Category Archives: sex

In Which Irony Annoys Us


San Francisco recently ran headlong into a coincidence which registered mightily on mrpeenee. For one, Blow Buddies, our most beloved sex club, closed after 32 years of splooge splashing, a great deal of which was mine. And for another, in the same week, San Francisco lifted the local ordinance that banned bath houses here.

A little background via the way back machine. Bath houses are sex clubs where gay men go strictly to have homo sex. Bars required meeting people and small talk and negotiating and learning people’s names and blahblablah. Baths were straight up walk into someone’s room and start fucking, which is why I found them so darned irresistible. R man said that when he lived here in the 70s, there were dozens of them, some of them specialized, like for fisting or guys with fetishes for truckers.

The tubs (as they are also known) were emblematic of the casual, easy, anonymous recreational fucking that defined a large segment of the gay world, but because of that, they were vilified by homos who wanted to be more accepted by straight society. “We’re not all sluts,” they would bleat, tears welling in their prissy little eyes. “I am,” I replied, as my friends and I lined up for another round of eager sodomites.

Ah, but then AIDS blew into town and suddenly there was a hunt on for somebody to blame, so of course, the sluts took the hit. A local gay reporter named Randy Shilts published a very influential book in the mid 80s called The Band Played On. Shilts was one of the assimilationists who blamed sluts for queer’s bad reputation and made closing down the baths here his mission. And he was successful. In 1985, San Francisco passed the law that forbid sex clubs to have private rooms with doors that closed, which pretty much define bath houses.

So that meant gay men stopped having sex and the AIDS crisis ended. Uh, actually, no. Instead, because gay men still demanded anonymous, no-fuss sex Blow Buddies opened in 1988, a sex club without private rooms and which forbid anal sex, the primary sexual way AIDS is transmitted. And lo, the sluts were joyful and sang hosannahs.

I’ve sung the praises of Blow Buddies before:

speaking of sex clubs, my all time favorite is here in San Francisco, called Blow Buddies.  It manages to bring together the two strengths of the gay community: sex and design.  Plus the music is good, so that’s actually three strengths.  But as to design, let us turn our attention the Milking Room, as our friends call it.  A largish room with a platform about waist high built around the edge.  The platform is equipped with a partition on the outer edge, pretty much chest high, with a hole in it, just the right height for someone, someone like me, to stick their dick through.  The genius is apparent when you realize this means someone else, again, me sometimes, standing on the floor of the room has their mouth at just the right level to suck on the cock thus presented, thereby avoiding the sad discomfort of kneeling all night for glory hole sex.  Genius.

R man and I were so fond of the old joint we wound up as regulars, going every Sunday evening as dependably as old Southern ladies going to church. Praise Lawd. And now it’s dead, done in by Covid and Grindr. I gave up all that sex foolishness a decade ago, but I still will miss knowing it was there providing a safe haven for all my cock sucking brethren. Farewell and thanks.

Did I mention our old chum Mikey is going to the beach?

In Turkey, where I imagine men look sort of like this.

I really like the wallpaper here.

Bath houses were noted for their plumbing.

And for comfortable places to lounge.

On Demand


I was visiting with my friend Mikey over on Chaturbate this evening and the subject of this blog came up.  Mikey has been very sweet about encouraging his followers (of which he has FORTY THOUSAND.  He’s deservedly popular) to drop by over here.  He was also very impressed when I shared one time with him the number of men I estimated I’d had sex with (11,815.  Sort of.  The story of how I came up with that is available here ) and so this evening, apres the splooge fest, he insisted I write a post here about my most memorable sex.

The problem with being a slut in the big league numbers that I am is that “memorable sex” is sort of hard to come by.  Along about the 3,000th sodomy, things sort of blur together.  Still, Mikey instructed me to write a story and I would hate to disappoint him.  So instead of the single most memorable nasty act, here is a sort of omnibus of mrpeenee’s hijinks.

A note to our readers of a more delicate sensibility: the following will, obviously, be lurid.

I met a young man on the street in New Orleans and invited him to repair to my maisonette.  As I was slurping away on his nice long piece, he had the bright idea of shoving my head as far down on it as he could.  What he failed to account for was that I had only recently completed lunch and thus rewarded his energetic push by puking coffee all over his lap.  One of those occasions when no amount of apology will suffice.

