Tag Archives: muscle pussy

Daze Gone By

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Preach, sister, preach.

We had a lovely and far too short visit with dear, dear Diane von Austinburg last week.  Because my thrilling lifestyle consists mostly of sleeping, I would stumble downstairs and we would go out to dinner, come back and I would stumble upstairs to go back to sleep.  I know some people would have problems with livin’ on that particular edge, but I do not.

Diane shoved off on Thursday (I should mention Saki, the cat, does not like visitors.  Any visitors.  Every visit, Diane spends all her efforts at convincing him that he does not suspect her of low habits and misdeeds.  Diane reports gleefully every time Saki deigns to allow her to pet him without bloodshed.  I’m not impressed, because this almost inevitably  occurs when I’m holding him, most often in a headlock.  So Saki spent all day Thursday stalking around the house to make sure Diane (whom he refers to as “That Guy”) is actually gone.

I spent Friday crushing a giant nap.  I would wake up when Saki yelled in my ear about how he was starving, feed him, take my meds, and go back to dreaming about living in some grim institutional building that I was decorating.  One of those things where I couldn’t decide if it was a nightmare or not.

And then, just now, I got out of bed during the daytime (it happens) and thought how very much I would like coffee from Peet’s and some of their delectable little pastry items. And so I rolled downhill into the Castro.

I found an empty parking space (the only one in all of the Castro Neighborhood,) tried to pay the meter, cause the meter maids apparently have a special bounty system set up for my poor old car, and the meter gaily announced “FREE PARKING.”   Really?  I wasn’t going to look a no cost parking space in the mouth, so I wafted on towards Peet’s when I suddenly wondered “Could today be Sunday?”  Hmmmmm.

One of the things I like about my phone is a special feature it has for the forgetful and easily confused (that would be me) where it announces the day and date every time you kick it into gear.  Sure enough,  it confirmed my suspicion that today is, indeed, the Lord’s Day.

I’m perfectly happy with Sunday, bringing with it free parking, as I mentioned, and a great many young muscular mens wandering around without much in the way of clothing to hinder one’s ogling.  But this brings to mind the question “What happened to Saturday?”  It’s not a Lost Weekend, more like a temporarily mislaid day.

Trying to recreate some idea of how I had spent June 10, I turned to my computer, cause I’m all modern and hip and stuff.  The history there informs us that for some equally mislaid reason I looked up Marguerite Albert.  Mlle. Albert turns out to have been an early 20th century Parisian red hot mama.  Sued the Prince of Wales, lived across the street from the Ritz in Paris, murdered her husband and got away with it.  A role model for us all.

Aside from that and a few visits to the dwindling number of blogger friends I still maintain, there was nothing informative on the computer;  the car is where it’s supposed to be and all its pieces are still where they started out.  There are no inexplicable stains, or no new ones anyway.  Turning to Saki as a source of information, ugh.  He just leaves the room and either plays with his catnip sausage rope or pees in one of the many places he shouldn’t.  Sadly,  there are no unfamiliar young men snoring away in the guest room.

 

tumblr_orasfpC4Sq1qkopyqo1_500Let us be clear.  If anything even vaguely resembling this turned up, I would immediately start composing some lie about how we had gotten married after a whirlwind romance; some Lucy-and-Ethel kind of shenanigan. He doesn’t look very suspicious minded or like he has the mental high capacity to catch me out.  Tragically, it’s just me and Saki as far as I can tell.

Oh well, as I mentioned once in a long ago post: I say if the police aren’t asking uncomfortable questions, it’s probably best not to worry too much about those lost weeks.  Or day, for that matter.

 

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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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.

 

 

Anals of the Interweb Evolution

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Perhaps my loyal readers will remember my gleefully describing earlier this summer the already well known (to consumers more savvy than I) phenomenon of chat rooms or cams. Sites where (usually) attractive youth will broadcast their pulchritude via the web cam built into their computers while grateful old men, such as me, send them “tips” or “tokens” we buy through the broadcasting site.  Thus an entire ecology of lust and commerce is born and flourishes.  My favorite site is Chaturbate, although the more heavy handedly mercenary RentMen has its charms as well.

