The Goose is Getting Fat

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So apparently I am now blogging on demand.  I had assumed when I threw off the oppressive shackles of employment, I would be passed this sordid sort of thing, but no.

Because that was without considering our perennial favorite Chaturbate.  You know of Chaturbate, right?  All sorts of people (and I do mean ALL sorts of people) get on there and broacast themselves doing ALL sorts of things.

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just working on a little yoga.

Mikey is one of our favorite.  I don’t understand how someone embellished with humpy muscles can be so sweet and unaffected, but he is.

I was on there this evening watching him flog the hog.  Eventually we started talking amongst ourselves about our respective cats, because that’s just something homosexualists do.  I’m aware of the whimsicality of watching a beautiful naked youth getting all freaky and meanwhile the fans are talking about kitties, and what’s the weather like, and “What time is it there,” a conversation that comes up in almost every session I’ve ever attended.

Mikey asked me if I had gotten his email with the pictures in them because Mikey is fully involved in the nattering conversations wandering along in the comments sections even if he is naked and spreading his butt cheeks at the time.

Indeed, I had received Mikey’s message and thanked him for it and the photos.  Although they’re not the sort of thing that would probably turn up in the Hallmark card section, they do have a certain charm.

That was when Mikey was struck by the brilliance of me writing about getting a christmas card from him.  It might be a little flimsy, but I’ve milked blog post topics out of less.  What the hell?  Plus, I’m fairly sure my readers will not object to a little Mikey objectification.

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From all of us at mrpeenee Gobal World Headquarters, to all of you, whoever the fuck you are,  Happy Capitalist Consumerism Fetish fourth quarter earnings projections.

Weep a Little Weep with Me

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I know it may hard to grasp this from reading these posts, but I am by nature, a blythe spirit.  I may hide it behind a scrim of brittle bitterness, but deep inside am of Pollyanna, butterflies and lollipops and adorable kittens.  And muscular naked men right around the next corner.

 

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I was surprised these last few days, then, that I was suddenly in the grips of a real depression.  I’m old.  I have more dead friends than live ones.  My eyebrows are falling out.  Even here in California, it’s winter.  Trump.  And R Man is still dead.

Of course, I miss R Man every hour of every day, but it is a pain I’ve become resigned to.  This, however was a sadness more pronounced than usual.  So cold and dark.

After a fitful sleep I felt much better and I now realize it was the new pain medicine I’d been prescribed and had auditioned for three days.  Once the trial was over and I  went back to vicodin until I could get a regular prescription of the new one, whammo the black dog of depression was waiting for me.

The drug (Nucynta: it’s hip, it’s fresh, it’s fun, it’s funky.  It’s today) came with a set of warnings of drug interactions and “don’t drive bulldozers while taking this” and all the usual crap, but in much greater detail (it went on for two pages) and with way too many BOLD FACE CAPS.  The one side effect they mentioned that really caught my eye was hallucinations.  All right!  All hopped up on some strange drug and trippin like a million screaming monkeys.  Didn’t happen.

Instead, I got the depression, which is decidedly second place in my book.

Still, the pain reliever part worked fine and this contains neither ibuprofen nor acetaminophen  both of which are in Vicodin and both of which were quietly chewing my liver to pieces.

So now it’s off vicodin and on to Nucynta.  I miss the vicodin like an old friend.  Vicodin carries with it a charming little cloud of euphoria and even after all these years knocking it back, I still felt some of that.  Nevertheless, the Nucynta keeps my back from hurting, I’m no longer depressed and I’m back to keeping an eye out for feral pron stars.

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It’s a wonderful life.

Turkey. Of Course

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Over the last several years I have come to be the host of Thanksgiving dinners for a regular group of my friends whom I think of as “The Children.”  As in “The Children are coming to dinner.”  Mostly because they are all young enough to actually be my offspring, were I wacky enough to spring off, but also because, as in the case of providing the traditional Thanksgiving, I have somehow morphed into a mother figure. To be more accurate, a grandmother figure.

