My buds over on Chaturbate and I have spent the last few weeks enlivening our evenings watching Mikey whack his big whacker by complaining about our various and sundry allergies. It’s nice to have something to share with your friends.
I’m sure you all know the story: cough, cough, squish, squish, splut, splut. Every few days I think the allergy has given up, the worst is behind me, I have overcome pollen. But then I suddenly realize I have turned back into a walking puddle with every orifice dripping. Every orifice in my head, I mean
I never had any allergy problems until I crossed the dread 50-year-old threshold. Suddenly I was attacked by every pollen particle in the Bay Area. Each spring, I am waylaid by hay fever, or, has Eva Gabor in Green Acres put it, “I get allergic smelling hay.”
This snot season hasn’t been particularly bad, but it has dragged on a hell of a long time, appropriate for a year that has lasted several decades. I deal with it by popping antihistamines on the regular. I’m not ashamed that my youth was enhanced by any number of controlled substances; it’s just lowering now to have my drug of choice be Benadryl.
Men to take your limited breath away:
Commenting on the last post, Monsieur DeVice mentioned how fond he is of freckles.
Today’s butt is brought to you by the color red.
I’ve decided to stop worrying about PhotoShop and regard it simply as a fantasy enhancer.
See? Fantasy enhanced.
I think this might be au natural rather than PhotoShopped. Discuss among yourselves.
Look. I got new shoes. This is no small deal for me since I pretty much only own one pair of shoes at a time. My sainted mother had very peculiar ideas about money, mostly that you didn’t spend any. Ever. When it came to shoes, we were lucky we didn’t walk around with leaves tied to our feet instead. So she passed down to me the conviction that one pair at a time was just how you possessed shoes.
A few years ago, I decided to overcome this block and I bought two pairs of shoes, like some kind of crazy wild man. I put one pair in the closet, promptly forgot about them, and wore the other pair until they were ragged. So, new shoes, woohoo.
I’ve always sported the exact same uniform I switched to when I escaped diapers: t-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes, which I refer to as “tenny shoes.” People who call them “sneaks” are weaklings; I can’t decide whether to feel pity or contempt for them. I know some gay men revel in choosing their costume. I am not one of them. My ideal outfit is one I can put on without thinking about it.
My tenny shoe of choice has been Converse for decades. Not because I think they are fashionable (The idea that I have any style consciousness is pretty hilarious,) but because they are the exact same shape as my feet. On the rare occasion I buy new ones, I don’t have to break them in. I slip into them and boom, they immediately fit perfectly.
Thank you for coming to my TED talk.
O my golly gosh, NAKED MEN:
Whenever I see a group shot like this, I immediately play a version of Fuck, Marry, Kill, except mine is all just Fuck, but in which order? In this case, I’d start with second from the right and then just proceed in alphabetical order.
Just love them pretty blondes.
When I was a teenager, I used to have such crushes on boys like this.
If this isn’t one of your favorite POVs, what is wrong with you?
With the CDC dropping their requirement to wear masks outdoors and since I am now fully vaccinated, I decided I could take my mask offI walking up Market Street for a cup of joe. It was breezy and the sidewalk was very underpopulated, so it was to maintain more than a social distance, but I still felt like some subversive rebel, my fist raised high with a crumpled mask in it. Actually, it felt more like those dreams where you suddenly notice you’re naked. Oops. Mostly, my face was cold.
No one else out and about was naked faced, but no one particularly seemed to mind either. The lone notable exception was the lady who glanced at me and then pointedly scurried over to the very edge of the sidewalk to give me the most space possible. I may very well have been overly sensitive since it does seem difficult to scurry pointedly, but I was not in the mood for editorial remarks from other pedestrians. Yeah, go play in traffic, bitch.
Am I ambivalent? Oh, yeah, enthusiastically ambivalent, if that is possible. As some guy in the New York Times put it, “Nothing is changing, but it’s happening quickly.” Yet another piece of wisdom that should be destined for tee shirt immortality.