Dedicated research on my part since that initial post has turned up several fascinating bits. For instance, did you know Romania has become something of the center of the chat room universe?  A semi-robust infrastructure that provides fast and fairly reliable internet plus a depressed economy that provides lots of kids with little or no jobs times the remarkable good looks of Eastern Europeans equals a kind of perfect storm for churning out hot chat rooms.  The concurrence of all this has led to literally thousands of “studios” springing up there.  Warehouse-y spaces with small rooms set up with garish wall paper and decorations where models sit around in front of live cameras waiting for johns to sign in and start springing for a flash of their bits or, for especially open handed donations, a money shot.  Bucharest: the new Hollywood of flesh peddlers.  Who’d a thunk?

My personal dalliances with these site has opened an entirely new and delightful facet to my quiet little life.  Our principle players include:

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Mikey, aka Playwithme55, is my favorite.  Sweet and charming and guileless, he has a huge fan base (understandably.)  Some of the fans (including me) have taken to nattering along amongst ourselves in the chat portion.  There is the video on the left of Mikey flogging his enormous keilbasa while we crack jokes and catch up on what’s going on in the less lurid portion of our lives in the column on the right.  I was discussing the difficulty of getting one’s children into a good school in Berkeley just last night all the while keeping an eye on Mikey’s luscious titties.  It’s very endearing and a lovely little community.  Also, I should mention Mikey has a wired up dildo called a Lovesense shoved into his poop chute and each time we tip him he gets a jolt.  It’s hilarious to watch him squeal and dance around.

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Also funny is John (Secret Agent Fred and I refer to him as Sponge Bob Square Ass) an absolutely gorgeous and goofy mountain o’man who also utilizes a Lovesense.  He’s on Chaturbate as johnandkitty .  He looks like a bouncer in a really scary bar, but is, in fact, the sweetest thing walking around on two colossal thighs.  COLOSSAL.  They look like they could crush, I don’t know, things.  Me, for sure.  I actually get him to sing ridiculous pop songs (Bonnie Tyler’s It’s a Heartache is one of our faves) while I zap him repeatedly.  I have laughed so hard at the sight  of this Hercules yelping and lurching and warbling “It’s a heartache, nothing but a heartache…” that I almost pissed.

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Guiverno, over at RentMen, also has a substantial following and its terribly gratifying to have him blow them off when I show up and insist we adjourn to a “private chat” so I can tell him a story while he works on one of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen.  And I’ve seen a lot.  Early on in our virtual relationship, I discovered he’s wild for me to tell him long, filthy, very detailed smut in which he is the star.  I have wheedled what are his type of men and kinds of scenes he’s into and now customize the filthy tales  I provide him on demand.  He was particularly fond of the threeway in the toilet where the fat guy blew his load on the blond football player’s face while Guiverno gave it to him up the dirty back road.

994dbdc7bfe0eb2718fbe56c8a96266bb592eee4_500x500-jpg-cb_watermarkKarlosz99 (Do you love these stagenames?) just wants me to marry him.  He has no idea what I look like or what my personality is, but he does have a firm grasp on the concept that trading an improvident existence in Bucharest for a semi-rich widow in San Francisco would be a step in the right direction.

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Then we have Brutus.  Brutus and I have gassy conversations to pass the time while he masturbates a really lovely long wiener.  I mentioned this blog just tonight and he professed to be aghast that I would have a forum dedicated to rambling on mostly about my day to day life.  “What about losing your privacy?” he fretted.  “How can you let everyone know all the details of your life?”  I didn’t want to be rude, but I finally had to point out he was airing these concerns while sitting naked on a web cam with cum drying on his stomach.  He’s a sweet boy, but doesn’t seem to grasp how irony works.