Four of the Children are out of town this holiday and I was remarking to Super Agent Fred (the only one who would be around) how I was looking forward to taking drugs and sleeping all day instead of cooking.  Fred looked absolutely stricken and protested that he was looking forward to turkey.  And gravy.  And mashed potatoes.  And dressing.

Of course I relented and thus wound up slinging a menu that exactly reproduced what my grannies would have knocked out 80 years ago.  And it was delicious, thank you very much, so I guess I’m glad I did, but the dinner did leave behind a refrigerator full of left overs because it turns out scaling down a celebratory dinner for 10 to one for 2 does not work.  I just don’t know how to make my granny’s cornbread dressing  in a size smaller than what could be described as a vat.  We will be dining on that fucking turkey all week.  Turkey salad, Turkey Tetrazini, turkey sammiches.  OK by me.

Also in other domestic news, the garden always looks sort of shaggy around this time of year.  Most thing suddenly green from the rain finally starting, but also quietly revving up for the burst of flowers spring will have.  The most appealing contradictions are the Australian Tea Trees, brilliant rose and pink and crimson right now.  The two in the picture are about 20 years old and have taken that long to really get established and turn out such show off blooming.  I see them from my bathroom window every time I go pee.  That is not what the average garden planning book would consider, but I’m glad I planted them where I did.

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The view from the toilet.

Pancakes and Rain and Smacking Fred in the Head

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I know I’m always yammering about how balmy (and fucking expensive) life in San Francisco is, but even here, winter visits occasionally.  Like today, gray, drizzling, the kind of dank cold that settles into your every nook as soon as you set foot out the door.  Of course, when I feel the urge to whine about our winter, I remember Mistress Infomaniac trapped up in the tundra of Canadia, battling caribou just to get a goddam coffee, eking a living as a professional seal blubber gatherer, and I have to count my blessings.

Like going out for delicious pancakes and sausage for breakfast in a cozy cafe with humpy waiters.  Since I tend to go to sleep at dawn, breakfast is a rare treat for me, but today I couldn’t get to sleep so I battled my way through the clammy chill and wound up with my favorite, lemon pancakes with marion berry sauce.  Because it’s San Francisco and we’re all fancy and stuff.  originally, the waiter appeared with French toast and when I demurred, he corrected his mistake by reaching over to the table behind me to pick up my pancakes from them and give them their French toast.  Which leads one to wonder, why hadn’t they said something when a large plate of pancakes appeared before them?  Do they not know what French toast looks like?  Were they simply blinded by the waiter’s massive chest muscles? The waiter (and his big round titties) assured me they had not spit on the pancakes, so I tucked in.

Anyway, tasty.

I came home, made a pot of stew, puttered around, never could get to sleep until about 9:00 this evening, almost exactly one hour before a thoroughly drunken Super Agent Fred decided to rock out downstairs with the worst music ever recorded.  Dylan.  The Association.  Gary Puckett and the Union Gap.   God knows why, his tastes are eclectic to the point of random.  I went downstairs, threatened to hit him in the head with gong mallet (it’s padded, OK?) and then did because he turned the volumeback up.  Sometmes beating your child is the only answer.

Speaking of abusive realtionships, have you seen Good Behaviour?  It’s fabulous.  It stars Michele Dockery, late of Downton Abbey’s Lady Mary, as a white trash crackhead grifter who hooks up with the astonishingly hot Juan Diego Botto who is by turn both sexy and menacing.  The banter is very tight and amusing, but not brittle and Dockery is great.  Thumbs up.  Go watch it.

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Botta.  Mmmmmm.  Botta

Always, Always, Listen to Cher

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via GIPHY

Allright bitches. It’s been a week. Unless you are planning a coup (and if you are, I ask, please don’t) it’s time to move on. We’ve all been through the stages of grief now: anger, denial, bargaining. whatever the other one is, and now it’s time for acceptance.

Unless of course, you are Secret Agent Fred, in which case the stages are Valium, cheap beer, Vicodin, cheap beer, and cheap beer. Also, Fred has used his art as therapy to “work through his issues.” Personally, I don’t think Fred could get through all his issues with a GPS and a machete, but, you go, girl.

