New Old Shoes

Thinkin’ Creamy P.

One of my many charming quirks is that I don’t like to own a lot of clothes. My wardrobe is minimal, to say the least; I’m sure there are homeless people with more outfits. Certainly, snappier ones. I dress every day in the exact same selection: tennis shoes, jeans, tee shirt and hoodie. Since this is chilly old San Francisco, sweaters make an occasional appearance. It is pretty much the same groundbreaking appearance I made in first grade and I assume I will cling to it until I move permanently into an urn.

I have one pair of Converse All Star tennis shoe (as a Southern boy, I do not call them “sneakers.” And I pronounce the word “tennis” as “tennie.”) and one pair of rain shoes, just in case California ever gets around to having another rainy season. The rain shoes are slip-on, shapeless clog affairs, from Lands End. I’ve been wearing them for twenty years and I’m only on my second pair.

Or rather I was on my second pair. Part of my refusal to die young is the resulting indignities of a body slowly falling apart around me. Pertinent to our story today is the neuroma I have developed in my right foot. A neuroma, for those of you who have not thrilled to one (not YET,) is what happens when a nerve in the ball of your foot gets stuck in the sheath that surrounds it. The nerve is constantly irritated, as are the sufferers of neuroma. It’s very difficult to describe any physical sensation, the closest I can come with this one is that it feels like an itch inside your foot instead of on the skin.

The treatment is to wear orthotics, which is a fancy word for shoe insoles. Orthopedists customize them to fit your foot, charge a bazillion dollars to Medicare and everybody has a cookie. The relief mine provided was immediate and amazing. I am convinced. The only problem is shoes come with insoles already. If you’re lucky, you pull the old ones out and shove in the orthotics. The problem arises when the insole is sewn into the shoe, as was the case with my old rain shoes. There is no way to get them out so I had to go shopping (ugh) for shoe replacements.

It’s not that I’m particularly picky about shoe fashions (see above) it’s that finding ANYTHING for feet as big as mine is a challenge. Once one crosses the size 11 boundary, one enters a black hole of box cars, barges and gunboats. Shoe manufactuers might as well erect a sign “Take what you can get and be grateful, freak foot.” So I Googled “men’s shoe size 13 orthotics.” I might as well have skipped all that and just searched for “ugly shoes. Big.” I think it was the “orthotics” bit that pushed us over into Creaky Old Man territory. I finally gave up and picked a pair more or less at random just so I could go back to bed and hoped they were less hideous in person. Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

I’m not going to belabor the point, you can see for yourself. Even with the sad attempt at racy details, they are still the fashion sensation of the season at Shady Pines Retirement Center. They certainly are supportive. As I told Diane von Austinburg, I could faint in them and they would probably hold me upright.

Even with my low threshold for shoe stylin’, I was not feeling these boys. So I went back to trolling for something that made me feel slightly less geriatric. A swipe through Lands End informed me the old pair I liked are called “mocs” for some unknowable reason. With that magic term added to the search, I stumbled on a pair very like my old ones, but with removable insoles. Love them. I can only hope they last me until I shuffle off this mortal coil. Probably wearing them.

Soft shoes and hard guys:

What lovely, satin-y skin

An old favorite of ours, here at the mrpeenee Big Wienie Institute and Snack Bar.

He’s thinking deep thoughts.

You know, rain shoes would work in the shower, too.


The Many Rugs of mrpeenee


Many years ago, R man and I were in New York with some friends and we decided to visit ABC Carpets. The main store, known among us as the Mother Church, was way, way downtown but worth the trip. ABC was the most beautifully stocked home decor store in the world. It always looked like where your most stylish friends got all the finds that left you simmering with envy. Furniture and art and accessories and (not surprisingly) rugs, all displayed like aspirational dioramas, Aladdin’s cave for decorating.

All my rugs at their annual spa day at the rug washer.

And for some gay men (like me, fer instance) who regard decorating as a sport, spending the afternoon prowling through the store (it was huge, an old brick warehouse converted into chic habitat heaven) was the equivalent of straight guys going to a go kart track, a thrilling way to spend the day.

That afternoon was my introduction to Chinese Art Deco rugs, a big ol’ stack of them that dazzled me, cause they’re, you know, dazzling. Typical rugs made in China are the same old kinds everybody thinks of when they hear “Oriental rugs.” An overall pattern, usually geometric, in a limited palate of cranberry reds, dark blues and beige. Blah blah blah.

These Art Deco rugs are just the opposite; they incorporate large open fields empty of any design, pictorial elements rather than simply geometrics, and vivid, wild colors, like turquoise and fuscia and chartreuse. It was the crazy hues that caught my eye at ABC that day. They reminded me of the brilliant Technicolor in 1950s movies.

