In Which We Stare Into The Void And The Void Puts On Googly Eyes And Stares Back


Okay this is so very not easy for me, but here goes. When I was 10 years old my brother, who was 8, was accidentally electrocuted right in front of me and died. I can’t explain how difficult it is for me publicly discuss that. After he died, my family never ever, not once, mentioned his name again. I absorbed that and lived my life with an enormous scar inside that I never spoke of. R Man and I were together for years before I told him; I’ve known Diane von Austinburg since 1978 and I only mentioned it to her last year.

I’ve decided recently that that behavior was just not healthy (duh) and that I could actually speak about him and the circumstances of his death without it being a crisis. I don’t regard it as a topic of conversation, but if it’s appropriate I’m trying to no longer reflexively avoid it either.

So here’s the point, the last time my friend the Fashion Sensation was visiting, we were discussing our siblings and in general yucking it up, but I decided I would tell her the whole sad story of my baby brother. She got a very distraught look on her face and said when she was 10 years old, her 8-year-old brother was accidentally electrocuted right in front of her and died. That sort of derailed the initial conversation, but did open up a whole new fascinating line of chat.

While it certainly was interesting to realize I have a good friend who understands so clearly the PTSD that a 10-year-old child can suffer and then live with the rest of his life, the whole Twilight Zone aspect of it was unsettling, to say the least. Was it proof of parallel universes? Mmmmmaybe. It also makes me wonder what other revelations I have missed by keeping the fucked up pain of his death bottled up like pus inside me.

And now, naked guys. Because I’m tired of this trauma being a boulder I have to push uphill while simultaneously ignoring it. It is what it is and what it is is simply a part of my life. I’m trying to get on and maybe naked guys help with that, OK?

If there had been even a little of this in the gyms I went to, I would still be going.

A paragon indeed.

Our dear chum Mikey from Chaturbate complimented me on increasing the number of naked guys in last week’s post, so I will be continuing to crank out extra dick pics. Gotta give the customers what they want, amirite? Let me know if it’s too much.

I hadn’t realized Austin Wolf (a long time fave) is so much bigger than Francois Sagat (another favorite) or maybe Francois is smaller. Whatever.

Love pricks that look like they go “sproing” when you slap them.

I know it’s miserably hot, but go outside and play.

I love showers outside when it’s hot.

Well, that’s serious.

Thicc, as the kids say nowadays. Do they still say that?

In Which We Become Comfortably Numb


I always knew that hussy Diane von Austinburg was a bad influence. While she was here visiting, she wanted to go down the street to the very schmancy pot store so I went with her just to make sure she didn’t get in trouble. You know how she is.

The store is very luxe, with the decor sort of modernized Victorian whorehouse. All the staff are very attentive and serious, like pot sommeliers. I hadn’t really intended to buy anything, but they were so earnest, I wound up shopping. The guy who was waiting on me listened to my requests for something that wouldn’t get me too loaded with much more attention than my doctor pays to my rambling description of symptoms.

I should mention when Diane and I were attending the University of Texas I was a great big ol’ pothead and my goal when smoking dope then was to get as obliterated as possible. I gave up on marijuana a few years later because I was tired of being stoned stupid. Then somewhere in the late ’90s, R Man discover the wonders of medical marijuana. I tried it a few times, but it was much too strong for little me. I approached this new bacchanalia of the marijuana boutique with that in mind, and was determined to not get so blasted as I had been with R Man’s.

And yet, even with my newfound discretion, I looked up later that evening from playing Yahtzee with Diane and SuperAgent Fred and realized “Whoops.” That’s the thing about edible pot, It takes a while to come on and then when it does, it tiptoes up and smacks you in the head.

All in all, I’d give my new dope experience a qualified thumbs up. It’s more effective than the dirt weed I knew so well in my youth, but not so overwhelming as R Man’s industrial strength stuff. I have a tin of mints now and I’ve tried them a couple of times since Diane was here luring me down the primrose pot path. Each time they take so long to have effect, I wind up forgetting I took any and suddenly find myself once again in the now familiar “whoops” territory. That’s not bad particularly, and it reminds me of a saying from my old dope days: “Time your drugs or your drugs will time you.” So true, so true.