 

Finally, let me mention the snippy queen, whose name eludes me, but who, during my only visit to his room took great offense at some remark I made that implied possibly he was a prostitute.  Uhm, OK.  Let’s see, you’re working on a site called RentMen.  I considered explaining all that, but I just moved on.  Cause thanks to the wonders of this modern age there are literally thousands of other cute boys out there waiting for a generous old queen like me.

More White Lady Problems

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This afternoon, I was having a Day of Beauty/Spa Life in the Castro.  Got my hair cut and exchanged insights on the Walking Dead and proper zombie evasion techniques with my beauty operator, Jeff (who refused to see the brilliance of my theory that zombies can’t lift their feet high enough to climb steps, so just run upstairs.  Also, a fire axe is always handy.  Anyway Jeff’s an idiot.)  Went to the chiropractor and got well and throughly cracked.  Also, got my nails did.

That’s when the trouble hit.  Doesn’t it always?  The nail place was hushed, with quiet spa music noodling in the background, and I was ensconced in my favorite massage chair thinking how much I like someone else filing my hooves when this queen and her two lady friends busted in.  Miss Lady Queen Thing proceeded to expound in a booming voice to her gal pals just how to get a manicure.

What the fuck?  It’s not exactly a participatory event.  You sit back, let the manicurist go at it and then leave.  About all you have to remember is to only stick out one hand at a time.  I tired to keep my eyes shut and ignore the bitch, but immediately all the manicurists, who had been quietly going about their jobs and probably dreaming about the day they rise up in revolution, started chattering and giggling.  Sweetie, you can drop as far into Vietnamese as you like, but we all know who you’re gossiping about.

Still, it was a great manicure and on the way out, I saw the braying queen had picked the ugliest pukey green polish in the world.  Stupid bitch.

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I swiped this from Jason’s Tumblr, over at Golden Fleecing  .  I realized what a fussy old queen I have degenerated into when the first thing I thought of on seeing it was “That boy needs a pedicure, stat.”

The Terrors of the Hidden World

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Have I ever mentioned how my awful sense of smell is?  Awful may not even be the right word, nonexistent is probably closer to the truth.

I have a beautiful pink rose called “April in Paris.” Isn’t that charming?  It’s famous for its intense, heady aroma and friends who’ve seen it blooming attest to that in raving terms.  Yet when I shove my nose right into the very center of the blossoms, I can only detect the very faintest of rose scent.  I am nose blind.  R Man for years insisted boxwood had a very distinctive smell which I never once knew.  We would be strolling through some lovely parterre and he would suddenly demand “Can’t you smell that?”  “Smell what? I would counter.  He seemed to be convinced I was just being contrary.  And then we would be off on one of those on-going squabbles that are such a feature of long time companionship and which spinsters never seem to grasp.

So what are the few things that actually make a dent in my limited olfactory sense?

  • the pungent funk of stinky old man B.O.
  • farts by people in line in front of me
  • cat pee

Which makes it all the stranger that last week Super Agent Fred and I were noodling around  in my guest room, vaguely in preparation of Diane von Austinburg’s upcoming visit (yay!) when he spluttered “Dear god, did Saki pee in here?”

I claimed not smell anything and kept doing so as I leaned in closer and closer until suddenly I was hit by ammoniatic reek.  A dense cloud of it.  Probably took a year off my life, one I really can’t afford at this late stage.

Poor Diane already has plenty enough to put up with in visiting me so I determined to clean the piss up.  I knew that cat piss shows up under a black light, so I bought a small UV flashlight to narrow down the actual site.

It was very much like being in one of those forensic cop shows, but without the terse dialogue and dreadful puns.  Amazingly, even though I was choking on the fumes, nothing glowed.  What?

Since I wasn’t having any luck in the stinky spot, I idly started flashing the light around on the hall and office floors.  Holy shit.  It looked like the aftermath of serial killer’s vacation.  Every single spot Saki has every puked on (and there were an alarming number) shone like a brilliant purple Jackson Pollack canvas.