The pictures they incorporated ranged from the normal like lotus and cherry blossoms, stylized rocks, clouds, and vases, to oddities like parrots, tea pots, fountains, gramaphones, all kinds of things. I had one rug that had a pier going out into a lake to end at a small pavillion. Instead of being symmetrical, their designs were balanced: a large complex scene in one corner with the corner next to it empty, using negative space like abstract painters would later.

I fell in love, but like so many love stories this one was hampered by money, or rather by my lack of money and also by the fact we lived in a one bedroom apartment with a real lack of rug space. Eventually we managed to buy a gorgeous blue and white silk rug patterned on Delft tiles. A big local department store was going out of business and they marked this rug down 10 percent lower each week. We’d go visit it every Saturday like a friend in county lock up. It got down to 80 PERCENT OFF and we finally sprang for it. One of my greatest bargains ever.

When we bought our house, we suddenly had plenty of acreage that cried out for rugs and over the years I collected lots of them. One I found in a used furniture store and it was so dirty, I had my rug washer pick it up directly from the store so I wouldn’t have to deal with all the filth. I had thought it was various shades of brown (mostly dirt brown) so imagine my surprise when it turned out to be maroon and gold.

Speaking of my rug cleaner, who is insane but amusing, he GAVE me a room size one he had hanging around the shop that I love. I had to explain to him the background is ochre and then I had to explain what “ochre” is.

Being back in an apartment means when I accrue one rug, another has to go. So the ochre rug meant I had to ship off the fabulous green and lavender one I was so fond of to my niece Amber. She has a big house, with plenty of places for various orphaned rugs a fond uncle needing to find a place for them might fill up.

Guy’s I’d like to have on the carpet:

Hit the beach baby

The guy’s pretty ok, but what I really like is the t-shirt.

I’ve seen this guy in a number of different pictures where his dick always looks this impressive, which makes me think this may actually NOT be photoshopped for once. Wow.

We actually DO make passes….

… at guys who wear glasses.

Speaking of Photoshop, I’m including this (besides the cuteness of him) because not only does his dick look like it’s been run through the photoshop mill, but even the towel does, too. The towel? The towel?

I’ll Like Who I Like


I have once again been called out about my preference for big, flawlessly muscled men. A commenter from a long ago post (a side note: why do readers bother commenting on posts I put up years ago? They show up in a section of my blog dashboard I never go to. I read and reply to comments in the most recent post by going to the bottom of the post. Any more than that is just asking too much of a frail, old blogger. Anyway) this commenter he says to me he says “Do you really like these ridiculous muscle guys? What’s wrong with regular men? ” “regular men” being code frumpy and tubby, the missing elves.

A) they are not ridiculous B) of course I prefer them, that’s why I feature them so darn much and C) shut up. This is not the first time someone has challenged me about my preference for men who look like they could put greek gods in the shade. I don’t understand their attitude; do they think i’m going to say “Yes, yes, it’s true. At last I can admit my secret shame that I am hot for homely guys, that Marty Feldman makes me lose control.”

Nuh uh. Back in the days when I was busy serving up mrpeenee Sex to the masses, I could walk into a bathhouse, drop my pants, and have a line of “regular guys” (NO SHOVING.) Not bragging, just the facts ma’am. So why would I long for those schmoes in my fantasies? I want what I can’t have, isn’t that the point of fantasy? “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” and all that.

These malcontents think they can shame me out of salivating over the massive and the beautiful? Fat chance. If society’s concentrated efforts at shaming me and all my homo brethren out of following our perverted path failed, how do these commenters think they can control the finer points of my personal freak?

My personal freak, some of the faves, anyway:

Mark Wolff, before his really unfortunate surgery.

Max Veneziano. So big, so smooth.

Mike Betts. I know these not only spell out my tastes in naked men, but also represent a pretty specific era of smut, namely, the late 1980s.

Doug Perry. What can I say? I think it was a golden era.

Jake Tanner. Why the pendulum of popular porn tastes has swung away from these demigods in favor of what looks like whatever is left in the local hustler bar after last call is beyond me.

Billy Herrington, who had a surprise career resurrection more than a decade after his days as a smut beauty when he suddenly became massively popular in Japan.

Konstantin Kamynin, actual proof that I do occasionally surface into the current century. Maybe against my will, but still….

In Which We Celebrate

Not no more

San Francisco is a cheery little cowtown. The somber mood inflicted by the pandemic and the lockdown is not natural to us. So this morning when I awoke to the racquet of my windows being washed and then heard cheering in the street and car horns merrily blaring, I thought, “Man, people are really hard up for things to feel good about if power washing is that popular.”

