In Which We're Glad That's Over

 

I made it all the way through Krampus season without being captured by a demon.  It's a win for team peenee!

I spent most of xmas asleep which is just how it should be.  When I finally staggered to consciousness,  I breezed over to secret agent Fred's to help hang art in his newly painted hallway.

Before

After

It's a very attractive piece, an antique Chinese carved arch.  I think it may have been part of a screen or even one of those elaborate beds.  It was a struggle getting it up on the wall because it's three sizable pieces that have to fit together AND have to hang straight AND the whole point was to get it to fit around that stupid electric box that his building just installed.  

That rug has got to go.

Fred says he's not digging that particular blue although I like it, I think mostly it's the light from the naked bulb that is not doing it any favors.  I enjoyed the whole experience.  I think for some gay men (me and Fred for instance) decorating is more than a chore, it's recreational, especially when there's a challenge to it like this was.  It's sort of like what sports are for straight boys.  

I'm writing this the day after christmas, Boxing Day, the Feast of Stephen, whatever you want to call it, mostly I think of it as having survived yet another holiday season.  Yay.  The yuleday itself brought with it several very sweet texts from my nieces.  My brothers started popping out offspring 55 years ago and yet I am still unaccustomed to being addressed as "Uncle Gary."  Who you talking to?

Guys:

Anonymous, but humpy.

I am not usually taken by skinny youth.  I am only including this one to show that I do have range.

More anonymous beef.

I'm listening to Erasure, an old favorite from the mad, gay 80s.  Oh.  L'amour.

Curvy.

Yeah, I don't have any information about the boys this week, sorry.  Not sorry.

Kristen Bjorn used to be a purveyor of such high quality pussy.  These days, not so much, except for this guy, whoever he is.

In Which We Offer Season's Bleatings

 

I found my Christmas card

I was walking home on the very respectable Market Street right past the very respectable corner of Sanchez when some slightly broken down homeless guy with a big dingy gray beard held up a prescription bottle full of mystery pills and shook them at me.  I very politely declined because, you know, manners, and kept walking, but then I wondered "Did I just turn down drugs from Santy Claus?"

Drugs are on my mind more than usual these days.  I remain off of the pain meds that were so dear to me for so many years.  Not because of any high-minded opposition to opioids, but simply because once I stop taking them I found out they did nothing for my pain level. 

Now that I've sucked it up and gone through withdrawal, It just seems like I'm better off without them.  However, withdrawal brought with it an occasional spike of depression.  When I mentioned it to my doctor, she dug around in Google for a while (bitch, I could have done that, a thought I did not mention  to her.  Well, maybe I mentioned it a little bit.) 

She finished her conference with Dr Google and announced that what I needed was ketamine.  I briefly wondered if she was inviting me to a rave, but then I settled down.  Turns out ketamine is the new depression drug that all the best people are trying.  It's not just for club kids who have too many opinions about house music any more.

I have a history of drugs that go back several amusing decades.  I was not only slutty, but always up for a good time.  One Mardi Gras, friends of a friend had something they called "mysterious white powder." I went back for seconds.  How was I to know it was PCP?  Maybe.  Speculation later held that it might also have been pig tranquilizer.  My point is, I am no stranger to chemically enhanced amusements.  Still, I'm surprised when medical professionals suggest drugs I could probably get more cheaply and easily at the 16th Street BART station.

I am now supposedly scheduling my ketamine treatment through some online site which is probably not as sketchy as it sounds.  Probably.  We'll see.

Also since I'm not on pain meds (which didn't do anything) my back still hurts so this afternoon I went to yet another doctor and got a trigger point injection: lidocaine, some steroid, and something else.  I don't know, I wasn't paying attention; I was busy thinking about how humpy the nurse shooting me up was.  Anyway, it actually seems to be helping which is a good thing because the shot itself - ouchie.  So merry fucking xmas, and all that.

Guys you wish you'd find under the tree:

The aptly named Joey Swole.

Some guy with a dick.  That's all I got.

Zac Beech wishes happy burfday to baby jesus, sorry about that whole crucifixion thingy.  No hard feelings, huh?

Matt Vose and his extra large fatty.

Scott Carter, looking cuter than ever with his new beard.

DON'T DRINK OUT OF THE FUCKING CARTON.  Uncouth lout.

Speaking of apt names, here we see Matt Luscious, aka Creamy Gorilla.

Garic Soldatov, always welcome here at mrpeenee, Inc.

Another anonymous piece of beef, but who would say no?

Chase Stobbe and his notable nipples.

Another very nice big fatty, courtesy of Frank Dominguez.

One of those Kristen Bjorn tramps.

In Which We Are Carolled

I was so close.  For the last couple of years I have celebrated making it all the way to Christmas without being subjected to any Christmas music.  I know being so hostile to the mewling tunes of this joyful season makes me an easy target for people wanting to call me a misanthropic grinch.  Fuck that.  It's only that I am willing to say out loud what  everyone else is thinking.

This year seemed to be shaping up for yet another Xmas uninfested by Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer and the like.  Since I pretty much go nowhere except my bathroom and Peet's Cafe (and they have totally gotten on board the no Christmas music train) I felt safe, foolishly safe.  I would just slide through what Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, calls the festering season without my ears being punished.  

And then I had to go see my doctor.  What was waiting for me there?  Guess.  I opened their door and was confronted with Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Nat King Cole crooning fucking carols. And not just any carols, but the insipid, saccharin version.

Ugh, this is already been a difficult year.  I should have known.