You’re really cute daddy, but your panties look dyslectic.

I tried doing my yoga one evening after chowing down on some pot mints. I kept getting distracted.

This guy is pretty distracting too.

I don’t know what office he’s in, but it certainly is an argument against work from home.

Apparently, his name is Scott Cullens, in case you want to run out and do some research.

More of Scott Cullens, because I am feeling the love.

Also, our old friend Philipe Soulier.

Pavel Patel, the late and much lamented Russian beauty and queer agitator.

In Which We Appreciate the Neighborhood


There’s a long held tradition in San Francisco that every 4th of July the fog rolls in just in time to obscure all the fireworks. What we’re left with are vague bursts of color up in the fog and random booms. This year was no exception.

One of the charms about San Francisco is its stubborn streak of anti authoritarianism. It shows up this time of year by all the “illegal” fireworks around town, especially in the neighborhood called the Mission. I think those fireworks are much more charming than the official ones; they don’t go up as high so they’re not lost in the fog and because they’re shot off in people’s backyards, they spread out all over the landscape, popping up and glittering and then another one blocks away will shoot up.

My building is in a charming elbow of town that is sort of the transition between the Castro neighborhood and the Mission neighborhood, on a rise slightly higher than the Mission. That means that our our roof deck has the best view possible of those illegal fireworks.

I know this is a mediocre picture of the wild west show of fireworks I was talking about (because really, who ever gets good shots of rockets red glare?) but the fireworks aren’t actually the point of this picture. I was struck last night looking down at it by how much I just love my little neighborhood.

This block that you see is an example of my favorite kind of San Francisco streetscape; most of the buildings are late 19th century or very early 20th century with a few newer ones scattered in just to rescue it from being too precious. Of course, being San Francisco, even the tiniest and shabbiest of them is worth some multi-million dollar obscenity, but still, very sweet to me.

The New York Times just had a story about the impending death of gay neighborhoods in America, including the Castro. It’s true and it’s no surprise to me, I see it coming every time I step out the door. The decline started in the 80s with AIDS and the death of so many of the men who had turned a frumpy but well located neighborhood into a destination. Straight people flocked in, “Thanks for making the hood so attractive and appealing; please use the back door on your way out.” Besides AIDS, reasons included everything from babies for gays to Grindr, but really the die is cast. I’m just glad I got to squeak in here at the very end.

Guys I’d like to squeak in with

A big smile and a big dick. It doesn’t get any better.

Love ’em when they are in the last vestige of softness so you can still play with them before getting down to business.

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

Summertime always seems the best time for blondes.

In Which Things Don’t Go According to Plan


Diane von Austinburg blew in town last week and we had a wonderful time visiting. Spending time with the old dear is always one of my favorite things to do but this was an unusually amusing vacation, and for the oddest reason: absolutely nothing we planned worked out. Tea at neiman’s, Diane’s attempt at a trip up north, even something as simple as a Thai lunch, nothing came to fruition. There were lots of random reasons, all the way up to and including my genius at sleeping through an alarm, but it all came down to “oops.” And yet we both agreed it was one of the best times we’ve had together.

We hung out a lot with Super Agent Fred, making dinner here and then playing Yahtzee and Boggle. It might not have been the fast-paced life I fantasized about as a youth, but it was very pleasant. I was having an unusually bad patch with my back ache and I was pretty much not up for anything more demanding than that.

During one of those evenings, Diane looked out the window and announced that some guy was either attacking a palm tree out front or was attempting to assassinate one of my neighbors. We had both been trying out various edible marijuana delicacies from the fancy pot store up the street so I felt comfortable explaining that she was crazy.

Of course it turned out she was not crazy (she so rarely is) and instead, the city had decided to prune the palm trees late at night for some reason. I mentioned in a post earlier how unhappy I was with the sickly sycamores out front of my building and how glad I was when they finally got their justly deserved axe, but I haven’t discussed the charming palm trees in the middle of Market Street here. Or they were charming until the city got the wacky idea that whacking their fronds off would help in some way. In much the same way as someone cutting their own hair while drunk, as it turned out.