In other things that are not news, recently-ish, there was a bunch of youtube videos about people popping in and out from behind a blanket to confuse and concern their dogs. I guess the point being to prove they were smarter than the dogs. Congratulations. I decided to try it out on Saki. I held up the blanket he usually sits on my lap with and then played a quick round of peek-a-boo. Was he concerned I had somehow disappeared? Huh. Guess again. His whole attitude remained one of haughty disdain, as if he couldn’t decide whether to feel disgust or pity for me. I now realize that if I ever need to turn to him for an alibi, he will be worse than useless. “When was the last time you saw mrpeenee on the night of the murder?” the cops will demand. “Beats me. Which one is mrpeenee?”
Guys i’d like to play Clue with, in the library with the dildo:
I think this guy looks a lot like my dream version of Chris Meloni, who is pretty close to dreamlike to start with.
First up in our Bathing Beauty series tonight.
And then next to godliness, baby.
Finally, Mr. Wet Meat, tasting to see if he’s done.
Actually, beefiness may be next to godliness, now that I think about it. And I think about this a lot.
The lads at Chaturbate and I were chatting, cause that’s what we do, and our philosophical ramblings led to the agreement that gay pornstars are just homelier than they used to be. We had no opinions about lady pornstars, but smut actors of the sodomite flavor simply are doggier than they used to be back in the Glory Days.
Why would that be? Why, as access to feelthy pictures has gotten so much easier, would the guys in them have become so short on looks? I assume it’s all because of technology. Isn’t everything?
Pornography and prostitution have always toddled along hand in hand. The boys cranking out such deathless masterpieces as Daddy Ike is Collecting the Rent were typically turning tricks as their main employment. Their movies and photo shoots were basically advertisement for their rent boy efforts. The better known their booty was, the more they could charge for it.
As the internet blossomed, porn studios thrived. No longer dependent on dirty book stores or discrete brown envelopes, they were in high cotton. Then, about a decade ago, with the rise of cam sites and websites like OnlyFans, the actors realized they could cut out the middleman and get straight to the customer. Which they did. That means the studios are now starving for talent and are stuck with whatever they can scrape up at the rent boy bars’ last call. And so now we have a surging demand for vintage smut, movies where the actors actually have faces, cute faces, and don’t look like something out of The Walking Dead. If you want me I’ll be reviewing Colt Studios 1984 offerings.
Oh dear. I was having a moment with my digestive system earlier today. I had gone for my daily coffee-and-a-bun at Peet’s Cafe and when I got home, everything between my collarbone and my upper thighs decided to stage a revolt.
All the organs involved laughed at my feeble attempt with Alka-Seltzer to calm things down and seemed determined to immigrate. I took to my bed not exactly praying but simply moaning “oh baby instant Jesus” over and over again. Sometimes to break up the monotony, I would whimper something that sounded a lot like “Mommy.”Things would calm down all too briefly just long enough for me to form the misguided thought of “well thank God that’s….” only to interrupt myself with the more timely breaking news of “oops.”
I tried to distract myself by going grocery shopping online for delivery. Just more proof that pretty much every decision I have ever made has hinged on the logic of “What the hell?” Everything I considered buying made my guts sort of lurch, so I thought I would at least be restrained from the impulse buying that adds to my grocery bills so disastrously.
Eventually I fell asleep or passed out (is there really a difference?) and woke up just to wait for the delivery. I briefly and foolishly considered tacos for dinner, but a revival of my lurching squeamishness changed my mind. Cottage cheese, tea, and toast, that’s for me.
In less queasy news, the Chaturbate Sunday Night Movie Society took on Godzilla vs Kong and I’m not sure who won. The movie (it is not a “film”) is a loosely strung together series of plot holes randomly broken up by some 3D IMAX fight scenes/fodder in which it’s impossible to tell what’s supposed to be going on.