One night at the tubs in Los Angeles (which I always found appealingly and appropriately ratty) I was lounging in the doorway of my room, just waiting for some company.  A very, VERY well built boy kept circling by slowing down to ogle, but never committing to crossing the threshold.  Finally, about the sixth loop by, the guy in the room across the hall stepped into his path and told him “Just go in there and get this over with.”  Which the built boy then did.  I remember the fucking, but what I more fondly recall was that queen’s intercession.  God love her.  The kindness of strangers and all that.

That also brings to mind conversations I’ve had with my dear chum Kevin.  He and I are members of the Brotherhood of the Very Large Whacker and we have discussed before how amazing it is that men who will not spare us a second glance when we’re at a bar or someplace else with our clothes on, will lunge at us, feet already in the air, at the baths or a sex club or someplace where they can see our dicks.  It just proves the old advertising truism “You gotta show the goods.”


naked men happen.

Speaking of sex clubs, my all time favorite is here in San Francisco, called Blow Buddies.  It manages to bring together the two strengths of the gay community: sex and design.  Plus the music is good, so that’s actually three strengths.  But as to design, let us turn our attention the Milking Room, as our friends call it.  A largish room with a platform about waist high built around the edge.  The platform is equipped with a partition on the outer edge, pretty much chest high, with a hole in it, just the right height for someone, someone like me, to stick their dick through.  The genius is apparent when you realize this means someone else, again, me sometimes, standing on the floor of the room has their mouth at just the right level to suck on the cock thus presented, thereby avoiding the sad discomfort of kneeling all night for glory hole sex.  Genius.

I used to have a guy I was very fond of at Blow Buddies who would park himself at one of the holes and stay there for hours.  He was slim with beautiful wavy dark hair and very proper looking.  One would never clock him as a dick pig unless one saw him going at it in the Milking Room.  I liked to come up behind him, pinching his nipples and feeling his throat where I could feel the various dicks making their way down his gullet.

Oh, dear god, how could I have overlooked this?  My Most Memorable Sex?  One night I was at a dark and dumpy bar in New Orleans that had excellent loud music and an unlit back room where the sluts of the French Quarter would gather to exchange blow jobs.  That’s precisely why I was there, leaning up against a pool table, taking on whoever felt like going down on me.  A hand grabbed my dick and I ran my hand through the hair on his chest.  (what a fool I always have been for a beautifully hairy chest) and then up to his lush beard.   “Would you like to leave here?” he asked.  I would.  And that’s how I met RMan, the love of my life.





Those of you who remember my fondness for Nasty Mormon Boys will no doubt be unsurprised by my recent text to Secret Agent Fred which read “OMYGOD, do you know what you get when you google “naked Russian Orthodox calendar”?”

I wanted to return the favor to Fred since just this afternoon he absolved me from feeling guilty about eating an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.  Apparently they’re practically health food.

Anyway, to save you some Googling (although I know that’s where you’re all headed right after this and before hell) here are some previews:




And this:


A little of this:


Not to mention this:


And especially this:


The one on the left looks especially Slavic.  Maybe it’s the white lace.

Do I believe these are representatives of the Russian Orthodox clergy?  Mmmmmmmm, no.  Nor do I believe that blonde tranny did not give me the crabs in New Orleans in 1987.  Do I care either way?  No.  Also, this just in, Goldfish crackers are not a health food.

Season’s Beatings


A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn’t it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don’t know when I’m being serious, so when I announced “I think masturbation is life affirming,” our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn’t joking.  Spanking one’s monkey is pleasure for pleasure’s sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you’re not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here’s to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Tick Tock Trick


So tonight we move on from “previous friends” to “previous tricks.”  Or “men with whom I previously had some brief and probably furtive sexual liaison.”   Maybe I’ll just stick with “trick.”

Lured into the Castro by this afternoon’s lovely, lovely weather (warm in the sun, cool in the shade, 60’s-ish, lalalalala) I ran across not one, but two guys who used to be on my intime list back in the day and, honey, they was looking ROUGH.  I might refer to them as the Walking Wounded, but the first was only sort of shambling along and the second was just slumped on the sidewalk.  He might have been talking on his Blue Tooth, but since he wasn’t wearing one, it seems more likely he was just having a quiet chat with his demons.

I don’t think either recognized me; the first since he was distracted by dealing with the open door at Walgreens and the second because he was distracted by being crazy.   Besides, there are lots of men in this fine, fine country of ours who would only recognize me from the top of my thighs to the bottom of my hips.