If you are an animal owner and you are interested in being horrified about your home hygiene, go ahead and try one of these UV tests, although I have to warn you, you will never sleep well again. Years ago, a vet examining Saki mentioned that “cats don’t vomit for no reason.”  I gaped at him, stunned at his lack of experience.  Obviously a dog guy,  Through the many, many cats I have lived with, they have vomited because they were bored, or mad, or because they ran across a spot the hurled on years before and were feeling nostalgic, but I don’t call that reason or excuse.  I think it’s simply perverse.

Anyway, I gotta go mix up a batch of hot water, vinegar and dish soap and attack the scene of Saki’s urine crimes.

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Why can’t I have something like this to sniff in the guest room?  Why?

In Which mrpeenee Reports In

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It’s been a rather trying couple of weeks around here.  I had a colonoscopy, a teeth cleaning and a birthday.  It’s not exactly been leaping from heights to heights.

I can sense my longtime readers tensing up, readying themselves for a colonoscopy blow-by-blow, but I’ll spare us all that, mostly because I was completely knocked out, at my insistence, and have nothing to report.  “One step short of zombie” was my actual instruction to the nice little anesthesiologist and he came through.  I have to say, the drugs are very effective, but I remember them being more amusing last time.

My later chat with my regular doctor about the results weren’t that much more enlightening.  He brought up photos from the scan on the computer even though I insisted I was not interested in a slide show.  Since he’s also an old friend he felt free to make cracks about how a gay man shouldn’t make such a fuss over a delivery to the rear entrance, so to speak.  I felt free to mention how he should shut the fuck up.  Our conversation ended with him remarking, in a genuinely startled tone, “Wow they really went way up there.”  Great.  Maybe they were looking for gerbils, I don’t know.  I wasn’t there at the time.

Also: teeth cleaning.  I’ve always been a star pupil at my dentists, breezing through the hygienist’s scraping and sawing, lalalalahla.  This time, though, my toothy luck ran out.   My tooth girl, Penny, seemed unhappy.  Apparently, it was like the Red Wedding up in there.  I tried to think of a way to blame it all on my cat, but she wasn’t having it.  Penny was disappointed, sad and disappointed in me.  I felt bad, my gums had let her down.  Had she announced my dental hygiene would henceforth include a rosary and five extra Hail Marys, I would have been rattling those beads quicker than you could say knife.

After all that, I have to say my birthday was quite a relief.  Balmy and blue, the kind of perfect San Francisco day that reminds us why we pay so very much to live here.  Secret Agent Fred and I repaired to Neiman’s for a lovely tea.  Mine was bolstered by a couple of Vicodins and a concoction called the Lady in Red cocktail.  The menu listed several harmless ingredients, but it turned out to be basically a glass of vodka stained magenta.  Perfect.  One assumes the ladies who lunch crowd that frequents Neiman’s are serious about their cocktails.  Fine with me.

Afterwards Fred and I went off to some tasteful haberdashery for to me buy some birthday socks.  A very attractive sales clerk, a lanky doe-eyed beauty, rolled out drawersful of the most dazzling stockings.  I should mention I had all afternoon been interspersing my conversation with Fred with the announcement “It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  It seemed to excuse any possible lapse, such as when I was jauntily pointing out socks and gaily instructing the dreamboat clerk “I’ll take that and that and a box of those.  It’s m’burthday, bitch.”  He didn’t even bat one of his lustrous and thick eyelashes.  “Happy birthday, sir,” he murmmered.   It was a slow Tuesday afternoon in the store, I was the only customer and if it took being addressed as “bitch” to make a sale, well, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

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Socks.  Always an appropriate gift.

Спасибо

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Those of you who remember my fondness for Nasty Mormon Boys will no doubt be unsurprised by my recent text to Secret Agent Fred which read “OMYGOD, do you know what you get when you google “naked Russian Orthodox calendar”?”

