and they pulled the tooth. They also had to pull the tooth and crown next to it because the Bone Hole_TM tooth had anchored a bridge. Which brings us to today where I was being fitted for a removable partial bridge to deal with the gaping maw in my lower teeth. Altogether, 3 hours in the chair today, which turns out to outlast the Xanax I started with.

I have not taken up a new sideline in creampie porn. That’s the dried goop from the mould for the bridge. Shut up

Oddly, I was lucky enough to have almost no tooth problems during most of my so-called adult years. I’d go in and get my cleaning, they’d say “Lookin’ good, mrpeenee.” “You too Mr. dentist,” I’d reply as I returned to a life of excessive pastries. All that changed when I crossed the magic barrier of age 50. Fifty, when your prostate swells, your mouth revolts and declares itself the Glorious Independent Republic of Oralslovakia, and those darn kids will not stay off your lawn.

Proving my theory that my dentist and mouth are conspiring against me, while finishing the crown, the serene highness dentist discovered a tooth just rotted away, but which had been hiding it’s decay behind the crowned tooth. “Oh, that’s going to have to go,” the dear little man said. Have my teeth decided to abandon ship? Are things that bad? Fine. See you next time.

Toothsome young mens:

A work of art.

We must have just missed the vampire.

Yet another example of mrpeenee’s love for the Big Lug.

Uptown funk gonna give it to you

Just hangin’ around in the toilet, office.

The disagreement over cut versus uncut will never be solved, but everybody likes great big nuts.

Finally, here’s a cheerful farewell. The vaccine is on its way, lockdown cannot last forever, enjoy the weekend.

In Which We Go Back A Bit

For those of you who missed them the first time around, or those who still miss them, here is the 1980s wrapped up in one video:

Let’s see, do we have all the parts?

• Bleach blonde, pouty lipped pretty boy singer?  Check,
• Hyper stylized clothes that make you look like you got dressed in a hurry, in the dark?  Check.
• Synth laden music ripping off better, more original music (in this case, Spin Me Round by Dead or Alive)?  Check.
• Ronald Reagan’s poisonous spirit looming around?  Check.
• The terrifying mystery of AIDS just off camera, but very present?  Check.

Turns out the last is more important to this bit than was originally intended since the singer, Paul Lekakis, admitted in an interview with POZ magazine that he had lied about his HIV status to his customers while turning tricks in Los Angeles in the 90s.  The interview and, maybe, Lekakis makes this sound unpardonable and shocking.  Sweetie, I was there and I remember that by the late 90s when Lekakis was working West Hollywood what AIDS was was unquestionable and how it spread was well established. What he did was bad, but was it that shocking?  If you ask a rentboy about his HIV status and then take his word for it, you are simply too naive to be hiring one.

In other 80s news, Buttocks of the Past:

Mike Timber

Buck Hayes

Mike Betts

Tales of Pasta and Terror

How bad of me to skimp on recounting my recent visit to Austin and the charming Diane von Austinburg.  We had a lovely, lovely time.  Our definition of “lovely” might not match up with other’s, but do we care?  No, we do not.

Essentially the visit consisted of us visiting many of the finer thrift stores in town and canvassing their aisles while keeping up a running diss of their merchandise.  Or “merchandise.”  To quote myself from several previous times “This all looks like the leftovers from a bad garage sale.”  But that’s the best part.  We examine a mind numbing array of the chipped and should-have-been-discarded, items of dubious function, and what we were sure was the contents of hundreds of dead grannies’ homes, shoveled into the Goodwill maw by their undeserving heirs and then we don’t buy a single thing.

I did fall sort of in love with a love seat upholstered in a velour Union Jack.  Fortunately, Diane was there to quietly steer me away even as I was scheming how to ship it here, to an apartment where there is absolutely no room for it.

And then we went out for enchiladas.  Oh, such good Mexican food.  High class fare from interior Mexico, low class Tex-Mex in a joint that had started out life as a laundrymat, and a great place we love with such delicious tortillas.

Of course it was not all beat up Pottery Barn rejects and guacamole.  After all, there has to be some low point.  Who would have dreamed it would turn out to be pasta?