Fortunately, the exquisitely sensible Diane von Austinburg came through just then with a text letting me know Biden had won (finally) and that the Wicked Witch was dead.

The streets here in the Castro are thronged with people ready to party and I went out briefly to see how feeling good feels, cause god knows it’s been a while. And apparently I am not the only one who thinks that way.

Castro and 18th Streets today. Traffic? What traffic?


And not to mention, my newly cleaned windows deserve their own hoorah. In my post from a month ago, I mentioned “…the dirt collected on my windows has gone from being thick to being sort of furry….” Honestly, I didn’t mention it so much as simply whined about it. So to have windows you can, you know, see out of and enjoy the view I pay so fucking much for, lightens my bitter little heart.

Men worth whoopin’ it up:

I think this guy is Adam Ayash, from All AmericanGuys, below. Am I right or am I right?

Very reminiscent of the late, much lamented Al Parker


Part of our ongoing appreciative series “Attractive Young Men with Expensive Watches Who Look Like Trouble.”

And at the other end of the cute boy spectrum: Lugbutt.

In Which We Visit a Happier Time


Snackin’ al fresco.

During the long, sad period I was nursing R Man through his dying days, I remember passionately missing the life we had had so recently enjoyed. I didn’t want anything really remarkable, just the sweet mundane that was as gone as if it had never happened.

I was reminded of that sense of longing for the small pleasures in a much less earth shattering way this afternoon. In the years before Covid, I had developed a happy little routine of going to Peet’s cafe every day to knock back some of their excellent, excellent coffee, eat a pastry (maybe two) and hang around playing games on my phone. It was about exciting as an episode of the Petticoat Junction, but I loved it. Then, last March, the lockdown squashed that cheery exercise in modest sized pleasure.

Sometime recently-ish (don’t demand precision here, I have no more concept of time now than Saki does) San Francisco okayed restaurants serving outdoors. All the eateries in town jumped on board by slinging their tables out onto the sidewalks and then hijacking the parking spaces out front by building semi-permanent decks on them which they called “parklets.” Isn’t that adorable?

I was less than enthusiastic about them since they meant pedestrians had to fight our way through what was essentially a dining room crowded with people yakking it up with no masks. My high minded reserve disappeared, though, this afternoon when I saw Peet’s had built one for their long-deprived customers. Customers like me.

It didn’t take me any time to snag a latte and a muffin and settle into the parklet, the genius of which I could now appreciate. Yes, I’m a hypocrite, but I’m a happy hypocrite. The little place could only seat 7, but I had the place to myself. Except for a couple of home less guys squatting on the sidewalk on the other side of the wall. Of course. One of them yakked the entire time without his companion uttering a single syllable. He was probably battered into silence by the deluge from the talker who had a lot of theories and was determined to share all of them.

Even by San Francisco standards, the weather was lovely and breezy and I got to enjoy the smoke free air without a mask. I had underestimated what a delight that would be, even if I had to sit in the fucking bike lane to do so.

It wasn’t the same, of course, but it was sweet, sweet, sweet. For just a moment, I was back in a time before the pandemic and it has made going forward a little easier.

Guys who also help, in their own way:

When you look like this, all the world is your catwalk.

Look, combining three of my favorite freaks: cops, cars, and cute, big dick muscle boys. It’s a trifecta!

I’m sure they’re very fashionable, but what the hell are those things on his arms? Elbow warmers? Who needs elbow warmers?

Cornrow braids on a white boy. One has to ask, “Why?”

“Hey! Wake up! Somebody has photoshopped your dick into a miniature golf hazard.”

In Which We Update the Last Post


Commenting in the post about baby talk and Saki, longtime reader Inscrutable Device mentioned they call his sister’s cat “shitty foot” because it frequently tread in its own crap. He also tried to get me to set him up with one of the photo models which are arranged so attractively at the end of the post, but ain’t nobody got time for that.

Anyway, mere moments ago, I was settling in to sleep and Saki, the prince of Bad-istan, jumped up to join me. I was petting him and ran my hand down his back and along his tail when I ran across a big ole smear of cat turd.

So instead of snoozing off, I got to spend the last 30 minutes washing my hand (trying to do it with only the soiled hand so I didn’t involve the innocent one) and then washing his tail (and wasn’t that a highpoint of the morning) and then washing my hands again.

Saki is now pointedly and vigorously grooming his tail, as if catshit is okay, but soap and water is beyond the acceptable. I don’t care, he doesn’t fool me. This just proves what I’ve long suspected, my cat reads my blog.