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President Trump.  Snap out of it.  But also, here, just to make us all feel a little better on this cold gray day

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In Which We Explore Not Much

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Having just bragged about my culinary expertise, I am here to report that for dinner tonight, I am having a bowl Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal.  You know why?  Because I am a motherfucking adult and I want to.

Did my previous post about the glorious San Francisco weather seem a tad sketchy, even by the admittedly low standards we maintain here at mrpeenee World Headquarters? Mmmmmmmmmaybe.   I had spent quite  a while hammering out what could only be described as a diatribe about an argument I had been involved in with a some Neanderthal. It was cathartic, explaining how brilliantly I defended my position and how stupid his hair was, but once I finished it and read it over, I realized it was dreadful.  Mostly “And then he said….  And then I said….  And then he said….”  I know you guys get on my nerves but even so, you deserve better than that.

And so I deleted it and dashed off the little bulletin about how nice nice weather is.  Also, this just in, lollipops.   I suppose I could have included something on kittens, but living with the terror that is Saki leaves me sort of tepid to that whole idea.

Super Agent Fred continues to steam along with his art.  My favorite current series, Nekkid Guys in Gold Leaf, is particularly fine.  He’s planning on participating in Open Studios, so if you find yourself in the Bay Area November 4 or 5, come on by to see the master himself and buy some fucking art.  He’s listed in the catalogue both as Tim Gately and Super Agent Fred.

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Nekkid Guys in Gold Leaf

Lastly, we’re planning a Yahtzee tournament Friday evening with a group of friends collectively know as the children, solely because they are all young enough to be my offspring were I given to spawning and not because of their IQs.  I swear.

Weather Gurls

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One consistency about San Francisco is the absolute lack of rain during our dry season, April through October.  So the big storm this weekend was a thrilling Big Event.  Over the dry season, dust and grime settles in a beige layer all over everything and when the first rains wash all of that off, we’re universally delighted to see the crisp clean colors.  Especially since the sunshine out here is unusually brilliant.  Sun so bright the shadows look like they’re cut with an xacto blade.

Super Agent Fred and I spent this dazzling afternoon in the most aimless way possible, coffee and manicures; absolutely the best way to celebrate such spectacular weather.

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Open the curtains and revel in the sunshine.

 

Misadventures in the Kitchen

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I am an accomplished cook.  Not bragging, merely stating a truth.  I make excellent osso buco, chicken and sausage gumbo, banana pudding, potatoes daupehnois; I cover the motehrfucking waterfront.

I learned, early on in my so-called adulthood, that if one wants to eat well, one needs to cook well.  And so, I taught myself.  After R Man died, though, I stopped cooking.  I drifted into surviving on cold cereal and cookies and sandwiches from the deli and, every lazy man’s fall back, pizza.

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Last week, though, I suddenly stepped back into the kitchen and starting slinging hash,  It wasn’t something I deliberated over.  One afternoon, I just decided I wanted to make a chicken pot pie and you know what?  It was delicious.  I have since cooked almost every night.  A lot of the things are simple, but simple doesn’t always mean easy.  Red beans (one of my absolute favorite things to eat) are simple, but it seems to be easy to make bad ones, god knows I have choked down my share of them.  Mine, on the other hand, could compete against any old New Orleans grannie’s and I would hold my own.

Also, that favorite of Ladies’ Clubs everywhere, chicken salad.  I have to make two versions because Super Agent Fred, who’s staying here a lot these days while painting, hates all forms of pickles and mustards, a bias I view as bizarre.  So I make a poached chicken/celery/mayo base, split it in two, put his away and then finish mine with relish and capers and tarragon mustard.  It would make strong men weep.

 

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I’ve also taken to baking, never a strong suit of mine.  I think cooking, which you can usually tinker with as you go along and correct is an art and baking, where you combine elements, add heat and hope for the best is science.  Still, in the last few days I’ve put out a carrot cake (from R Man’s dear, sweet little aunt’s recipe, in her own dainty, old lady handwriting) that was nothing short of dynamite and a sherry cake, luscious and full of a very potent kick of sherry, it was teatime with someone’s Victorian auntie.