I was staying the very fancy Fairmont hotel.  It was excellent.  When I made the reservation, I signed up for their benefits program, which I always do wherever I stay.  Usually it’s not much, maybe a free bottled water  (Whoo-Hoo) but this time it turned out to be a goldmine, baby.  From a private registration desk (oh, right this way, Mr. mrpeenee,) and this cool concierge lobby with snacks of a most delicious nature (a dessert bar at night with these adorable miniature French pastries.  Another six cream puffs?  Why, I think I will.)   And a big, comfortable room.  What more could you ask for?

Well, that’s where the pasta comes in.  Diane works nearby and had come to meet me after I checked in.  We hit the Happy Hour snack bar and should have just stuck with that, but instead decided to slide downstairs to their real restaurant and have real food.

The dining room had a theme, which in my experience is never a good idea.   If you’re a restaurant, your theme should be “food.”  Instead, this place had the walls lined with fake facades of an old timey Texas town.  I think?  It was hard to tell.   It was very Disneyland. I was willing to ignore it and hang with Diane, but I ordered pasta carbonara and that’s where the real trouble came in.

Perhaps you are familiar with pasta carbonara?  It is one of the simple dishes that is not easy.  It consists of eggs, bacon and cheese over pasta.  The secret is how you add the ingredients, but I’m not here to give away my culinary secrets, I am here to gripe.

We both got our dinners eventually and started in while chatting.  After a few bites, i realized my pasta was missing the bacon.  Called the waitress over, explained, she took it back to the kitchen, reemerged with (possibly) a new plate, which I poked around in and announced, “This is the same thing, there’s no bacon is this either.”  She valiantly offered to make another run at it, but she had a look on her face, a look I have myself worn at times, a look that said “The chef is a screaming, egomaniacal lunatic, please don’t send me back in there.”  So I just said never mind, take it off the check, we’re fine.

Despite that, before I could finish stealing most of Diane’s excellent Asian pot thing, a manager type slithered over with a third bowl of the pasta.  You’ll never guess what was not in there!  As she was standing there, I demonstrated my now honed technique for bacon hunting.  “The chef says it’s called ‘pancetta’ and he slices it very finely.”  The whole “pancetta not bacon” pushed my blood level up a few notches and I offered her 20 bucks if she could find any of this finely sliced pancetta.  Sliced on a microscopic level, I don’t know.  I did explain the dish only had three ingredients, it seemed difficult to overlook one of them.

I waved it away.  Diane approved, noting that by then, one of the ingredients no doubt included spit.  She went home and I went back up to the fancy guests’ lobby and to wait for the dessert bar.

mrpeenee asks “Where’s the meat?”

…and the universe answers

peenee Henge

mrpeenee’s personal street light

My living room is a triangle walled in enormous windows which makes one more conscious (or as conscious as I ever am) of the light and the way it shifts and settles in the room.   I was wandering around the apartment in my charmingly vague way the other evening when I realized the setting sun had become perfectly aligned with those windows to shoot all the way down the crooked hallway that leads to the front door.  It was like something of out of Raiders of the Lost Something or the Other.

I know in New York a similar phenomenon of the setting sun lining up with the east-west streets is called Manhattenhenge, so I’m stealing that for my own little almost-solstice-but-not-quite celebration.  Since I ignore Christmas, it seems very handy.

I was going to try to take a picture of it tonight, but, of course, it decided to rain instead.  I’m all right with that.  After those weeks of choking smoke, having our brisk clean air back is an immense relief.  Plus, sitting up here in my aerie, looking down out at the fog settling on the tops of hills, the streets shiny with rain, The street lights and traffic lights all glittering and reflecting, and the pedestrians scurrying along with their floppy umbrellas, it all seems terribly cozy.  A ginger cat curled firmly up on my lap helps.

An added charm: the street lights here are old timey ones, cast to look like lanters.  I’ve always admired their solid 19th century charm and now I have one directly outside and I happen to be on the exact floor that puts the lantern part right out my window.  I think of it as MY  street light, much as a hooker chasing other bitches off her patch would.

Let me reiterate: I like’em big and stupid.

But having cozy little digs could only be improved by having more than a ginger tabby to lean on.

Bal Masque

One of the odd aspects of all this smoke in the air here is the proliferation of masks.  Days ago, the state health department advised that the elderly and kids and sick people wear a mask that filtered out smoke.  Then they upped it to everyone should wear a mask and now they’ve just thrown in the towel and said everybody should simply stay indoors.  It’s like the start of a zombie movie.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I have seen every permutation on face coverings just short of Darth Vader.  It’s gotten to the point where there are generally more people wearing one than not.  I do so hate to be left out of any fashion rage.