Guys who need to be held down and washed, firmly:

I’m thinking about putting a dog collar on Saki, just to piss him off.


Pavel Novotny, a long, long time porn favorite here at mrpeenee, Inc.

I am reminded that, at one time, people would refer to a single dirty movie as “a porno” which I always thought sounded odd.

I just love sex in the back seat.

In Which We Speak in Tongues


I’m pretty sure no one takes up cat tending in order to fulfill their secret passion to speak baby talk, but that’s just how the hairball rolls. One minute, you’re firmly in control, demanding “How did this cat turd get on the rug?” (to which the cat replies “You tell me, Nancy Drew.”) and the next thing you know you’re saying things like “Oosa oozums? Oosa goo boy?”

Because Saki, like most cats, has an insolent bad streak thicker than he is, I spend a lot of our conversations explaining that he should stop annoying me immediately. How effective are they? Well, it’s been 13 years and we’re still having these heart-to-hearts on the regular.

Many of our little talks include the word dick (like when he wakes me up to complain that because it’s foggy he can’t lie in the sun.) The phrase “Stop being a dick” got so old from repetition, that I wound up customizing it, which is how you wind up with baby talk, oddly enough.

Some of my favorite variants include:

  • Dicktator
  • Dicktastic
  • Dickification
  • Dicknaster
  • Dicklyness
  • Dick Head Doo-doo Bomb

Sometimes, I would adopt my best gravitas inflection and tell him “As your lawyer, I must urge you to stop being a dick.” He never pays any attention to that either. I’m pretty sure he knows I’m not really a lawyer.

But it’s not all recrimination and impersonating an officer of the court. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by his darn cuteness and I coo “Who’s the babiest baby in Babietown?” Sometimes I combine ranting and baby talk by speaking in my most clinging, coy tone and say something dreadful. I look down at his evil green eyes and murmur adoringly “I’m going to find a big stick and beat you. Oh, yes I am. I am. And I’m gonna feed you to the coyotes just as soon as I finish.”

Again, how effective is any of this? I just looked down at my arms to count the wounds and scars and realized there’s a new one. Fucking elder abuse, I tell you.

Guys who deserve their own share of baby talk:

Are his forearms and hands covered in cat scratches? I don’t think so.

Don’t be such a drama queen

Our weekly Daddy-for-Mikey.

The width of his shoulders, minus the narrowness of his waist, divided by the curve of his rump equals… I don’t know. I can’t count that high.

What a sweet, sweet boy.

Please file under: “Lug, big.”

In Which We Vote


I got my vote by mail ballot on Thursday and I fully expected myself to procrastinate because screwing around is my default setting. I had visions of screaming down to the post office at midnight, November 3 to cram my ballot into the mailbox only to find out they were all mysteriously “out of order.”

Imagine then how very pleased I was to wrap it up last night. Boom kazoom. I had run across a number of tensely worded articles about people having problems with their ballot and mailing it in and I was concerned. Would I be able to pass this test? Pffft. Nothing to it. The ballot is exactly the same format we always use and the envelope to mail it back just requires you to sign and date it. I’ve had a harder time filling in the membership for sex clubs. Our old friend the crazy monkey on crack could probably handle it.

The races were the usual tussle over spending more money for stuff. That’s my digest of them anyway. It’s San Francisco, we almost always pass any request for more money. Our city and county budgeting process is basically “Sure, what the hell.” I was heartened to see in the state Senate race one of the candidates was named Starchild. I find San Francisco’s oddball ways endearing and have been saddened to see them slowly fading over the years I’ve lived here. So running across some old hippie, probably Radical Faerie gunning for state office lightened my mood.

Saki, of course, insisted on participating. The ballot was 3 long, double sided pages and I was plowing through them when he wandered over to see what I was so interested in that wasn’t him. He immediately cast his vote by sticking his paw on some lady named Alida in the Board of Education race. I explained it was important to make informed decisions even on races I didn’t give a fuck about, but he stuck by his girl Alida. Eventually I voted for her, mostly cause I didn’t know anything of the other candidates and was unwilling to investigate because I wanted to get to bed.

Guys who get my vote

What is it like ot go through life looking this bee-yooo-tiful?

Part 86 of our ongoing series “Is that Your Tanline or a Birthmark?”

I don’t know what got his applause, but I’m for it too.

I sort of think I have featured this guy recently, but who’s complaining?

The always charming Buck Hayes of Colt Studios, aka Rex Morgan

Our usual present for our friend Mikey from Chaturbate. He likes ’em thuggific.