In Which We Go for a Walk and Regret It

My very, very dear niece Amber came out for a visit with her husband Spanky. Amber has, more than once, told me Spanky’s real name, but I am unable to overcome the charm of the nickname and so I have no way to remember whatever moniker he might have been stuck with at birth.

Amber reigns over a sizable ranch in far North Texas, pretty much actually Oklahoma, but there was a time as a tween when she lived here in San Francisco for a while. She has not been back since that magical spell and so had a number of places she remembered that she wanted to revisit, chief among them the beautiful cliffs and beaches of Lands End.

Coincidentally, Lands End is very special to me as well. When we first moved out here and were poor as poor rats, R Man and I would go for hikes out there pretty much every weekend. Even if I hadn’t been an escapee from the swamps of the Gulf Coast, it’s impossible not to be swept up by the gorgeous vistas Lands End serves up.

And so I was able to show off as an informed tour guide. The main path is at the top of a steep bluff; the trail down to the beach includes eleventy bazillion steps and somehow twice as many coming back up. Don’t ask me how, it’s the fucking Twilight Zone out there.

It was a beautiful visit and I’m glad we did it, but oh my god, it was tough. All that time R Man and I had spent scrambling up and down those cliffs was 20 years ago or more. One of the problems with being a creaky old man is that I keep forgetting that I am a creaky old man until I do something like reliving a hike I had enjoyed as a much younger and more limber homo and wind up blowing out my back.

We got (finally) to the last six or seven steps and I thought, “You know what? I am never going to make that, I’ll just die here, it’s okay.” By the time we made it back home my back and legs were so sore I had to bow out of the trip they made down to Big Sur the next day.

I know I complain about my bad back a lot here, but the couple of days right after our hike was an extra special kind of ouchy. I would apologize to my back the few times I dragged myself out of bed, but it didn’t help, oddly enough. Eventually things got better and I was even able to join Amber and Spanky when they got back for an evening of prowling around Chinatown. It was very amusing.

I’m glad I got to spend time with her, she’s very sweet and charming, and I’m also very glad I didn’t die on those FUCKING steps. I swear it was a close call.

anyway, naked men:

Where was he when I needed motivation up those last goddam steps?

You know what I needed? Somebody, perhaps this young man, to carry me up the stairs.

Snow White’s missing dwarf, Doofus.

Oh, this guy again.

It’s impressive to see someone who can stand at one urinal and piss in the one next to him.

Smooth.

Such a sweet, sweet face, full of boyish charm and then, holy hot damn, that bazooka.

Sort of the opposite of boyish charm, but very appealing.

In Which the Supply Chain Breaks

I have become very fond of a marijuana infused gummy that I eat a little before bedtime to help me sleep. In the world of edible pot, these gummies are pretty weak players, feeble in fact, which is perfectly fine with me. I don’t particularly want to be fucked up, I just want some help falling asleep.

I’ve bought them from the fancy pot shop a couple of times and so I was feeling pretty pleased with myself as I pulled up to the counter and ordered my Valhalla blueberry acai gummies just like I knew what I was doing. How crushing then to find out they were all out, and were also out of lots of their other stock. Apparently that’s just the world in 2023.

Being an absolute amateur around this brave new world of marijuana edibles, I had no backup plan. I had no idea what might be an acceptable alternative; I had my one little memorized order and that was it.

I mentioned (https://mrpeenee.wordpress.com/2022/07/22/in-which-we-become-comfortably-numb/) before how the sales people there are absolute weed sommeliers. They actually seem to enjoy spending time discussing the various aspects of their wares. When I was a pothead in college, shortly after dinosaurs went extinct, I would go dope shopping and the insight into the product consisted of “yeah it’s pot.” These guys though are committed to making sure you get as loaded as you want to be, to that end they throw around terms like THC and CBD and compare one strain’s ability to help create to another’s relaxation index. I finally went with one because a) it’s blackberry flavored and that sounded tasty and b) it’s all they had.

I got home and was reading the label and discovered the THC level (which is what gets you loaded ) in these gummies is four times as high as in the ones I’m used to. I want to try them anyway, duh, but if y’all don’t hear from me over the next month or so, don’t worry. Eventually, I will remember how to speak and the munchies will drive me to resurface. Til then, naked guys:

Cleanliness

Well. This cutie goes by both Jeff Hallum as well as Jeff Wayne. In case you need to do some research.

Well, OK. If you insist.

Diego Barros, who always hides under his hat. Dude, what’s with your hat?

I love big nuts, and I cannot lie. Ball sacs that hang down past one’s dick are so sexy.

Red silk and big muscley ass, a match made in heaven.

Sweet

And I like the dresser, too.

Young, dumb, and ready to rock.

Considering I never go to the beach, it’s amazing how much I miss it in the winter.

Do you think he rents that by the inch?

I recently used another picture of this same youth in the bed flashing his ass, but really, can you have too much?

Ruggery Valdivia, now with glasses!

Scorpios. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.

In Which We Are Arty

Super Agent Fred gave me a charming pair of portraits for my birthday. They are a couple of powerful women who have challenged and overcome the limitations society has attempted to place on them.

They are top-notch bitches.

I realized this afternoon that my entire social life revolves around sitting in Peet’s cafe and scowling at people. I’m not complaining, and it makes me wonder, what’s really so bad about leprosy?

Sort of along those same lines, my dear, dear niece Amber has revealed she has plans for me should I ever find myself living out of a shopping cart under a freeway here. She has a lovely big house and assures me that I’m welcome there, which is so sweet of her, and there’s a big private loft above the living room that’s all mine. I see my future before me, the crazy old uncle locked in the attic, occasionally howling, demanding coffee and gay pornography. Actually, it sounds okay.

I know I mentioned in the last post the newspaper in Austin had warned that security lines were so bad at the airport they wanted you to get there three hours early. Obscene. I got there a couple of hours before my flight and my Uber driver dealt with the massive traffic outside by simply driving around it and then cutting through three lanes of idling traffic to drop me off. What a gal.

I have Clear, the pre-approved security, get-out-of-jail card and that let me jump to the head of the line and then the frazzled TSA agent just waved a bunch of us through an old timey metal detector instead of the Star Trek-y booth and boom, I was through security in less than 15 minutes. I spent longer in line at the coffee place getting a latte. Irony, it’s what’s for dinner.

guys I’d wait in line for:

Willie Gomez, who still refuses to publish nude pictures on the internet, selfish bastard.

Arty AND meaty, the best of both worlds.

Sorry, you’ll have to repeat yourself; all I can hear is your dick.

Soon it will be beach weather. Are you ready?

Deservedly cocky.

Some cliches are just too potent to ignore.

I C U

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.