At one point I texted “I keep losing track of what the evil corporate scientist is doing,” but it turned out not to matter. About two thirds of the way through, after Kong and Godzilla have dedicated themselves to bashing each other’s brains out, suddenly a robot Godzilla pops up. Wut? Where did that come from? Again, it didn’t matter.
The only reason for the robot was to turn the whole thing into one of those mismatched cop/buddy movies, like 48 Hours, Lethal Weapon, or Rush Hour. Evil robot pops up and now the sworn enemies have each other’s back and, I don’t know, homoeroticism blooms or something.
Since I didn’t have to worry about following the plot, I could muse on how what are essentially B movies have turned into gigantic, gibberish blockbusters which cost dump trucks full of money. I’m not wholly opposed to them, I’m a huge fan of Godzillas and zombies, but I would prefer them to be good Godzillas and zombies. Recently the Society watched Mayhem which is a cheerful romp in bloody gore starring Stephen Yuen. It probably cost less than the coffee budget for one of the CGI teams of Godzilla versus Kong and I liked it better.
Even I, who can get sunburned from the light off my laptop, am longing for some beach time.
Saki has taken to wandering into my bedroom and yowling at me for no real reason. He just wants to raise hell.
Speaking of pussy
An old favorite here at mrpeenee Inc. A pretty face, red hair, and big muscles. Yes, please.
From our extensive collection of big lunks.
There is nothing like a fat cock to fill up your hand.
I really hope that Chinese tattoo translates as “For Rent.”
I am so adept at wasting time that I can’t even get up a post about my birthday on my actual birthday. Yes Monday, April 5th, was the day, not just for me but for Bette Davis, Spencer Tracy, and Gregory Peck. It’s a big day for big names. Also, apparently, for procrastination.
So how did I celebrate my anniversary? At half past midnight on the sacred day, I got out of bed to pee and managed to step on my glasses and break them. The very first thing of the very first day of my 66th year. I refuse to regard it as an omen. I had been thinking for a while I needed a new prescription for the glasses since the world has been steadily getting fuzzier and fuzzier. This just pushed me in the right direction.
Hot Foot, Drum Stick (aka The Children, I decided they needed jazzier names) and Super Agent Fred had come over the Saturday before and we went up to the rooftop garden for scones and champagne and lots of chit chat. It was more low-key than the swelligant event it sounds like, but it was lots of fun.
And now tomorrow I get my second shot. Quite a birthday present. I’m sort of surprised at how thrilled, excited, and pleased I am to get all the vaccination behind me. Shoot ’em up baby.
Anyway, you just get old and birthdays are no big deal. This one has had everything I wanted and then some. Thrills, chills, shots, and scones. What more could I want?
And now birthday suits:
Hey. Get off your phone and get on my dick.
It’s been sunny, but chilly here in San Francisco. I look forward to more basking temps such as Mr. Fat Dick here is enjoying.
I like your jock. Did your granny crochet it for you?
I was talking to Miss Lady Girl Thang and I told her, I said to her, I sez, “Honey, that choker doesn’t go with anything. Not just anything you’re wearing, but anything in the entire universe.” Honestly, she’s a mess.
So I was hanging out with Pepper Spray and I had to tell her, “Honey, you can either wear Burberry plaid or those hideous patterned stockings, but you can’t do both.” Bitch is a walking dumpster fire.
This is my ideal birthday present, if you’re still wondering.
Crisp white sheets and a big muscley ass, that’s what we like. Amirite?
Gaydar. I hate the word itself as well as the concept behind it. I think it reduces gay men to precious, magical creatures who use our magical powers to discover other precious, magical creatures to suck our dicks. Speaking as a dick sucker, I can attest we use the same indictors everyone else does to find potential sodomites: body posture, attention, eye contact (oh definitely,) and the always popular micro reactions. Did you know your pupils dilate when you look at someone you’re attracted to? We all see these things, but only notice them on a subconscious level because they’re so subtle.
