Tag Archives: beefcake

In Which mrpeenee Brings You Tales of Old Age and Terror

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As I crossed over the threshold into old age, I realized, with great annoyance, that while my head hair has retreated into non-existence, my pubic hair has continued to thrive. Wispy, straggly, and long-ass long, it exists solely to irritate me. I could braid it if the whim so moved me. It creeps me out. I am concerned that eventually it will get tangled up in my shoelaces and then where will I be?

So occasionally I break out the pruning shears and lop off the top. I’m not shooting for some kind of manscaping, I just want the mess to look less like something out of a Lovecraft story. Eldritch pubes, that’s what I got.

I also don’t try for anything fancy or too close to the boys, cause I am not crazy. And yet, and yet…. You can see where this is going, can’t you? Yes, tonight I nipped my nutsack.

I’ll pause here to let my male readers unclench. Fortunately, or as fortunate as that situation can get, it was no big deal. I didn’t castrate myself, the skin just got caught in the scissors and caused a tiny, little cut. It didn’t even really hurt, just a sharp pinch. It is possible I screamed like a little girl, a little girl who has just pecked the ball bag, but if ever there was a screamy moment, it was that.

But oh baby jeebus, did it bleed. Reminiscent of one of those chocolate fountains at some pretentious buffet. It turns out your man pouch is thickly covered in veins. Why? So that when you cut your nuts, your melodramatics are justified. The bathroom wound up looking like a set from a slasher movie and my testicles are now sporting a band aid.

Okay, so maybe this is difficult reading, or at least it is for those readers equipped with low hanging fruit. Maybe they are slightly pale around the lips, possibly light-headed. Sorry. Did you want a widdle trigger warning? Suck it up. I’m the one with my poor little huevos bleeding. I suppose this exemplifies the difference between empathy and sympathy.

Guys with unnipped nuts:

Watch out where you’re slinging that blade, buddy.

Maybe I should look into waxing.

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What a piece of work is man.

I really hope this is not PhotoShop; it would reinforce my belief in god.

Speaking of god….

In Which We Collect Just a Little More

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Perhaps you remember mrpeenee’s unparalleled collection of aluminum plates, platters and other serving pieces. The fact it is unparalleled mostly because no one else is interested in what is essentially decorative debris is neither here nor there, and I do wish you would stop bringing it up.

The collection. Some of it, anyway.

.Thirty years ago, I got tired of not being able to afford any of the cool stuff in my thrift store prowlings and so I started collecting these. Mostly because they were cheap, but also because no thrift store, no matter how crappy, would fail to have at least one or two pieces.

My limit initially was that nothing could cost more than three bucks. After a while I raised that to $5, but even that allowed me to bring home so many of them eventually R man threatened to put them all out on the curb and me with them. That was probably 15 years ago and honestly, even I realized I had plenty enough. But when I moved to this apartment and mounted them all up on the wall, I wound up with a couple of odd bald spots that could use filling. And so I turned to Google to track down a few more bits.

Almost the very first result was some junk store trying to unload 13 pieces of the very finest examples of aluminum junk. That was more than I had in mind, BUT three of them were exactly the right size and two others were such interesting specimens I couldn’t pass them up so I bought the whole lot.

So here they are. The really interesting ones are the small basket with a handle and made of pierced metal and the other is a tiny silent butler.

Silent butlers. Sssh.

Silent butlers were an invention to help hostesses deal with mess on tabletops. You would rake up all the crumbs littering the cloth and dump them into your silent butler and then close the lid to keep all the garbage from flying back out. You could also empty ashtrays that way.

Also, coasters, cause aluminum coasters are so very practical. Most aluminum pieces feature very realistic botanical art, in this case, each coaster is a tiny CABBAGE. I am in love.

So there. I really am through collecting them now. Really. What few oddball spots there were are now filled and I have no more excuses for any more aluminumania. My decision has nothing to do with them being no longer easy to find or certainly easy to afford. Should the aluminum hostessware industrial complex call, tell them I’m out of the game.

Guys I’d like to collect:

What, does he charge by the pound?

Another Year Older

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Oops, oops, I have once again forgotten my own anniversary. July the something (I’m too lazy to look it up) 2007 was my blog’s first post, so yay for me. Among bloggers, 14 is a ripe old age, an antique, in fact. When I first started airing my dirty laundry, there was quite a little gang of fellow bloggers to keep me company. Their number has withered away, it’s true, but I still remember them fondly. Perverts, most of them, but amusing perverts.

