Category Archives: porn

Out with Friends

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Secret Agent Fred and I went out for drinks and, eventually, pizza with longtime mrpeenee commenter Salty Miss Jill the other night.  She had blown in from the big city and I was delighted to meet her: she is both salty and sweet and I like meeting the people who bestir themselves to comment here.  It makes their sassy insolence seem more heartfelt.  Plus did I mention she was charming?  We wound up in the bar for a couple of hours talking blogger talk.  SMJ has allowed her blog to fall fallow and I was encouraging her to hit the keyboard once again.  I think there are just never enough amusing bloggers out there.  How else am I supposed to waste my time?

Also, she revealed that she had a waitressing past with teeny-tiny pornster Samuel Colt, which I think alone requires extensive blog coverage.

Cats and Muscle Porn; It’s a Gay Life

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When Secret Agent Fred dumped his fatuous boyfriend a few years ago, he asked if he could stash his terribly sweet, ancient cat, Asizzi, with me since Fred was renting his apartment out on Air BnB and somehow the listing of “affectionate cat” under the amenities was not working.  It was fine with me, I like Asizzi (I should mention, veterinarian offices are universally unable to handle his name and kept calling Fred up to the counter as “A Sissy.”  Oddly accurate, but sort of confusing, so the cat’s name has morphed into Steve.)

So Steve has been a resident here for all this time and Saki still has not warmed to it.  To keep them separate, Steve stays in R Man’s old room, which sounds cramped, but since it’s about the size of Fred’s studio apartment, he doesn’t seem to mind it, but occasionally will make a break for it.  Fred has been holed up in his own apartment slinging his excellent calligraphy for the tons of wedding invitations that are his bread and butter this time of year.  Exasperated at Steve getting out yet again (he is fast for an old codger) I decided to see how the two cats would get along.

Turns out much better than before.  They’re sort of tense, stiff legged around each other, but a real minimum of hissing and no actual fights.  The amazing part is that Steve, America’s Sweetheart, tends  to be the instigator of any rumpus.  He will occasionally let loose this prolonged low growl and tentatively poke his paw towards Saki who hunkers down looking baffled like “What is with you old man?”  Of course, Steve is so senile it’s possible he thinks he’s imitating a can opener.  There’s no telling.

Also, having Fred out of the house means not just cat acclimation, but Porn Festival!  Not that having the old dear around really cramps my style much since we have separate bedrooms, but still, having the house all to myself is so poignantly reminiscent of being 14 and trying to rub one out before mom gets home from the store.  Whee!

Scrutiny of several new sites as well as some old faves has resulted in a conundrum.  A performer dear to my heart and my right hand has popped up on two sites and I can’t decide which version I prefer.  So let’s vote, shall we?

First, Gianluigi from Men at Play

 So very distinguished and distinctive, don’t you think?

And then a sleeker version from MuscleHunks

Typically I would always go for the fur bearing beast thang, but I have to say, the MuscleHunk scene wherein dear little Gian his spanking his personal monkey and his giant shaved and waxed man tits are rocking gently back and forth is pretty darn mesmerizing.

And those lips.

I think I have to go do some more research.

What’s in a Name?

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You know, of course, all the finest porn sites have search functions to allow one to peruse the vast universe of filth more effectively.  Occasionally, I amuse myself (while abusing myself, as Ms Midler would have it) by typing in the most ridiculous titles that come to mind to see, not if, but rather how many of them are actual films.  Those of you familiar with the genre will not be surprised at the incredibly high return of hits I get, no matter how blatantly stupid the name might be.  And let me just add that when I say “Those of you familiar with the genre…” I know I am speaking to all of you guys, so don’t try to hide.

It’s a game you can play once you’re bored with watching how far some brute can stick his forearm up someplace it was never meant to be, so let’s go shall we?

Surprisingly, one of my faves, In the Drivers Seat, still is waiting for someone (you maybe) to make it.  On the other hand, I was amazed to find another one, Under the Big Top, was not only produced, but done so quite well by the genius director Kristen Bjorn

and stars the creamy dreamboat, Max Veniziano.

Production notes inform us that this epic is based on the opera Pagliacci, which I, for one, did not expect, but, you know, whatever.