For the history of the gay world (which is also the history of the world, coincidentally) queers have had to rely on these subtle hints exclusively until very recently, unlike straight boys who have always had the entire society rooting for them to go root. Not to mention a mother trying to set you up so you can finally pop out a couple of grandchildren. So yes, we have had to develop the ability to recognize each other without the benefit of all the signals having an opposite sex provides. But that does not mean we possess some mystical beam that tells us infallibly who is and isn’t a fellow traveller.
Gaydar pretty much only comes up when some woman demands that I use mine to see if some guy is bent in the homo manner. “Is he gay?” they whisper about some new co-worker, or celebrity, or (worst of all) some dude they’re sexually interested in. “I don’t know, why don’t you ask him,” I would reply irritatedly. “Gaydar doesn’t exist,” I would usually expand, even though I had already determined whether he was or not. I know, hypocrite. But there is a difference between being tolerated as a gay man and being accepted and refusing this whole “gaydar” bit seems to me like a part of being accepted, which is what I demand.
When I first started at SBA, I was introduced around our office of about 30 people. Over the following years I worked there, of the 6 or so men I initially pegged as queer, all but one eventually confirmed my initial diagnosis. And even that one turned out to be an old hippie who played acoustic guitar at our Chrsitmas parties, so I think my confusion was understandable. So, okay, I can pick ’em and I understand claiming gaydar doesn’t exist when I’ve always used something very much like it to get laid is a contradiction, but a) I contain multitudes and that is not nearly my biggest hypocrisy and b) shut up.
In conclusion, yes, we probably can guess successfully who is and isn’t but that doesn’t mean we want to be your homo geiger counter.
A subset of all this is gay movie stars. I think we all can figure out the poofters on the silver screen (hello Kevin Spacey and Sean Hayes, who did you think you were fooling?) but some, especially historical ones, continue to linger in the questionable end of the spectrum. Here we have the beautiful Guy Madison. He was married twice, had four kids, girlfriends, all of which point, of course, towards straight boy. But…. But, he was a client of Henry WIlson, the Hollywood talent agent who groomed gormless but hunky young men into stars. His client list included Rock Hudson, Tab Hunter, Nick Adams, and many other really pretty, mildly talented guys who were frequently queers and pretty much always pieces of ass for Henry. So maybe, Guy was bisexual, maybe he just understood how to get ahead in show biz. But in many images of him, the love that dare not speak its name seems pretty damn loud, much like the one below. To me this picture speaks volumes and what it says is “I will suck your dick until sperm shoots out my ears.”
Other guys on my radar:
It’s been really warm lately in San Francisco, turning our thoughts towards the beach.
I don’t understand gay men who announce, arrogantly, that they don’t like “pretty men.” It’s just their loss.
Even better are pretty cowboys.
He seems confused. Maybe he needs my help, my personal attention.
Sometimes, I realize I am just pandering to my Chaturbate readers.
But everybody likes a big, fat, Hispanic dick.
Perhaps you were wondering what the word “gormless” means. Here we present Exhibit A.
Yes, finally, I’ve been vaccinated against Covid 19, with the Pfizer vaccine, to be precise, because that’s what all the best people are getting. And also, that way I can pronounce it Fizzer. Honestly though, as I told the CB gang, it’s been such a long wait that if they had announced the only vaccines they had left were the Costco brand, I would still have rolled up my sleeve.
And I have waited patiently, albeit in a cranky sort of way. I registered with 5 vaccination sites only to find out most of them just linked back to the California main one, but only after requiring you to fill in a bunch of blanks. I signed up and settled back to wait my turn, secure in the sweetly naive belief that they would contact me when the time came because isn’t that what an efficient system would do? Because what is the point of registering otherwise? Of course, as we all now know, “efficient” is not really the word that comes to mind with this system. Or “system” since “random ass fucketry” would be a more accurate description. When Amazon is out of the underwear I want, they put my order on hold and then, when the panties are available, they send me an email, a follow up email, and maybe a couple of more follow ups, and then some suggestions of socks that I might find amusing. Why a vaccine that might save my life is not treated as exhaustively baffles and, in no small part, enrages me.