I wanted to return the favor to Fred since just this afternoon he absolved me from feeling guilty about eating an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.  Apparently they’re practically health food.

Anyway, to save you some Googling (although I know that’s where you’re all headed right after this and before hell) here are some previews:

This.

This:

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And this:

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A little of this:

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Not to mention this:

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And especially this:

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The one on the left looks especially Slavic.  Maybe it’s the white lace.

Do I believe these are representatives of the Russian Orthodox clergy?  Mmmmmmmm, no.  Nor do I believe that blonde tranny did not give me the crabs in New Orleans in 1987.  Do I care either way?  No.  Also, this just in, Goldfish crackers are not a health food.

Howdy

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I wish this was my Texas, sadly it is not.

My darlings, I write to you from a barbecue induced coma.  Yes, it’s all too true, I have returned to Texas, land of my birth and home of the world’s most delicious smoked brisket.  I have barbecue sauce smeared up to my ears and will probably never be able to degrease my hands, but it was worth it.  I’ve had fabulous Mexican food three times and barbecue just now; say what you will about Houston, the old place can certainly sling the hash.

Of course, it’s not all fun and games and enchiladas.  The night I got to New Orleans to see about selling my house there, my oldest brother, Ed, called to say our other middle brother, Mike, was very sick with liver cancer (again with the cancer!  Oy!) and I should came back here.  I wrapped up unloading the New Orleans house (which included its own share of memorable meals and innumerable annoying errands) and then hurled myself into the swampy embrace of my homeland.

It’s odd how even though I’ve been away my entire adult life, the Gulf Coast of Texas has a culture that is still my background.  As soon as I get out of the airport, my accent returns, my sinuses swell to accommodate the indigenous mold and mildew, and I instinctively start looking for tacos.

I had several visits of varying degrees of hilarity with my family, some of whom are charming, some of whom are annoying, some of whom are insane and some of whom are annoying and insane, and I haven’t even seen my father yet.  I was sort of holding the worst for last, I suppose.  My brother Mike is in terrible shape, gaunt and frail and talking about a liver transplant, which, I have to say, seems unlikely.  I’m afraid the next time I’ll be here will be for a funeral.

In the meantime, though, I continue to be faced with the odd combination of big city freeways and redneck cowboys that makes up my heritage.  Fortunately, I return to my beloved San Francisco tomorrow.  Even with its sad lack of decent barbecue, it can’t come soon enough.

Fashion Weak

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I know I am challenged when it comes to dressing like an adult; especially since I retired and no longer have to maintain any pretense that I have an interest in not looking like I’m still in elementary school.  Tennis shoes, jeans and a t-shirt and I’m good to go.

But there’s one rule I stick by: the shirts I sleep in are for that purpose only.  They are not standby undershirts, they are not to be used in public even as “I’m just going to run down to Starbuck’s and get a jolt and I don’t want to get dressed.”  They’re all white, v necked, cotton, slightly too big and not at all something anyone needs to see me wearing.   A few years ago, I bought the present generation which are Calvin Klein cause I’m all fancy and stuff and which have finally reached the quality of perfect softness old cotton achieves.

I adore this.  Soft as your own skin and with a delicate perfume only well-loved cotton has.  Of course, this means they’re doomed.  One day you’re admiring the lovely texture of your pyjammas (and that’s how I spell it, I don’t care what spell check thinks) and the next you’re wondering what the hell all that lint in the washer is, only to realize it’s all that’s left of your favorite t-shirt.  And flights of angels sing thee….

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Wore out shirts, blonde not included.

For once, I’ve been proactive and ordered a batch of new ones to prepare for that sad, sad day.  I buy them in bulk, so now I’m stocked with three dozen jammie shirts, a mix of old and new.  I’m trying to phase in the newbies, but inevitably I find myself pawing down through the stack until my hand hits one of the old faves.  And really how much “breaking in” does a cotton t shirt need?