And before any of you let loose with some supposed humor about what this says about my taste in mens, let me emphasize these connections were light years ago, when these poor guys were both more functional and solidly cuter.  But then again, so was I.

Let me, then, salute all the cute guys who are out there right now.  Here’s to ya baby.  And even though I have retired from the lists, I encourage the rest of you to celebrate their beauty by squeezing on it as often and as much as you can.  Because tempus fugit, baby.  Tempus fucking fugit.

This Just In: Not Much


So, let me get this straight: the entire Secret Service in Colombia “scandal” is that several men paid several women to get their rocks off, their ashes hauled, their bones picked, in short, to have sex, for money. That’s it?

Prostitution is not called the oldest business just to be cute. Hookers have been with us always, men stationed in strange territories have always made use of their services and nothing in the coverage I have read has pointed towards anything disgusting or even particularly racy. Then again, the stories have universally seemed to be rather purse lipped about the details and about why this rises to the level of scandal. How is a blowjob in a hotel room a security risk to a President who wasn’t even in town yet?
Are we Americans really so naive that the simple act of hooking up with a whore is a disgrace? Really? That’s all it takes? The utterly corrupt and charming Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards told a reporters once “The only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with either a dead girl or a live boy.” What happened to that level of understanding what’s truly scandalous? No wonder the media is so dull. I’m going back to amateur porn.

Silicone Based Love

Commenting on the post below, Ask the Cool Cookie urged me to shave and get out of the house and go do something, apparently in that order. I am always obedient to commands from cookies, so I did just that. Super Agent Fred and I were on the move at the crack of dawn, or possibly just after noon today. It looked like dawn to me. We went off to lunch (tasty,) browsed a fancy art supply store to look at $17 sheets of paper, and agreed to go see a Philip Glass opera on Sunday cause we’re all fancy and stuff.

We also dropped back by my house for me to unload some random stuff on him like R Man’s sketch pad and paper, a charming little dope pipe, and some clothes of Fred’s that had been floating around here for a while. I also tried to talk him in to taking some old sex toys of R Man’s, but he wasn’t having it. Still, it’s only your best friends on whom you can try to urge second hand naughty paraphernalia. By the way, if you’re looking for a pair of cuffs lined in the finest of sheepskin fleece, let me know.
Speaking of equipment one doesn’t run into at Macy’s, I bought a new plaything with the horrendously accurate name of Fleshlight Jackass. I refuse to post a picture of it. There are limits which even I will not cross. If you’re so fascinated, you can go look here. Is everybody back now? Good.
The poor little thing is supposed to be an artificial butthole. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, until they finally come up with the sex slave android I’ve been waiting for. And can I just say, it’s the 21st century, still no Judy Jetson apartment buildings on elevated stilts, still no Howard Johnson’s on the moon and still no Genuine Mario Lopez Model Sexbot™. What’s with that?
For those of you considering the Fleshlight Jackass, let me just say “Lame.” Wait for the sex androids and save your money, that’s my advice. I’d say the closest approximation to the experience would be a handjob from some guy who’s just had a stroke. Not that I would know. I’m just guessing.

Let me know when this rolls off the assembly line, m’kay?

Never Say Die

Perhaps, those of you with a bent in that direction, of a certain age and with a fondness for feelthy pictures will remember the monoymous Bruno from Colt Studios, back more than thirty years ago in the Gay Dark Ages. Of course you do, he had the most beautiful chest hair ever visited on man by the gods. Here, maybe this will refresh your memory:
Somehow, during my recent research on economic platforms for marketing small businesses, I ran across a more recent snap of the old darling. What? It’s the internet, it happens. And you know, he’s still looking mighty, mighty fine.

The old roue.
Turn to mrpeenee for all your updates on the porn. Speaking of which, I would like to publicly thank the good folks over at because they are the best source for smut research going.

Strap It On


Are you a Lady who cannot trust her man out the door with his baby maker? Are you just some guy who is afraid he is getting too much of the love action? Perhaps you are a freak, or a Mormon (much the same thing, actually, but that’s neither here nor there) and you need to have your Johnson locked away safe and tight.

The answer is the men’s chastity belt. Oh, yes, bitches. You can have that troublesome peenee under lock and key and never have to worry about, you know, erectile stuff again. Because you simply cannot trust a rogue dick.

The animated display for the CB 6000 is particularly cool.

Order today, but DO NOT send me pictures.