Once I had given up waiting for the vaccine delivery gods, I started randomly checking in on the sites, stalking them for some available appointment, with the same lack of success. But then, Thursday morning my dear friend Hotfoot texted me to say she had just gotten one and urged me to go snag one too. I did and I give all thanks to her. Coincidentally, Diane von Austinburg, Super Agent Fred, Hotfoot and Brain from over at CB all got our shots over the same 4 day span. It’s a wave of health.
After I had battered my way through the registration process, things went amazingly smoothly. The vaccination site was the Moscone Convention Center downtown, a joint big enough to swallow Disneyland. They had the system laid out to move everyone right along and it was only after I had been there for a while that I realized they must have been handling a couple of hundred people, but you couldn’t tell because the lines were broken up into discreet areas and the social distancing also added to the uncrowded feeling. I feel like social distance may be a trend I could support keeping. The only drawback was the wretched music, bad wedding reception EDM. Even with the 15 minute waiting period, mostly marked by morons trying to negotiate their way out of it, I was there less than 40 minutes.
Of course, once I had gotten my shot, the only excitement remaining was to see what side effects might rear their ugly heads. The Chaturbate Sunday Night Movie Club chimed in one night as Mikey was pulling his big ol pud to voice the reactions they had had. Brain had been achy, Piano’s arm hurt, Bob called the rest of us pussies, I was the only one who had absolutely no side effect. Yay. My second dose is next Saturday and the second ones apparently tend to come with worse reactions, so we’ll see, but I feel very optimistic.
And optimistic is not the only emotion these vaccines have revved up. I was surprised how excited I was by the prospect of finally getting vaccinated and how relieved I was and what a good mood having the whole thing behind put me in. I’m still wearing my mask and avoiding crowds, but it’s with a sense of turning a corner. Again, yay.
Guys I wouldn’t mind injecting
I love the contrast between this tough lunk’s face and his panties.
I also love hoodies. Since San Francisco is always slightly chilly, something keeping my neck warm is mightily appreciated.
Pavel Petel, the courageous Russian muscle pussy model, who died in a car crash last April. RIP.
I worry about boys whose hair weighs more than they do.
Look, I know it’s Photoshop. Sometimes I just don’t care.
Cowboy for Amber.
Lick it sweetie. Lick it for daddy.
Sometimes I find a picture and think “Oh, the CB gang is gonna love this.”
My leisurely lifestyle allows for frequent and deep emersion in the wonders of YouTube. Stop motion animation featuring foul mouthed Barbie dolls in the breathtaking Most Popular Girls in School; various shelter websites rescuing various woebegone animals from horrific situations; renovating hoarders’ houses, they all have their charms, but my absolute favorite is some odd guy in Massachusetts who clears clogged culverts as a past time. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCsCNU-ptlze2tqAJSDeVGNQ (editor’s note: some part of the fabulous changes WordPress launched recently removed the ability to link out to another site any less clumsily than this. Sorry)
Post 10 (I don’t think his name is ever revealed) drives around chasing clumps of leaves and sticks and garbage that block drains and cause floods, frequently of streets, but also out in the astonishingly beautiful country of rural New England. Never has drainage maintenance provided such gorgeous travelogues. His style is low key to the point of flat, never reproaching the cars that dive by splashing him while he goes about improving their streets for free. He is earnest and calm, enthusing only over a whirlpool he creates by raking away a pile of gunk. His patience with the removal is admirable; I know I would simply dive in and start flailing away. But Post 10 is methodical and serene about picking apart some collection of junk. He is the Buddha of the ditch.