My blog’s musty old age is not a testament to any particular stick-to-itness on my part. All of my storytelling tends to wander quite a bit (maybe you noticed? Shut up.) and I think I started some damn story all those years ago and have just never finished.

So let’s raise a toast to mrpeenee, god love him. Here’s to never getting to the point.

If I were to get anniversary presents (it’s not too late,) I would hope this might serve as an inspiration.

Big, hard, and thoughtful. What could be better?

“I’m workin on a man/with blonde hair and a tan,” Dr. Frank N. Furter.

I’ve seen that look before. It’s always trouble.

In Which We Say Goodbye to a Dear Little Buddy

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There’s nothing as satisfying as the weight of a cat curled up on your lap while you sit reading Barbara Pym for the bazillionth time. It’s just the right amount and it emphasizes how cozy the moment is in a cold, hard world.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. Saki was settled in my lap on top of the blanket he claimed years ago. It was a position he and I perfected long before all the odd times of the last decade. The very sweet vet who had come over to my place gave him three injections, 10 minutes apart (morphine, valium, and ketamine, I thought about asking for some of that good stuff, but I was distracted) and Saki got loaded, fell asleep, and just drifted off. That’s how I want to go.

I was very sad that day, but actually, the hardest part was resigning myself to it and then scheduling the euthanasia. Just saying the words on the phone to the receptionist was almost impossible. But he had stopped eating 4 weeks ago. It became obvious the choice was putting him to sleep or watching him starve to death.

Even now I expect to see him somewhere, like he’s been taking one of his naps and wandered back in to see what I was doing. I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and for second think that it’s him.

Anyway. This end, regardless of how easy or painful it is, is always obvious in the beginning when you take on a pet. The chances of outliving them are very small and you have to know that this is coming. So let’s all take a moment to remember all the ridiculous cats and dogs that have been in our lives and made them better for the time they shared with us.

You Google the phrase “naked guy with cat” and you get some pretty amazing results. To wit:

I know, not naked, but too cute to ignore.

Hard to believe, but the kitten is even cuter than the lanky, doe-eyed beauty

If you haven’t done this with your cat, are you really trying?

“put me down RIGHT THIS MINUTE, or you’ll be sorry”

Not one, but TWO oozy woozums.

I know, not naked again, but the cat is Saki’s double.

Can you pick out the kitten?

Surely if your Grindr profile just read “I have glasses and a cat,” the internet would melt.

Oh, keeses. Many, many keeses.

I think anyone who’s ever lived with a cat recognizes this classic pose of a squirming cat in one hand and something you don’t want to spill in the other and know that tragedy is eminent.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see this man naked. The I’m including the picture is the story that went with it which was about a cop who rescued a kitten, much adorbs, and which described said cop as 28 years old. Not to be bitchy, for once, but does this guy look 28? Is that in dog years?

In Which We Give Up Breathing

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My motto.

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:

Oh my

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.

I C U

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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.

Sleepy Time

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I suspect when I tell people I sleep all day they translate that as something like I sleep at night like normal people and then take naps during the day.  Wrong.  I go to sleep about 7:00 AM, dawn for those of you who might miss the whole “rosy fingered” thing.  I then saw away until 5:00 or 6:00 that evening, broken only by occasional old man piss trips and whenever Saki can wake me up enough to feed him.

It’s a schedule made famous by rock and roll legends and vampires and it works fine for me.  My system apparently is owl.  No wonder I had such a hard time getting up for school or work; I was leaving my bed just when I should have been settling down into it.  Of course there were drawbacks, there always are.  Trying to get to appointments, doctor, hair, chats with friends, whatever, was problematic and I never got the sympathy I deserved when I would whine about setting my alarm for 2:00 in the afternoon.

And then three days ago, suddenly I couldn’t sleep.  At all.  Does everyone have trouble sleeping?  Yes, yes we do, except cats.  I would turn in and lie there expecting to doze off at any minute, but the minute would tick by and suddenly it was early afternoon and I was still awake.  The second day I surrendered and wound up down at Peet’s Cafe knocking back a latte with some tasty muffins.

I know, I know, coffee when you can’t sleep is just exacerbating the problem, but my experience is if I can’t fall asleep in the first half hour, it’s not going to happen.  So I embraced insomnia and turned to my usual answer to everything, coffee and a pastry at Peet’s.  If it can’t help, it also can’t hurt.

I’ve finally fallen asleep about 3:00 or 4:00.  Is this my new schedule?  If anything it seems even more inconvenient than my old one.  I’m hoping this passes and I can go back to watching crappy You Tube videos at hours when all the god fearing are snoring away.  Still in the video queue are hundreds of hours of Russian lunkheads trying to unload a sports car off the back of a truck with a couple of 2 x 4s.  Hilarious.

