Tag Archives: muscle pussy

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.

I’ve Been Shot

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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.”

You know how I love gingers.

Mee Tee.

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.

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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In Which We Go Back A Bit

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For those of you who missed them the first time around, or those who still miss them, here is the 1980s wrapped up in one video:

Let’s see, do we have all the parts?

  • Bleach blonde, pouty lipped pretty boy singer?  Check,
  • Hyper stylized clothes that make you look like you got dressed in a hurry, in the dark?  Check.
  • Synth laden music ripping off better, more original music (in this case, Spin Me Round by Dead or Alive)?  Check.
  • Ronald Reagan’s poisonous spirit looming around?  Check.
  • The terrifying mystery of AIDS just off camera, but very present?  Check.

Turns out the last is more important to this bit than was originally intended since the singer, Paul Lekakis, admitted in an interview with POZ magazine that he had lied about his HIV status to his customers while turning tricks in Los Angeles in the 90s.  The interview and, maybe, Lekakis makes this sound unpardonable and shocking.  Sweetie, I was there and I remember that by the late 90s when Lekakis was working West Hollywood what AIDS was was unquestionable and how it spread was well established. What he did was bad, but was it that shocking?  If you ask a rentboy about his HIV status and then take his word for it, you are simply too naive to be hiring one.

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In other 80s news, Buttocks of the Past:

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Mike Timber

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Buck Hayes

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Mike Betts

Merry Xmas, with Extra Bits

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My christmas present showed up today.  Yay!  Totally not sarcastic for once!  Genuine yay!

When I was in Austin earlier this month, the charming Diane von Austinburg led me to a small gallery we both like called Yard Dog.  Totally cool.  If you’re in Austin, you should drop in there on South Congress.  I was very struck by, and then bought,  a constructed piece called Who Breaks a Butterfly on a Wheel?  Photo below:

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As we stood there arranging for it be shipped halfway across the country, Diane remarked that it was never going to make it all the way out here in one piece.  Or words to that effect.  Diane is never snarkey and I can never imitate her measured tones.

Proof of Diane’s prescience:

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I think the frame holding the components might have started out life as a really big wall clock (although it seems too shallow for that) or possibly a whatnot shelf.  It’s mahogany and the little feet allowed us to stand it up in the gallery since I was thinking of displaying it that way rather than hanging it.   All those little bits ‘n bobs there on the left are the pieces I found in the bottom of the shipping box.  I only found the legs that had busted off by sifting through the peanuts. All of these pieces seem like what you could have found in the back of any good grandfather’s garage when I was a kid.  Even the eight ball.  Now it’s art.

God knows, the very nice guy who owns Yard Dog did the best he could in packing it.  There was enough styrofoam peanuts to account for a small slip in global warming.  The padding also included some scraps of bubble wrap taped together in a way that suspiciously implied they may have at one point provided the basis for a wacky Halloween costume.

Still, in the end, it was not enough.  Looking it over closely now, I am pretty sure no human effort would have sufficed.  I’m not convinced this baby could have made it from the gallery to the car without at least one piece falling off.

The artist’s attitude towards construction seems to have leaned towards the lassiez faire, with a fair amount of glue and possibly spit.  He also seems to have depended on gravity with somethings apparently just resting on top of others.  “It’s art,” it implies “How much are you really going to be moving this around?”  Good point.

And to be honest, this brings up the interesting idea of how closely do I have to hew to the artist’s original when reassembling all this?  In the picture of the piece before its shipping trauma, you can see a big semi-petrified handball on the top right corner.  I thought at the time that it threw the proportion off and didn’t really work.  And now it’s fallen off!  Do I have to put dutifully back in place?  If you think the answer is yes, you just don’t know me well enough.  My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.

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Art.  Plein air art, in fact

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My theory is, if I have to put it back, I get to put it where I please.

Tales of Pasta and Terror

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How bad of me to skimp on recounting my recent visit to Austin and the charming Diane von Austinburg.  We had a lovely, lovely time.  Our definition of “lovely” might not match up with other’s, but do we care?  No, we do not.

Essentially the visit consisted of us visiting many of the finer thrift stores in town and canvassing their aisles while keeping up a running diss of their merchandise.  Or “merchandise.”  To quote myself from several previous times “This all looks like the leftovers from a bad garage sale.”  But that’s the best part.  We examine a mind numbing array of the chipped and should-have-been-discarded, items of dubious function, and what we were sure was the contents of hundreds of dead grannies’ homes, shoveled into the Goodwill maw by their undeserving heirs and then we don’t buy a single thing.

I did fall sort of in love with a love seat upholstered in a velour Union Jack.  Fortunately, Diane was there to quietly steer me away even as I was scheming how to ship it here, to an apartment where there is absolutely no room for it.

And then we went out for enchiladas.  Oh, such good Mexican food.  High class fare from interior Mexico, low class Tex-Mex in a joint that had started out life as a laundrymat, and a great place we love with such delicious tortillas.

Of course it was not all beat up Pottery Barn rejects and guacamole.  After all, there has to be some low point.  Who would have dreamed it would turn out to be pasta?

I was staying the very fancy Fairmont hotel.  It was excellent.  When I made the reservation, I signed up for their benefits program, which I always do wherever I stay.  Usually it’s not much, maybe a free bottled water  (Whoo-Hoo) but this time it turned out to be a goldmine, baby.  From a private registration desk (oh, right this way, Mr. mrpeenee,) and this cool concierge lobby with snacks of a most delicious nature (a dessert bar at night with these adorable miniature French pastries.  Another six cream puffs?  Why, I think I will.)   And a big, comfortable room.  What more could you ask for?