He has some training in hydrology and explains the causes and possible outcomes of the blockages. I now know the difference between a culvert and a bridge thanks to the heroic work of Post 10. And he is out in all kinds of nasty weather, thunderstorms, tornado warnings and all the ice and snow and other cold horrors a Massachusetts winter can serve up. I sometimes have to turn the cold videos off, I get too anxious at the sight of him gaily wading about in ice covered streams. Eeks.
I think anyone who was ever a 5 year old boy will identify with the pleasure he gets from mucking about in his boots (I’m sure I am not the only fan who was relieved when he finally got proper waders instead of his rain boots which inevitable filled with cold water.) Watching him clear an obstruction and then film the pond it had created draining away is deeply gratifying. When he kicks a pile of soggy leaves out of the way, you just want to be there giving them what for with him.
His other videos include trains ( I said his affect was inevitable calm, but he does enthuse over a locomotive rumbling by,) abandoned homes, his aquariums, and his collection of lawn mowers and trimmers. When I compared him to a 5 year old boy, I meant it. I am only disappointed there are no videos about LEGOs, cause I would watch them. For once I’m not being snarky. A huge part of the appeal here is the unaffected, genuine pleasure he finds in these simple arenas. He seems like a nice guy, one who is out there cleaning out culverts simply to make the world a better place. 5 stars, 2 thumbs up, a must-see blockbuster.
Other giants who walk among us:
Cause the last sk8r dude was so popular.
Cowboys for Amber
I choose to believe this guy is studying a culvert blockage.
Dave Marshall, a gay rassler from Australia.
A beard for the boys over at Chaturbate. Hey guys.
Cats define the slogan “Fuck around and find out.”
Could probably clear out a big ol clog with that thing.
My sweet, sweet niece Amber sent me a King cake. Sweet. King cakes are an integral part of the weeks long season that precedes Mardi Gras called Carnival. They’re baked with a tiny plastic baby hidden in them. Whoever gets the baby has to host the next party and provide a new King cake the next week and so it goes for each week of Carnival.
These parties are generally held by your friends, or your class, or your office, or your bowling team, or your secret league of super heroes dedicated to protecting the universe from your nemesis. People who grew up there say they would go to school with firm instructions from their mothers not to get the goddam baby. Since, when I lived there, the cakes were notorious for being unpalatable (they were essentially stale white bread with colored sugar icing. It took a lot of beer to choke them down, probably another reason mothers of elementary school kids didn’t want them getting the baby.) Why New Orleans, a city famous for good eating, tolerated such unappetizing fare for so long is a mystery. Shortly after we left for San Francisco, somebody finally woke to the idea you could actually make them taste good by baking a coffee cake complete with plastic baby. I’m still annoyed they waited until I was gone for this revelation.
Since the original ones were so uninspiring tasting, people got sick of them about 3 or 4 weeks into the season; everyone there has stories about parties were no one admitted to getting the baby. The urban myth that holdouts would simply swallow it are universal. Personally, I think some underpaid baker somewhere would simply not put one in every few cakes just to fuck with people, Happy Mardi Gras.
I see on the box that Amber’s came in, the baker now claims whoever gets the baby has a year of good luck ahead. I was very impressed that Amber had found the best baker of King cakes in New Orleans, Gambino’s. When we lived there, before they stumbled on King cakes you could actually eat, Gambinos was famous for their Doberge cake, another local tradition. A multi-layer confection with custard and rich chocolate icing, they are the birthday cakes of choice for New Orleanians. Amber said she sent the cake off a while ago, but it got snagged up in some delivery hell brought on by the freezing weather and a fire at FedEx’s Memphis center. She was concerned the cake would be too old, but one thing I learned for sure was that King cakes are nigh on indestructible. Certainly, this one is delicious and tender.
Since my whole family approaches food with unbridled enthusiasm, Amber sent me two cakes, which is enough for a party of about 40 fatties. I shared one with my neighbors. I thought about explaining the whole baby Jesus in the cake thing, but then I remembered that’s what Google is for.