 Also another title I’m quite fond of, Grease Pit, is still unrealized, although a search for that term turns up some real doozies, including, but not limited to Grease Guns (1 and 2)

and the close-but-no-cigar Grease Pit Daddys.  That may be an improvement, I’m not sure.

Plus Low Hanging Fruit is also inexplicably available and, again, searching for that reveals some candidates that have been cranked out that I am not even going sully my blog with by repeating.

Pretty much any common phrase is a likely candidate.  In fact Common Phrase could be a great choice, the story of a randy English teacher and his naughty pupils, although I suppose it requires one to know that “common” not only means vulgar, but once upon a time was used to refer to one who was sexually knowing.  Ooh, ooh, and Sexually Knowing would be another and a shout out to the Who’s Quadraphenia to boot. And what would lend itself to this better than To Boot?  Why do I have to do all the thinking around here?

The great thing about smut titles is that not only do they provide the name of the film, but the plot as well, and, frequently, most of the dialogue.  You come up with Daddy’s Home and, boom, you’re pretty much done with writing.  Or “writing.”  And also, again, searching for that gem leads you down a rabbit hole of ouveres you probably don’t want to know about, although Daddy Ike Is Collecting the Rent sounds like it might be amusing.

Sorry, I gotta go, I have tons more research to do.

Blood and Porn

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All I wanted to do was transplant a largish Pieris from one pot to a larger one, but the pot the stupid thing in was not giving it up.  I struggled and struggled, but the plant was stuck.  It’s possible I got frustrated, I do that.  It’s also possible I took a hammer and busted the pot to get the plant out.  A shame, since the pot was a lovely blue and white ceramic one and I regret losing it, but not as much as I regret cutting a big chunk out of my left thumb cuticle on a shard of it.

Because the skin on your cuticle is so thin, wounds there tend to bleed freely, as this one did.  The whole house looks like a serial killer’s place after a long weekend.  Plus, I was scheduled for a manicure this afternoon and the girl I wound up with certainly looked at my bandaged thumb askance.  Since I secretly refer to her as the Butcher of Castro Street for the odd gusto she brings to dealing with hangnails, I wasn’t really worried, but still, I was plenty to glad to pull into the bar where I was supposed to meet up with Secret Agent Fred.  It had been a long day, filled with White People Problems.

Fred was ensconced chatting with some nice looking older guy who eventually revealed (with no prodding) that he had been a model for Colt Studios back in the day.  I have an researcher’s knowledge of porn so I was plenty interested.  He said had never worked under any nom de smut, which immediately told me he was pretty far down on the totem pole; everyone who matters gets a fake name, even if it’s as dumb as “Bill Bailey.”  Speaking of poles, he was quick to mention the issue he was in was the classic Men Who are Hung.  I wasn’t impressed,  nice people don’t brag.

He wandered off, despite my assurances that Fred is easy, and I came home determined to find that issue and see if was really in it.  Since I have amassed a collection of more than 1,400 titles that might seem daunting, but I looked it up on the Colt site so I was just flipping through looking for the cover.

Amazingly, it is one of the few mags I don’t own.  What are the chances?  So tomorrow I’m off to the used porn store to check.

A Quiet Evening

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Secret Agent Fred appeared and we went out for drinks and vicodin at the Glass Coffin, drinks served by Fred’s friend, the luscious Speros.

Tragically, this does not begin to show the beauty of Speros.  If you add the circumference of his biceps, they would probably exceed his tiny little waist.  Bitch.

I had just picked up the Vikeys so they were fresh, the weather was warm and cute boys were swarming all over the Castro.  A good time was had by all.

We wandered home and sat down for a game I like to call “What Does the Internet Have to Say?”  Each of us takes turns showing the other what fresh hell the web has proffered us lately.  Fred had me watch several videos by a hip hop duo from South Africa called Die Antwoord who rap in some gibberish mix of English and Afrikaans and, for all I know, Morse code.  It is not entertainment geared towards those of us amused by Noel Coward.  Nevertheless, I still thought it was pretty funny, mostly because of these incredibly white South African kids flashing gang signs and attitude and fashion that would have been perfectly at home in Compton, circa 1990.