Man-on-the-street mask.  A really cute man on the street to boot.

I’ve also been hacking pretty impressively every time I venture out, so I gave in and decided to go buy one.  Naturally, both of the hardware stores in my terribly stylish neighborhood were sold out.  But I persisted and this afternoon I went in to my favorite one and snagged the very last one they had.

mrpeenee avec l’masque

I think it has a certain raffish charm to it.  Since I have a really skinny head, it only sort of fits and I wasn’t convinced it was doing anything until I took it off before going into the grocery and I was suddenly struck by the very strong smell of smoke from which it must have been protecting me.

So yay it works.  It also fogs up my glasses, but I’ll take breathing over seeing any day.

The Night Owl Report

I was huddled in my bed feeling like an idiot, which is not unusual.  The day after I posted my triumphant cry that Spring had sprung upon San Francisco,  a storm front blew in, the skies opened and it’s been cold and rainy ever since.  True, that is spring weather, but it wasn’t the spring weather I had been so very smug about.

I really don’t have any relevant pictures for my adventures in Kitchenland, so I’m just going with muscly youth.  I can’t imagine anyone complaining.

As usual, when I’m not happy, I got up to go eat.  Something.  Anything.  I remembered that I had roasted a bunch of baby carrots just because I wanted some roast carrots and there were still quite a few left.  As the carrots were whirling around in the mircrowave, I also decided I would make custard.  My cooking decisions are almost always based on “What do I have and what can I do with it?”  In this case, eggs, half & half, sugar, vanilla and salt pointed towards custard.  The fact that I was longing for some sweet blandness didn’t hurt.

Nothing is easier to cook than custard.  The most technical part is breaking an egg.  If you can do that, the rest is just measure and stir.  It is in the oven right now, in its bain marie, which is a fancy name for a pan half full of hot water, almost finished.

While it was baking, the carrots were ready, but I realized I wanted some carbs with it.  Bread, tortillas, left over scones, I wasn’t being picky.  I had just bought a loaf of this wonderful cinnamon bread I love.   Sort of sweet and rich, it’s very similar to challah.  Its only downside is that it comes as a whole loaf, unsliced.  Instead of just slicing off the end  bit and calling it a day, I decided to slice the entire thing to make giving into temptation in the future just that much easier.

Amazing how very tasty the carrots and the cinnamon bread were together.  An unplanned triumph.  A serendipitous snack, and isn’t that really the best kind.

The timer for the custard just went off.  I know you’re supposed to test if they’re done enough with a silver blade stuck in the middle to see if it comes out clean.   But I have no silver blades.  Get real, this is not Downton Abbey.  Silver is terrible metal for knife blades,   It’s soft and so it dulls faster than you can eat.  I just gently shake the pan to see how much the custard quivers.  You want it past the jiggly stage, but not firm, because it will continue to cook as it cools.

OK, so, carrots, heated and eaten, bread sliced and also eaten, combination: a radiant stroke of genius, the kitchen cleaned, the custard cooling and just quivery enough.

I realize all this kitchen madness is not terribly worth a post, it’s just that all of it took place between 3:00 AM and 3:45 AM.  It is pitch black outside, no one else is stirring, even the raccoons have gone to bed, but here I am at my peak.  This is when I am the most energetic (not saying much) and clear headed.  Some people are made for the night and that’s me.

It wasn’t until I retired and the shackles of employment released me that I found out I am an owl.  All those years waking up to go to work just when I was most ready to doze off, how wrong they all were.

I’ll go take my meds and get in bed; not to go to sleep, but because that’s my favorite place to read.  So I’ll be reading and struggling with the cat over who gets the best bed position, a fight I lose every night, and along about dawn, I’ll doze off.

It’s a perfect world.  At last.

All these lovely specimen are courtesy of the stunningly well curated blog    For the Love of NudeMuscleMen    I borrowed them without permission and I hope they do not mind my poaching because I really do think whoever is picking the art for the collection has an impeccable eye.

Once Again, Late

O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.

I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.

Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.

Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.

Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.

Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.

Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

Skin Deep

So, after cleaning up all the scrapes and scraps and cuts and bits that came from my fight with the garden, I tried to be extra conscientious about keeping it clean and sterilized and, of course, it took about a day and a half to get infected.  I wound up on antibiotics that I finished yesterday, yay, with only puking once.  Any prescription that ends in “…xin” is guaranteed to do a job on my delicate stomach.  So that’s over, I’m guzzling yogurt to replace all the flora and fauna that the meds killed off in my gut and things will be great very soon.

In the meantime, let us turn our attention to a much more appealing topic, the ever popular Muscle Pussy.  I always try to include some example of it in my posts because 1) it amuses me and 2) there is so much of it available now through the magic of the internet.  When I was a young poof, I could never have dreamed of a day when there was such a wealth of beefcake spread out before us.

Usually, I just paste up some taut skinned youth and don’t really discuss it, but today I have to protest this beauty’s tragic choice of body adornment, or “ink” as the youth of today would have it.

Look at that flawless, smooth, clear, satiny skin, tagged with the stupidest array of strip mall tattoo parlor art I’ve ever seen.  It looks like he just wandered in between his shifts at the Olive Garden and had them slap on whatever they had time to finish before he had to get back to work.

Oddly enough, considering what an old codger I am, I don’t mind tattoos in general, but if you’re going to cover a lot of ground with them, there should be some idea or concept that pulls them together in a cohesive style.  You know this boy, on the other hand, doubtless has Bart Simpson in there somewhere.  “Molly.”  Really?  What happens when Molly decides she’s a lesbian after all and dumps you and your beautiful tits?  And “1994”?  I remember 1994, sort of, what about it?  I know, it’s probably when he was born, which makes having this much numbnuts stupid tats just that much worse.  I can’t get over how lovely his skin is.  It’s like he has no pores.  To cover any of it seems like a waste.

Then we have this boy, with a much more discreet and attractive… something.  And I’m talking about the tattoo, by the way.  I don’t know, is it backwards?  So he can read it while he admires his big, fat man piece in the mirror?  Is it “This end up” in latin?  Who knows?  And leopard skin hair!  I haven’t seen leopard skin hair since I was a gay young thing.  And that was a long time ago.

And this last boy just because I thought he was pretty and had such lovely eyes.

All these came courtesy of the fascinating tumblr site Sparticus 2000 .  I cannot recommend cruising around there enough.

Legends Fall

Saturday June 22 will be the funeral of Jim French.  I’m sure a big chunk of my readers know this and also know who Jim French is.  What he was was simply the best erotic photographer, ever.  Ever.

 

Mike Betts

He started a called a business called “Colt Studios” in 1967.  The Post Office had recently lifted the ban on sending pictures of hard dicks through the mail.  French was a man in the right time.

Doug Perry

Can you ever have too much Doug Perry?  Nonsense.

Before him, gay smut was black and white with whatever trashy hustler/rent boy the photographer scraped up that day.  French shook all that up.  His early work is klutzy, understandably, but once he got his footing, goodness, how everything changed.

Ray Mars

For one thing, French was a good photographer with a background in shooting fashion.  His lenswork was admirable, crisp and well balanced, but his real talent was lighting a set.  Never had bulging muscles been so three dimensional, cocks and asses gleaming and inviting.  And he was interested in their faces too, which other photographers never even looked at.  His only weakness was in posing his subjects.  There’s a lot of classic body-building style or stiffly interacting with some prop that’s sort of quaint.

 

Jerry Haymes

One of his best and most frequently reused pose, is where he is on the ground beneath the model, shooting up at those mountainous titties.  The pose didn’t do much for me, but I recognize it for what it is: worship.  His best shots were the models lounging around looking supernaturally gorgeous.  Every muscled honed to perfection and symmetry as perfect as a plumline.

Billy Herrington

The real zenith of Colt was being reached right at the time I was flaming out into la vie homosexual and many, many of Colt’s models matched the creatures who populated my fantasies.  Good heavens, how thrilled I would be to find a new Colt magazine at the dirty book store.  With no internet, Colt’s magazines were the best thing we had   Even now, 30 years later, Colt Studios, which French sold in the 90s, still use images from those long gone glory days to flog their merchandise.  Sometimes I look around in the Castro and think “Some of these little old men in their cardigans and knee braces, shuffling home to feed the cat were the godlings French aimed his lens at.”

Mike Timber

I’m illustrating this with my favorites, I know many of you have your own.  I encourage you to dig them out on Saturday and remember the man who made them possible.  And then rub one out.