Well, that’s where the pasta comes in.  Diane works nearby and had come to meet me after I checked in.  We hit the Happy Hour snack bar and should have just stuck with that, but instead decided to slide downstairs to their real restaurant and have real food.

The dining room had a theme, which in my experience is never a good idea.   If you’re a restaurant, your theme should be “food.”  Instead, this place had the walls lined with fake facades of an old timey Texas town.  I think?  It was hard to tell.   It was very Disneyland. I was willing to ignore it and hang with Diane, but I ordered pasta carbonara and that’s where the real trouble came in.

Perhaps you are familiar with pasta carbonara?  It is one of the simple dishes that is not easy.  It consists of eggs, bacon and cheese over pasta.  The secret is how you add the ingredients, but I’m not here to give away my culinary secrets, I am here to gripe.

We both got our dinners eventually and started in while chatting.  After a few bites, i realized my pasta was missing the bacon.  Called the waitress over, explained, she took it back to the kitchen, reemerged with (possibly) a new plate, which I poked around in and announced, “This is the same thing, there’s no bacon is this either.”  She valiantly offered to make another run at it, but she had a look on her face, a look I have myself worn at times, a look that said “The chef is a screaming, egomaniacal lunatic, please don’t send me back in there.”  So I just said never mind, take it off the check, we’re fine.

Despite that, before I could finish stealing most of Diane’s excellent Asian pot thing, a manager type slithered over with a third bowl of the pasta.  You’ll never guess what was not in there!  As she was standing there, I demonstrated my now honed technique for bacon hunting.  “The chef says it’s called ‘pancetta’ and he slices it very finely.”  The whole “pancetta not bacon” pushed my blood level up a few notches and I offered her 20 bucks if she could find any of this finely sliced pancetta.  Sliced on a microscopic level, I don’t know.  I did explain the dish only had three ingredients, it seemed difficult to overlook one of them.

I waved it away.  Diane approved, noting that by then, one of the ingredients no doubt included spit.  She went home and I went back up to the fancy guests’ lobby and to wait for the dessert bar.

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mrpeenee asks “Where’s the meat?”

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…and the universe answers

peenee Henge

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mrpeenee’s personal street light

My living room is a triangle walled in enormous windows which makes one more conscious (or as conscious as I ever am) of the light and the way it shifts and settles in the room.   I was wandering around the apartment in my charmingly vague way the other evening when I realized the setting sun had become perfectly aligned with those windows to shoot all the way down the crooked hallway that leads to the front door.  It was like something of out of Raiders of the Lost Something or the Other.

I know in New York a similar phenomenon of the setting sun lining up with the east-west streets is called Manhattenhenge, so I’m stealing that for my own little almost-solstice-but-not-quite celebration.  Since I ignore Christmas, it seems very handy.

I was going to try to take a picture of it tonight, but, of course, it decided to rain instead.  I’m all right with that.  After those weeks of choking smoke, having our brisk clean air back is an immense relief.  Plus, sitting up here in my aerie, looking down out at the fog settling on the tops of hills, the streets shiny with rain, The street lights and traffic lights all glittering and reflecting, and the pedestrians scurrying along with their floppy umbrellas, it all seems terribly cozy.  A ginger cat curled firmly up on my lap helps.

An added charm: the street lights here are old timey ones, cast to look like lanters.  I’ve always admired their solid 19th century charm and now I have one directly outside and I happen to be on the exact floor that puts the lantern part right out my window.  I think of it as MY  street light, much as a hooker chasing other bitches off her patch would.

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Let me reiterate: I like’em big and stupid.

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But having cozy little digs could only be improved by having more than a ginger tabby to lean on.

Tie Finish

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Back in the day when I had a job (and what a satisfying way to start a sentence that is) I had to wear a tie to work every day.  I had nightmares of being choked by them.  Eventually I threw off the yoke of a necktie by simply not wearing one.  I extended my Casual Friday wardrobe to the entire week and my Fridays turned into One Step Above Slob Friday.

Even then, I would periodically have to show up at some event with something knotted around my neck.  R man didn’t have to wear one to his job, but he loved to buy them for me.  And I have to admit, a tableful of neckwear arranged tidily by Nordstrom or Saks or the like, is a lovely experience.  They’re so pretty and jewel-like.  By the time he died and I retired, I had quite a collection.   Then I moved and in packing up I realized I was never going to wear a single one of them again.

And so I put an ad in Craigslist announcing I was looking for someone to make a quilt out of them for me.  I got a surprising number of eager replies including one from the second place winner in quilting at the Marin County State Fair.  That was good enough for me and so she came and scooped them up and went off to do her quilting magic.

Time went by, as it does, and she would send me messages about the progress.  I would reply something along the lines of “That’s nice.”  Then she popped up last night, quilt in hand.

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Shine on, you crazy diamond.

It really is gorgeous, shimmering and with the individual squares of the cut up ties cleverly placed to cohabit esthetically with its neighbor.

I slept under it last night, of course, and was surprised at its texture.  I had vaguely thought it would be supple and, well, silky, but I had forgotten ties have to be made with a heavy silk with lots of body so that the knot will be nice and substantial.  That means the quilt itself is stiffer than I had imagined, but not at all uncomfortable.  It has a flannel backing so it’s very warm.  Snuggy.

I had considered saving one tie in case of funerals, but should that sad obligation arise, I can always nip into any thrift store and have my pick them for a couple of bucks.   Or I might return to Nordstrom’s and those shining reefs of sartorial splendor.

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This man is not wearing a tie.

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Nor is this one.