Guys in bed:

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Musical mrpeenee

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I had dinner the other night at Fable, one of my all time favorite restaurants, and was assailed by their music selection.  Since I was dining alone, I had no one with whom to share my insight that the only thing more annoying than old timey rap is French old timey rap.

What is with French people and popular music?  They’ve had 60 years of rock and roll, just like the rest of us, and they still can’t get it.  I have a theory that their love of rules means they’re still looking for a pop music owners’ manual.  Tragically, my theory will never be examined because I find their music too irritating to listen to long enough to find out.

But wait, there’s more.  Yesterday I had my teeth cleaned (and found out I have to have a root canal next week) with a new dental tech.  My former one was efficient and no nonsense and accepted my blithe answer that I pretty much never floss with a curt “At least you don’t lie about it.”  Her replacement is overwhelmingly cheerful and never shuts up.

The music in the office has changed from some very nice classical to something that vaguely resembles mellow jazz, but has no breaks between what might be songs.  I assume it’s some algorithm that creates noise influenced by the dreaded Kenny G.  Bad enough, but the dental technician only ever stopped yammering in order to hum along with it.  Yes, she was singing along to musical gibberish.

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Mens to help me calm down:

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Cheery.  That’s what I need after a punishing dental session.

Fashion Trends

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My new raincoat was delivered yesterday and in a stroke of serendipitous timing, it rained all day today so I could take it out for a test drive.

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It was an unqualified success.  Cozy warm, it kept me completely dry with none of those annoying seam leaks, and best of all, the hood fits.  Since I have long (some would say swanlike, but not me of course) neck, hoods are always problematic.  I bought rain gear last summer to be prepared when the rains finally came only to discover when they did that the coat’s hood was way too shallow leaving my face and glasses out in the rain.

I understand a dark (I thought it was black, but the picture makes me assume that it’s really navy.  That is mrpeenee’s fashion sense in one sentence) unremarkable parka would not rate as fashion for most people, but since all the rest of my clothing purchases in the last decade have been identical replacements for whatever tee shirt wears out, this was a pretty extraordinary event.

Because I bought the first one so long ago, I don’t remember what made me pick it originally.  Probably it was the first thing listed on the Land’s End web site that day.  As I mentioned, it fit oddly, with sleeves long enough, but the tail too short to cover my butt and the stupid hood perched on the back of my head.  Both coats though came loaded down with all sorts of velcro and zippers and odd pockets that I have no idea what to do with.  It seems sort over engineered for San Francisco’s undemanding weather.  Part of the description for the new one promised something about the pockets that would keep the snow out.  What?  Perhaps my readers more familiar with snow can explain why that’s a thing.  Does snow sneak into your pockets?  I wouldn’t put it past it; I’m very suspicous of snow.

In other news:  naked guys far away from cold gray weather

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That’s called a “tan.”  Perhaps you have forgotten about them.

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keeping warm is important during these trying times.

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Sunny, warm, tropicale.  Even in California it calls to me.

 

Seen on the Street

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One of the best features about my new (new-ish) apartment is the gym right next door.  Not that I use it for working out.  Eeks, no.  But it does pretty much guarantee a steady stream of really cute, well built guys streaming past my front door.  I would consider joining it just to go and ogle the boys changing, but all of them look like they come in their gym clothes already.  While that improves the streetscape, it does cut down on the ogling chances.

I’d prefer something like this:

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Also, while we’re down here on the street, I’ve recently seen a return of a graffiti (I believe there is a different noun for a single piece of graffiti, but I’m too lazy to look it up. You can if you’d like to.) I’m very fond of; the street koi.

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These have been around for years, sort of on and off.  I like them because they’re unusual, being on the street, and the play with a sense of perspective, as if you’re looking down into a koi pond.   And now, apparently, the artist has been commissioned to cover up temporary construction walls, so good for him.

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As I said, the koi come and go.  Imagine my surprise when I was in New Orleans once and stumbled upon a bunch of them there.  My friend Stephen said he was acquainted with the artist, but not fond of him.  He said the local theory of the random appearance of the art was that the artist would inevitably wind up with enough restraining orders against him that he would leave town until they built up in his new environs at which time he would strike out for new horizons.  I don’t know, I’m just going on Stephen’s possibly biased deductions.

I’m a fan of graffiti.  I think it can be charming and amusing and even beautiful.   Well, not when people jus splatter their tag up and call it day.  That has all the appeal of a car alarm going off.  But when it’s funny and makes you think, isn’t that art?

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