The House That Wouldn't Die

You remember I was trying to buy a house in New Orleans, but the deal went all to hell because the sellers were too greedy?  As I told them to get stuffed, I thought how gratifying it would be to have them come crawling back, the way you fantasize about the cute guy at the bar who rebuffs your very sensible suggestion that he allow you to spooge all over his face.

Imagine my surprise then when that's exactly what happened (the house, not the spooge faced cute boy.)  My realtor there (who I now think of as She Who Must Be Slapped) forwarded me an email from the sellers' agent asking if I'd be interested in trying again.  I should mention that I've been stalking this house online and I had seen it had gone into contract after I dropped out and then that fell through, so I'm assuming bitter experience made my offer look more appealing.

The final deal came out $15,000 more than I had offered, but that's still $37,000 less than they were asking so, yay, I win.  We're supposed to close on Feb. 21, fingers are crossed.

And speaking of my weasely agent, when I called him to say I would accept their offer, he attempted to cover his surprise by saying something like "I'm so glad I reached out to them for you."  Bitch, I saw the email from them, it was entirely their idea.  I realized when I first met him that I would eventually know the urge to hold him face down in a toilet, I just hadn't expected it come about so soon.

New Orleans, it's calling me.

That Time of Year

So January 14 was the anniversary of R Man's death.  Several friends, including mrpeenee readers, sent charming, touching emails and some others posted about it on their sites, which I think is unbelievably sweet.  I, on the other hand, completely, totally forgot it, until I read the notes and posts.

I am not good about anniversaries, they seem to not have the significance for me they do other people.  I only remember my birthday, R Man's birthday and the date we met, and that's simply because it was the day before his birthday.  I know our wedding was sometime in the fall only because I remember at the party afterwards the datura on the patio was blooming.  I am one of the few people in America who can never recall the date of Christmas.  I know it's December 24 or 25, but despite a lifetime of being reminded and looking it up (as I did just now,)  I am still never sure which it is, and on some particularly bad years, a suspicion that it might just be December 26 sneaks in.

So the date I lost R Man (cheeky bastard, sneaking off like that.)?  Not a clue.  If I hadn't posted something about here with the specific date when it happened, I would be out of luck.

It's not to say I have "moved on."  I miss him every fucking day, achingly.  It's just, as I told Secret Agent Fred when we were trading widow stories, I don't need a peg (like an anniversary or a sad song) to hang my grief on.  It sits on my shoulder all the time and sometimes it calls my attention to itself and sometimes, mercifully, it doesn't.  The weeks leading up to his death were the worst time in my life, miserable and exhausting and heartbreaking, and I do not need a reminder of them because believe me, I am in no danger of forgetting.

So what was I doing on the anniversary?  I don't know, sleeping, watching porn or detective shows on TV, or obeying Saki's commands; the yoozh.  I have a gorgeous new pair of John Varvatos boots and I'm breaking them in by wearing them around the house and trying to dance in them without actually falling down.  I hope that's what I was doing.

Blood and Porn

All I wanted to do was transplant a largish Pieris from one pot to a larger one, but the pot the stupid thing in was not giving it up.  I struggled and struggled, but the plant was stuck.  It's possible I got frustrated, I do that.  It's also possible I took a hammer and busted the pot to get the plant out.  A shame, since the pot was a lovely blue and white ceramic one and I regret losing it, but not as much as I regret cutting a big chunk out of my left thumb cuticle on a shard of it.

Because the skin on your cuticle is so thin, wounds there tend to bleed freely, as this one did.  The whole house looks like a serial killer's place after a long weekend.  Plus, I was scheduled for a manicure this afternoon and the girl I wound up with certainly looked at my bandaged thumb askance.  Since I secretly refer to her as the Butcher of Castro Street for the odd gusto she brings to dealing with hangnails, I wasn't really worried, but still, I was plenty to glad to pull into the bar where I was supposed to meet up with Secret Agent Fred.  It had been a long day, filled with White People Problems.

Fred was ensconced chatting with some nice looking older guy who eventually revealed (with no prodding) that he had been a model for Colt Studios back in the day.  I have an researcher's knowledge of porn so I was plenty interested.  He said had never worked under any nom de smut, which immediately told me he was pretty far down on the totem pole; everyone who matters gets a fake name, even if it's as dumb as "Bill Bailey."  Speaking of poles, he was quick to mention the issue he was in was the classic Men Who are Hung.  I wasn't impressed,  nice people don't brag.

He wandered off, despite my assurances that Fred is easy, and I came home determined to find that issue and see if was really in it.  Since I have amassed a collection of more than 1,400 titles that might seem daunting, but I looked it up on the Colt site so I was just flipping through looking for the cover.

Amazingly, it is one of the few mags I don't own.  What are the chances?  So tomorrow I'm off to the used porn store to check.

Life is a Dance Floor

I was dancing just now (Pink, God is a DJ.)  Actually, I was just bouncing rhythmically in my chair with lots of head bobbing and drag queen hand gestures and realized Saki was watching me with great concern.  Then he tried to swat at me.

Tragically, I was not accompanied by Jane Lynch and a trio of safety gays since I'm sure Jane would have protected me from Saki.  Or she might have taken his side.  No telling, really.

This Just In

God love the commenters of mrpeenee, miscreants all.

In two recent posts, I included photos of guys who had intrigued me, but whose identities were lost in the mists of the internet.

Exhibit A

and B

 Of course, readers of this blog would be the source for all things smut and sure enough, two of our minions came through.  And a big thank you to both of them.

umaneo reports the first one is straight porn guy Tommy Gunn.  My in-depth investigation reveals that he is an attractively rough looking customer.  In the scenes I watched (for archival purposes only,) the young ladies receiving his attentions up the poop chute seemed genuinely discomfited.  Oh, yeah baby.  Wait, that's not what I meant to say, I meant, Brute, of course.

almchrl1 then chimed in about the second one "He's a Russian model, Dj and performance artist.I fergit his name…."  Turns out a quick google of those terms reveals he is one Pavel Petel,   Besides being a great big humpy hot homo thang, he also has a number of interesting insights into being a great big humpy hot homo thang in Moscow, where his sexual identity is illegal.

His Tumblr site, HERE, is most amusing, you should go look around it.  I especially liked the spread of him dressed as a unicorn, with a fat hardon, hanging with a pink gorilla.  I can also recommend "King of Twerk," but then again, I would, wouldn't I?

Cause If They Don't Dance, Then They're No Friend of Mine

Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own.  Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep.  Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there's really nothing else to do, anyway.

The L.A. tain station is gorgeous

We stayed in the Biltmore downtown,  where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,

but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint.  We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame.  The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn't help blurting out bitchy snark.   I am ashamed, but it's true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood.  Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up?  Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.

Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.

The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they're drawn to him like he's a puppy with a fistful of singles.

Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks.  Count me in for next year's.  I'll see you there.