Guys to soothe your holiday battered earholes:

Jean Franko, still in the wrapping, sort of.

I finally found out the name of this guy and his angelic backside, please give a warm peenee welcome to Alfred Herrera

Here we have the seasonal stylings of Jack Harrer, another one of those Bel Ami sluts.

My friends and others who enjoy low humor used to call this pose The Landing Pad.

Some anonymous, but humpy strumpet.

I know it's been a long year.  Lay down and take it easy for a while.

In Which We Get Our Hair Did

I did not dye my hair purple.  I dyed it lavender.  It's fun, it's fresh, it's kicky.  This was not some carefully thought out change; a couple weeks ago I was lying in bed, as I am wont, and I suddenly thought that I would like to live life with wisteria colored hair.  There's a place next door to my dear, dear cafe Peet's that specializes in color, so I went online, randomly picked some beautician there, and set up an appointment.  Boom.

The appointment was Thursday, The guy in charge of my new hair was very nice and had an adorable dog he claimed was a "miniature Pinscher," but it just looks like a dachshund with long legs.  Anyway it was easy and fairly pleasant, but St Clairol above, I was there for more than 2 hours, a time commitment I would not normally allot to anything other than porn.

Initially I was sort of disappointed in the color.  It seemed closer to a old lady mauve than the silvery lavender I was hoping for.  Just as a side note, Americans pronounce that color as "maw*ve" but when you're discussing your new hair color, it's more comforting to use the French "mow*ve." 

Mowve

But things seem to be calming down to much more closer to what I had in mind.  So I'm happy with it. Will I go back to get the color charged up in a month or so?  I'm pretty sure not.  That level of fussiness is just not something I can regularly sign up for.  Plus the guy who was doing the color also trimmed my hair with an air of not being able to restrain himself any longer.  He made a few discreet but loaded comments about my haircut and told me to just come back to him to get it cut.  I admitted to him that my regular haircutter, Jeff, terrifies me and I would never be able to leave.  It's like being in an abusive relationship, except that I sling back as much abuse as I take.  It's complicated.

Guys:

So very not mauve.

The always charming  Dmitry Averyanov.

David Ciacek.  I don't know why they didn't cast him as Ken in the Barbie movie, he actually looks like a live version of Barbie's boyfriend, but with a really nice package,

See?  Absolute Ken.

My obsession with Grag Stone continues.

Peek-a-boo, I see you.  Jakub Stefano.

I'm not sure who this might be, which seems like rank ingratitude, but in my research, I see a lot of nekkid guys.

I always enjoyed a brisk bout of oral sodomy and as such, I am familiar with this point of view.

British diver, not Tom Daley, but I don't know which one.  It's hard to concentrate on anything but those thighs. 

In Which We See the Light

 

So what's wrong now mrpeenee?  I was minding my own beeswax in the kitchen Monday evening when I suddenly had to sneeze.  I turned my head to keep from spraying the counter and I managed in that simple moment to pull a muscle in my back.  Actually it's kind of my side and my back, over my ribs.  The fact that I can injure myself so easily annoys the piss out of me, but I am simply a fragile blossom.  Ironically, and I do hate cheap irony, the pulled muscle is involved in every single time I sneeze or cough, and I have spent a lot of time doing both lately, and hurts when I do so.  Dammit.

In unrelated, but pretty news, San Francisco hosted some big deal financial conference, APEC or SPCA or SPICEGIRLS.  I don't know something like that.  They didn't ask me, they just went ahead and did it all.  Typical.  I think it's like the G7 conferences but for the non-G7 world.  The city was abuzz with frantically washing the streets and blocking off sidewalks downtown so that people working there were just out of luck and shoveling homeless people out of sight.  I'm okay with washing the sidewalks; by this late in the dry season they are pretty filthy, but I could do without the rest of the harassment.

An arts group decided to contribute to the festivities by constructing a laser that shot colored light beams up Market Street, the main street of San Francisco.  I was skeptical, but interested, especially since I live on Market Street.  The first night it was on, I looked at my window and didn't see anything and thought it was just a bust.  The next night, though, I actually went outside (amazing, I know) and looked down the street towards downtown  where the laser originated and BOOM 

Diane von Austinburg very cleverly urged me to see if I could get a better shot up on our roof deck.  I thought it was unlikely because the deck has great views of everything except straight up Market, but I always listen to Diane (sort of) so I went up there and sure enough, there is a tiny little corner you can lean out over the edge of the building to see this:

if you don't plummet to your death, which is probably a good idea.  It really was very spectacular and sort of like a gay Bat Signal.  Of course they took it down once all the big shots left town.

Naked guys:

This guy goes by the unlikely moniker of Mr. Bradford.  I would be willing to call him whatever he likes for a crack at that crack.

Once again, I am simply fed up with ridiculous PhotoShop.

Speaking of guys who seem to have adopted typos as their screen name, here we have Grag Stone.

I don't know why this week's lovelies have such odd names, I didn't plan it, but here's Letterio Amadeo.

Here we go from odd names to no names, cause I don't know who this beautiful rump belongs to.

I forgot to mention that Grag Stone is also my new favorite imaginary boyfriend.  He is both very cute and an enthusiastic bottom.

Blake Mitchell, the naughty puss.

Even in these odd, odd times there is the occasional bright spot, such as Austin Wolfe sharing his big ol' hog with such generosity.

I usually try to achieve a balance here between butt shots and dick pics, but I am just woefully short on asses this week.  I will try to do better.  Also, this Bryce Evans.