I don’t know if these guys didn’t know what they were doing or were pruning with their eyes closed or both, but oh dear, all of the poor palms look the same raggedly chopped, uneven, and sort of crazy, much like the homeless guys underneath them. Why on earth would the city do such a dreadful job of maintaining these beauties.  Do you know how much a palm this big is worth?  A buttload, that’s how much.

Guys, naked.

“Oh, I’m just hangin out with my big ol whacker. You know….”

Take your coat off and stay a while.

Today’s Naked Guys are brought to you by the letter Dick.

Fresh-faced and stiff. My, my, my.

I love boys with that blank, dumb look that says more clearly than words, “I will suck your dick until cum shoots out my ears.”

Meanwhile, back in the locker room….

In Which We Are Alarmed


You hear that? It’s the sound of dominoes falling. Conservatives have finally achieved their fantasy of overturning Roe v. Wade. If you think they are now going to settle down with their guns and their hypocrisy, you are fooling no one but yourself.

Clarence Thomas specified that the supreme Court should “reconsider” a number of rulings including the one which struck down laws criminalizing gay sex. They are coming for us.

Today is Gay Pride in San Francisco. I honestly hope everyone has a good time.

Quick, sneak a look at these before nekkid guys become illegal.

In Which We Can Host


I had a barbecued pulled pork sandwich for dinner and now I have been laid low by it. Let me tell you, I would never have dreamed my death certificate would include “cause of death: pig.”

it’s a shame to expire from a stupid sammich just now because Saturday Diane von Austinburg is coming to visit. I love Diane’s visits, better than I love christmas; they are a high point. There aren’t many people who I would accept as a guest, in fact, come to think of it, Diane is the only one.

I have no idea why she puts up with me, when she’s here, I spend almost the entire time asleep. The few moments, the precious few moments that I’m awake, all I do is complain about not being asleep. Still we usually squeeze in a little time for cooking (I love sharing a kitchen with her) and this time we’re going out to some odd sounding fashion glamor show at the DeYoung museum. Reports as they are available.

Diane sent me this yesterday. It’s so nice to have a friend who understands you.

Naked mens whom I might be willing to have sleep over:

You know what a fool I am for pretty hair.


I don’t care if he’s not paying attention.

Captain Hook

Did you know you can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetary if you’re tattooed? Also, that big, luscious foreskin might be problematic.

Uhm, what is that equipment you’re sitting on, buddy?

In Which a Quiet Night Goes to Hell


The other evening I was sitting in my living room, minding my own beeswax and investigating various porn matters when suddenly


A huge noise erupted seemingly at my feet. It was such a perfect cacophony that it seemed like it couldn’t possibly be real, like it was just another CGI effect. If Saki were still with me, he would have bolted under the couch and for an instant I considered what a sensible idea that seemed like.

Once I finally tiptoed over to the window I saw some fat head had managed to crash into the tree directly below me. Considering there are only two trees left of the original 11, it’s pretty amazing he managed to nail it. In fact, another foot to the left and he would have missed it entirely and plowed into the front of my building instead.

Tree or no tree, it’s confounding how he wound up where he did. It’s as if he decided to make a hard right in the middle of the block. Baby what’s up with that? Did your GPS fuck you over?

I called 911, because that’s how big responsible citizens behave. Besides I couldn’t think of what else to do. The operator there was incredibly chill, she sounded like she was hanging out with a glass of white wine and a few Valium. She did get a little testy when I couldn’t describe the car to her satisfaction. I don’t know what difference it would have made whether it was a sedan or an SUV. It’s not like there was a crowd of wrecked cars down on the sidewalk for the responders to pick from.

Eventually the cops showed up, the fireman, the ambulance, the tow truck, just everybody who is anybody was there. I sort of lost interest and never did see what happened to the driver. Apparently he had wandered off at some point and then resurfaced; I overheard one of the cops ask him “Is this your car?” “It was,” he replied. If only someday I could be that cool.

guys who would wreck you

One can only envy his neighbors.

Truth in advertising.

Workin’ hard or hardly workin’? hyuck hyuck hyuck.


Inky, not stinky.

More nice tile work.

In Which We Are Befogged


Today seems like the quintessential San Francisco day. The fog blew in from the Pacific earlier and now wraps us up in a cool, gray embrace. It’s very much like living inside a great big pearl. If you look up at the sky, it has depths you can only sort of see. It’s very quiet and restful.

