Tag Archives: sex

Once Again, Late


O little lamby eyed children, I meant to post something about the start of Carnival on its actual start date which was Jan 6, but somehow a week has snuck past.  It happens.

So Happy Carnival.  Carnival is the season that leads up to Lent and which finishes with Mardi Gras.  The general idea I was always fed was that it was a chance to get all the wildness out before Lent, a season when you’re supposed to be all pious and godly and pruny faced and give up shit in order to show your neighbors what a good christian you are.  In reality I assume it’s simply one of those pagan holidays the Church gobbled up to get the pagans in the pews.  Surely, at this time of the year, after you’ve been snowed into some hut with a bunch of other stinky vikings, all of whom eat far too much cabbage, you are ready to cut loose and so here we are with some patched together holiday.

I moved to New Orleans in 1980 specifically so that I could live there during Mardi Gras.  I had come to visit during Fat Tuesdays in college and had such a good time, basing my life on the idea of being in town when the holiday hit seemed like a brilliant idea.  And it was.


I always wanted my costume to get me to look like this.


Inevitably it looked more like this.  Minus the striking head piece.  Mostly just a bunch of feathers and construction paper wadded up somewhere around me with some bananas and dirty feet.

I had no idea before I got there that there was an entire season of parties and parades and shenanigans that led up to the actual day of Mardi Gras, but once I found out about Carnival I plunged in with wild enthusiasm.  There is, or was, an air of giddy good times al over New Orleans during Carnival.   Any fuck up is shrugged off with an air of helplessness and the statement “It’s Carnival.”  Of course the street is suddenly closed because of a parade.  It’s Carnival. Of course you can’t get into your favorite restaurant because it’s closed for a party where people wear paper plates on their faces.  It’s Carnival.   Of course some former trick shows up at your doorstep and wants to spend the weekend.  It’s Carnival.

And that was the real thrill of the season for me: a substantial uptick in the amount of sex to be had, and I was already busy with a considerable quantity of boy pussy even without the whole “It’s Carnival” bit added in.


Mens would be so swept up in the Bacchynal of it all, I was able to snag creatures as heavenly as this.  I swear.  And then we would move along to the next one.

When I lived there. I can remember 4 bars, just in the French Quarter, that housed back rooms devoted to anonymous, but high quality, sex.  I would strike out late in the evening confidant I would spend the next four or five hours getting blow jobs and butt fucking strangers and thought nothing of it.  It didn’t seem louche or strange or sordid.  It was Carnival.


Like this.

On one fine Mardi Gras afternoon, I fought my way through the crowd up to the balcony around a bar called Lafittes in Exile.   There was a wall of men hanging over the railing which provided a shield for me to get down on my knees and go to town on this cute, cute boy’s wiener.  I had only really got rolling when an employee tapped me on the shoulder, not to berate me, but to ask that I take it inside.  I was annoyed.  I found out later from friends who worked there, it was simply a duty that got handed out to patrol the balcony and stop nasty business from getting out of  hand.  The job was called Cock Cop.

I don’t know why they bothered, it was never that uncommon to run across a couple of guys engaged in sodomy in some doorway.  Ah, l’amour.


Or this.

Of course all that’s done and gone and I feel sorry for the queers of today who missed it.  But, oh whatever Saint blessed me with the idiotic idea to come live in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, my most sincere thanks.


Saint Buttus Fuckus, we give thanks for your many gifts and for protecting your devout followers from STDS.  Amen/

On Demand


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.”


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.