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And then, of course, a fall.  Nothing will flatten your hubris like a cooking disaster, except, possibly a sexual disaster.  But we’re talking cooking here.

I just wanted a spice cake.  They’re easy, I just take a boxed mix and add nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper (and instant pudding, another Ladies’ Club trick that results in a lovely moist and rich cake.)  I thought I would finish it with a brown sugar frosting and that’s where it all went so terribly, terribly wrong.

Most brown sugar recipes call for boiling the sugar in butter to melt the crystals, but boiling sugar makes me nervous.  Any splash or dribble on your skin burns like a particularly torturous hell, plus the liquified sugar is glue that sticks to your skin while you’re cursing and squealing and trying to get it off.

I found, instead, a brown sugar buttercream frosting.  I love buttercreams, their taste, their texture and their foolproof easiness.  In fact, I have the recipe for the basic one memorized.  No great feat since it’s “1, 2, 3.”  One stick of butter, 2 cups of powdered sugar and 3 tablespoons of milk.  Cream the butter and sugar and then add the milk a little at a time until you get the right consistency.

As usual, this mnemonic is actually just a rule of thumb.  You need about a half teaspoon of vanilla as well, but that doesn’t go with in with the 1, 2, 3 thingy.  You can adjust the amount of sugar however you want and I don’t think I’ve ever actually measured the milk; you just dribble it in SLOWLY.  The change in the consistency is so quick and so drastic it will make you believe in alchemy.

So I came to this new recipe pretested,so to speak.  The problem was I was also making a quiche at the same time and was paying most of my attention to it.  That’s my excuse anyway.  In reality there is no reason why I would read a direction calling for FOUR cups of powdered sugar and not have some serious pause.  Sometimes you just trust in the recipe.  Sometimes you get fucked in the ass.

I got ready to add the milk and realized the mixing bowl looked like I had simply dumped a bag of sugar in it.  Which is pretty much just what I had done.  I got the consistency down to something spreadable, put it on the cake and had my first bite.

As Diane von Austinburg will attest, I have quite sweet tooth, but even I cannot choke this bitch down.  It is remarkably similar to what eating the contents of a sugar bowl with a spoon must be like.  The frosting was so overwhelming, I’m not sure how the cake was, but I plan to try to save it by scraping off the sugar festival and replacing it with another , more restrained buttercream.

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I was so amazed how bad the result was, I went back to re-read the whole, in case I had had some kind of Alzheimer’s moment.  That’s when I noticed the site’s name was “Two Sisters Crafting.”  Could there have been a more obvious warning sign?

On Demand

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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.”

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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.

 

 

In Which We Go to the Fair

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I have a long held distaste for street fairs.  Always the same crappy crafts seemingly aimed at stoner white boys with dreds,  food concessionaires burning gristle and claiming it’s fajita, and bands that sound like they only met moments before taking the stage and whose singer and lead guitarist are working out their differences by performing two different songs.  And the crowds shuffling along not really sure why they have wound up there; people I would not sit next to voluntarily on a bus.

So what was mrpeenee doing at the Castro Street Fair on Sunday?  Shilling for his dear friend Secret Agent Fred.

Fred is one of those very rare creatures: an artist who actually creates art.  He works steadily on drawings and paintings and odd little collages, his style evolving over the years, but always charming, interesting pieces.  As his weak spot is marketing, they tend to pile up rather, lately in my garage.  I thought if we got a booth at the fair, the public would see his genius for a change and snap some of them up.

I was right, too.  We sold 13 or 15 pieces (we forgot to keep count, that’s the kind of big-time merchants we are) including one before the fair even started.  I think more useful than the sales was the encouragement to Fred from all the people who stopped by and were loud with their cries of admiration.  Cheap motherfuckers.

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Art.

Also, let me make a correction.  I have, for all this time written about the artist as SECRET Agent Fred when, in fact, the correct name is SUPER Agent Fred.   I prefer my way, but it’s his nom de artiste.

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Also a big hit were his gold leaf nekkid boys series.  You would have been amazed how many respectable middle aged gay men would stop and snigger at them like schoolboys who’ve just discovered the Venus de Milo has nipples.