Fred taking a short, unauthorized nap on the floor of the mrpeeneee International Command Centre and Communications Department. 

For my part, I introduced Fred to the genius of Slow Ass Jolene, the Dolly Parton classic slowed down considerably, which comes out sounding astonishingly like ballad singin’ dude, perfectly in pitch, even the harmonies.  It is amazing.  Even if, or especially if, you don’t like Dolly, you should listen to it.

Also, I can’t remember where this came to my attention.  If one of you guys posted it first, I want to say thanks and apologize for not sharing credit.

After that, naturally, the evening devolved into a porn fest.  Fred shared A Bearded Boy , some slightly deranged gay lad who is nasty and cheerful as all hell about it.

Spooge happens.

Subsequent unguided and possibly unhinged wanderings from one site to another turned up what we both voted as the winner of the evening:

I have no information about him, I can only imagine this shot shows him locking the door against the clamoring throngs outside.  Who can blame them?

Porn Friends Gone By

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I wanted to knock this post out before I forgot about it, my teensy tiny attention being what it is and how I have to use it to focus on quantum physics and yarn and what I’m going to have for lunch.

Anyway, I’ve been very struck by a picture blog I stumbled on recently called brutoseros which is an absolute archive of gay porn people so very thorough it might be verging on OCD.  Instead of a few token examples of each performer, whoever is putting this together posts a comprehensive survey of their work.  You want to see what Chris Rockway looked like before and after his unfortunate haircut? This is the resource for you.

One has to applaud such dedication.

Also,  a few days ago, the post featured the only pornster I actually know, this devastatingly humpy Swiss guy who worked under the nom de smut of Alain Gerard, which is pretty close to his real name.

When R man and I moved out here, he reunited with his old friend Richard, a slightly disgraced and semi-defrocked priest.  Alain (who hadn’t gotten into showbiz at that point) was Richard’s friend and so would show up at parties to distract those of us given to drooling over muscular blondes.   Pretty much everybody there, in other words.

A couple of amusing dinners were enlivened by Alain and some straight (straight-ish) guy and what they seemed to think was their discreet flirting.  R Man and I were amused, anyway, the guy’s wife didn’t seem to find it too funny, but then she spent most of the evenings drunk and crying in the bathroom.

Alain was determinedly oblivious to the effect he had on me and my pants, possibly because he was accustomed to tongue-lolling adoration and possibly because he was distracted by trying to snag R Man.

That happened a lot; living with R Man, I had long since become accustomed to cute guys pushing me aside so they could try to climb up on the R Man Ride.  Let’s compare and contrast, shall we?

R Man
the author

Let me point out, before this turns into an absolute pity party, I got plenty, plenty of mens and the ones sniffing around for me were not looking for R Man so being drastically different from each other worked for us.  I don’t know how these gay couples that are essentially each other’s clones divvy up who gets what.  Not my problem.

Eventually Alain drifted off to L.A. and the world of feelthy peectures.  And now that I think of it, Richard left the church and wound up in Seattle where he started his own porn company, called something like ooodaddy.com where he worked in front of the camera as well, so I guess I know two pornsters.

Yay peenee.

Porn Drinks

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Two things: thing 1) everyone commenting on my post earlier about my friend The Fashion Sensation’s determination to screw up her life agreed that people sliding headfirst down the Whoops Path are going to go on regardless of advice and the best thing one can do is to be supportive and prepared to help pick up  the pieces.  Got it.  Mainly because I was already pretty much convinced of that.  As I told the Sensation this afternoon “I’ll support you in whatever bad decision you make.”  What more can a girl ask for?

Thing 2) the consensus was unanimous for Santiago, so here he is again, looking all insouciant and stuff.

After lunch we wound up at the porn bar.  That’s not its name, but since I don’t know what that is, let’s stick with “the porn bar.”  The outstanding local porn company Kink.com  (their mission statement:  “We demystify and celebrate alternative sexualities by providing the most authentic kinky experiences.”  Well, duh.) which purchased and sort of renovated the enormous San Francisco Armoury as their studio headquarters and shooting site, also bought a shabby little bar across the street and has turned it into the sweetest and most stylish watering hole I’ve been to.  (Ed. note: subsequent research reveals its name is The Armoury Club.)If you plan on hanging out with a friend intent on messing up her life, I can’t recommend highly enough.

