Category Archives: boybutt

Daze Gone By

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Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.

 

tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.

 

A Day of Beauty

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What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.
Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked “Are you all right?” He replied indiginanatly “Of course I am.” Of course he was, and all was right with the world.
Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n’est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he’s distracted with gossip, so yay.
Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I’ve ever seen. But really, I’m not there for a date, so what do I care?


She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.
There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw’s jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.
Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.
At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don’t you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He’s also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I’m simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

Lively Up Your Commute

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I took the subway up to the Castro after work this evening to meet R Man. Naturlement, it was jam-packed, but I nimbly snagged my favorite place to stand if I can’t get a seat and then, as a reward from the goddess for all my sweetness and wonderfulness, this terribly cute young man in a lovely black suit with charcoal pinstripes wedged in next to me. Even our positions were ideal, I was able to ogle him without being vulgarly obvious. Not that that has ever slowed me down particularly, but it’s nice to avoid it, if one can.

But the very most best part? As we pulled into the Castro station he bent over to pick up his briefcase/backpack/manpurse/clutch/whatever and bumped his ass very firmly into my hand. Not on purpose, get real. And I WAS NOT GROPING HIM. Had I been doing so, I certainly would have done a better job of it than the brief, but thrilling contact I managed. I got off the car humming, it takes so little to make me happy in these, my declining years.

Unfortunately, he was not Ross Hurston, pictured above, although he was dressed even nicer. I’ve seen Hurston on the street here a couple of times. One of the sweetest things about San Francisco are the feral porn stars we get to observe. I was surprised to find out he has an Australian accent, but then I was surprised to find out porn had dialogue, so I guess that makes sense.

Guys

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One of the glories of living in San Francisco is the abundance of cute, cute guys wandering around here. Especially when the “here” is the Financial District where they’re cute, well-dressed, and very serious. At lunch yesterday, I sat next to two prime examples of humpy suits. I couldn’t help but hear the conversation (I was not eavesdropping, I was listening. The tables are that close to each other, I couldn’t help it. Shut up) and I could never tell if they were new office buddies getting to know each other or if they had hooked up online and this was their blind date. Lunch at Rico’s seems like an odd choice for the latter, but they do have good enchiladas, so maybe.

It’s striking how similar the two conversations would be. Where’d you grow up, go to school, what movies do you like, that kind of thing. If only they had just gone ahead and gotten around to “so are you a bottom or versatile?” it would have cleared up everything. But then, the one in the blue stripe shirt was so obviously a catcher, I suppose the point was moot.

The Sordid Side of Sordidness

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These are the Carlson twins (the naked ones. I don’t know who the gropey girls are.) They seem so determined to assure every one of God’s creatures that they are not queer, nosiree, that they get on my nerves even as I admire their flawless buttocks.

If Fabulon is the fabulous planet, then these boys are from some bizarro opposite planet of homophobes making a buck off of peddling their joint pussies to the gays they’re so rigorous about denying. It is the planet Fabuless.