Of course, I love our gorgeous, sunny weather, but saying that is like saying you have a crush on a big muscly blonde surfer dude. To wit:

Whereas being enamored of fogginess is more like being stuck on a guy who’s moody and demands more from you, but in turn will probably not run off with all your Valium. Like this:

Photophobia, which is not a fear of snapshots, but rather a sensitivity to bright lights runs in my family, both my mother and my brother Ed have it and hated the bright sunlight we lived with on the Gulf Coast. My mother said the light was actually painful and dealt with it with a series of giant sunglasses. Coincidentally, R Man also suffered from it, so when we moved out here into the Fog Belt from sunny New Orleans, he was delighted to be in an environment that was so sympathetic to his squinty genes.

Guys easy on the eyes

It may be foggy, but it’s summer

Get your nasty butthole off that counter. That’s where I cut up strawberries.

Over at Chaturbate, we call this pose “The Landing Pad.”

Also, today is Diane von Austinburg’s birthday. Most happy to you, sweetie.

In Which We Are Reminded, Yet Again, That We Are Old


Our story so far: in the last post you might remember I was discussing (I was not whining. Shut up.) that my big toe hurt and was swollen and red, but that I had no memory of stubbing it. I may have also been pointing out what a brave little choo choo I was being about the whole thing and I was not whining.

Most of the comments on this site lean toward insightful evaluations of the naked manpussy on display, but sometimes my readers will come across with all sorts of helpful tips. They’ll have recipes, or recommendations of things to read, or will come up with the name of a pornstar I was missing. In this case, commenter joeinct noted my symptoms and said “girl you got gout.” Or words to that effect. And he was quite correct; I do got gout. I’m very grateful for his perspicacity, I certainly would never have come up with that diagnosis on my own.

mrpeenee thanks joeinct

Armed with this insight and with the results from Dr Google, I dropped by my own doctor’s office yesterday and rolled out my suspicion that I had what is typically seen as an affliction out of a Dickens novel. The doctor listened to me and then said “Huh, yeah I guess you got gout.”

I could have done with a little more certainty on her part or at least with her being more impressed, but it can be hard to test for gout and you don’t treat it until It gets more serious than my case. Until that happens, there’s not much to do other than glare at my big toe for being a traitor and wonder what other geriatric thrill ride is in store for us.

Examples of manpussy I was talking about earlier:

It’s al about the texture.

Love them big floppy ones.

Phillipe Soulier, one of our on-going favorites.

A sculptural beauty.

It’s going to be a bumpy night.

Jay Tee, cause we need more ass around here, and who has more ass than him?

In Which We Lounge


Many thanks to my sweet niece Amber for reminding me that I have a blog. It sometimes slips my mind. You can tell when I’m absorbed in reading because my posting here becomes more erratic than usual. But it’s important to keep the dust from getting too thick in these parts, so post on, baby.

I love my bedroom so very much. Since I sleep during the day, it’s important to have the room as dark as possible; this deep blue, almost indigo is plenty successful at that. And pretty. The beautiful California sun is very soft and gold this time of year and it makes doing nothing even more appealing than usual.

The author, busy doing nothing.

just the other day I was remembering my recent trip back to Texas and recalling that some of my favorite parts of it were lying on my back on Diane von Austinburg’s couch, having very firmly evicted her from it. It’s a very comfy couch and just hanging out there chatting with her was a great luxury. Cats were occasionally involved.

Also, just as a sort of PSA, let me announce that I stubbed the fuck out of my toe recently and now it hurts like a first time pussy boy who has forgotten the safe word. Everyone should immediately feel very sorry for me and possibly start making novenas. What makes this all the more annoying is that I have no memory of whacking my toe on anything. How is that possible? It’s red and swollen and HURTS, I must have landed a really solid blow against it, seems like it would stay in my teeny tiny brain, but nuh uh.

Guys who should be here tending to me:

This guy could just carry me around to protect my little piggies.

The lovely Adriano Marquez, who once said in an interview that he had never done a crunch in his life.


So beefy.

Beach weather is almost here.