Dark, pretty, alabaster bar, and tasty, tasty drinks.

I like Kink’s work a lot.  Their sites include Butt Machine Boys, Divine Bitches, TS Pussy Hunters, Public Disgrace, and many others.  My fave is Bound Gods which gave us the classic Creepy Janitor series.  When the company bought the Armoury, which had been sitting mouldering away for decades, there was the expected outcry from the small minded sector of the public who took exception to movies about firm bodied young men being whipped while duct taped to a toilet.  Well, get you, that’s what I say.  Welcome to the sixties, mama.

Another day at work, right?

Define "Gay"

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Everybody knows I like the porn, right?  I have an archivist knowledge of the subject as well as an aficionado’s fondness of it.  So when the topic of Resse Rideout, porn person, and his being straight while professionally having sex with other men came up (on some really unfortunate VH1 show,) I was less than impressed.  Plenty of guys doing the nasty in gay porn and other rent-type boys insist they are straight.  Maybe they really are just interested in easy money, maybe they gots issues.  Either way, I don’t particularly care.

What struck me more in this instance was the substantial gap in appearance between the mister and his missus:

Reese, the kind of muscley smoothness and pretty face I’m so darn fond of.

Mme. Rideout, who looks like she would be someone you could turn to if you were interested in finding out the current price of crystal meth.

Also, as a side note, there was a period when Reese Rideout’s face looked sort of odd.  I thought he had had cheap work done, but now seeing his charming wife, I wonder if, instead, it was recreational chemicals.

Cause he’s not gay.  Heavens no.

Brunch and More. Or Less.

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How mortifying that my drink of choice is a Cascade Ice Pink Grapefruit flavored sparkling water with an Alka Seltzer thrown in, cause I am a Wild Man.  Just a regular panic, I tell ya.  It’s sparkling!  It’s grapefruit-y!  It makes me burp!  Sort of like a now,  happenin’ Fresca.

How did Max Veneziano get in here?

Speaking of surveys, I have decided to create The Brunch Project since going out to brunch seems to be the highpoint of my week (which also raises the question “Is it really ‘brunch’ if it lasts eight hours and includes three bars and two restaurants?’  To which I can only reply “Fuck yeah.”)

The Brunch Project will report back about these bacchanals with details on where we went, what we ate, which drinks were the tastiest, who was the cutest queers spotted and any police action involved.  But impertinent monkeys that you are, I am sure mrpeenee readers will want more, so here’s the deal.  You send me the questions you want us to include on the Project Report and I’ll be sure to use them in the survey which brunch participants will be asked to complete.

Do-It-Yourself Smut

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Before we get to details about the lovely trips to New Orleans and Austin, about which I’m sure you’re all waiting breathlessly, mrpeenee has reports of technology triumphs. Specifically, the schmancy new printer I bought and installed this afternoon.

Close readers of this blog will know I like porn. Yes, it’s true, muscley mens sporting their bits are one of my all-time faves. Since I am also a dinosaur, rather than computer images, I prefer hard copy at hand (you get it? “Hard copy” “At hand?” Oh, never mind.)

Now that the internet is pretty much the only source for filthy pictures, and what a boon it is, I needed a printer to transfer them to paper. My stupid little HP Ink Splatterer was not cutting the mustard so Secret Agent Fred and I whirled off to one of the big box stores that everyone rails against so shrilly and scored a sweet little Epsom bad boy.
And speaking of big box stores, is there some quaint little mom-and-pop tech provider I could have gone to instead? Don’t think so and I live a fairly big town. Anyway.
Then, installation, which I actually like. Meticulously unwrapping the components appeals to my most OCD mental defects and being able to follow directions written for the mentally challenged whose first language is not English and who, in fact, may not even have a first language makes me feel a small step below Stephen Hawking.
And then, et voila, our first effort rolled out effortlessly and perfectly, crisp with brilliant colors. It was a shot shared by Fred we like to call “Daddy Panties.”


So now I got to go, cause I have a backlog to mow through, for research archival purposes only, I assure you.