In Which We Consider a Legend

What started the whole sorry thing.

 

Our dear chum Mikey (perhaps you might remember him from Chaturbate here) announced he had considered being a cop for Halloween but wasn't in the mood for it.  A shame for both him and everyone who would be so very glad to see Mikey tarted up like a peacekeeper.

That reminded me of a sort of involved bit of gay history.  I'll get to that in a minute but first let's talk about the complicated relationship gay men have with cops.  Typically, police are in an adversarial relationship with the gay world; we want to have sex like rutting dogs with each other, but until very recently and in some places even now, doing so was illegal.  And so, cops often were instrumental in breaking up the good times.  ACAB.

Also queers very often have daddy issues.  Lots of daddy issues.  Maybe they never had one and would like to fill that void, maybe they didn't like the one they started with and are shopping for a replacement, whatever: daddy issues.  And what could symbolize daddy better than the instrument and deliverer of oppression, the fuzz.  Look I didn't make the rules, gay men are both the benefactors and the victims of the patriarchy.  Ya get a little ying, ya get a little yang.  So ACAB, but also, Oh Daddy.

Into this complicated naughty world, in 1978, Colt Studios delivered the perfect product, a short video eloquently called Hot Cop.  It starred one of their classic massive muscle men posing and flexing and most importantly sneering.  At the time porn was typically short on info and so the video burst onto the scene with no cast lists.  The cop never takes off his sunglasses so you can't ever really see his face.  And thus a mystery was born.

Fans of the video rabidly scoured sources looking for the name of the beefy beauty. For decades nobody knew, but there was lots of theories.  It was the Zapruder film of gay smut.  Ferocious arguments blazed on chat boards comparing the mustaches of various candidates.

Then 2022, I stumbled across the answer in one of my favorite odd little blogs, BJ's Gay Porno Crazed Ramblings, where the author calmly presented not just the name of the model but all of his other appearances in different films and for different studios under his many noms d'smut.

The answer to the great hot cop mystery?  It was a fairly frequent cold studio model called Brutus (naturally.) I remember him but only vaguely.  I had no idea he had appeared so frequently in the police end of the porn spectrum.  I remember vividly that Drummer cover he did, but I didn't realize who he was.  I also remember the editor of the magazine commenting on the photo shoot.  He said Brutus was really into verbal accompaniment for the photography, to the point where one of the assistants had to leave.  The big bad brute had just overwhelmed the poor little teacup.  Well.

Herewith we present Brutus.

The shoot where his spoken word slam scarred off some assistant just trying to do his job.  Get HR on the line NOW.

Look, he has a face.  Who knew?

More copshop theatrics.  I remember this guy, I honestly always thought it was someone different from the legendary Hot Cop.

Unfortunate haircuts are nothing new.

Yes sir, officer, sir.  Pig love, whacha gonna do?

If you want to check out the clips from the original video, you can go here  It's worth it for the primitive synth groove alone.

So more gay cops for your Halloween costume inspiration

One of the all time classics, Al Parker in Weekend Lockup.

The massively massive Pete Kuzack.

Another old fave, Leo Ford getting out of a speeding ticket, from Stroke magazine.

I think this is Rick Koch.

Pigs in heat.

In Which We Bake

Quit bragging.

 My dear friend drumstick had his 50th birthday this last weekend.  50!  Can you imagine?  What a baby.  I told his wife, Hotfoot, that I'd make a cake for his birthday because earlier this summer he had said how much he liked my streusel cake.  Hotfoot said that was a great idea and then asked if I could possibly make two because they were going to have a big party and one cake might not be enough.  If anyone else had come up with that idea, I would have said, "Oh you know what? No." But I love them both as if they were my own poorly behaved, not very bright children so I agreed.

Both drumstick and Secret Agent Fred had told me their idea of the definitive birthday cake is chocolate with "white icing." They agreed when I asked them if they maybe were referring to "vanilla" since apparently that's too exotic for either of their tiny little brains.  

Everybody at the party laid into both cakes like some kind of pastry locusts.  I didn't get any of the streusel and only a couple of bites of the chocolate.  I guess such enthusiasm is gratifying, but I wouldn't have minded getting an entire piece.  Also gratifying was two of the guests asking me for the recipe.  Could there be any more flattering response?

Anyway, couple of nights ago I decided to recreate the chocolate cake so I could have as much as I wanted.  Naturally, It did not turn out as well as the party version; the cake is delicious, but for some reason,  the icing refused to cooperate.  It tastes okay but it's a sticky, slaggy mess at the best of times and this time it refused to come together and instead turned into sort of a tasty glue.  

Not pretty, but delicious.

Boys are who might be delicious, they certainly are pretty:

Cute and goofy, what an unbeatable combo.

The meaty appeal of Paulo Victor Melo.

Jett Way was in our last post, but I find him just so darn irresistible. And why is "irresistible" spelled that way anyway?

Speaking of frequent flyers in the mrpeenee photo selection, Marbys Negretti.

Lanky

An absolute landscape of pussy.

Beefiness may not be next to godliness, but it is somewhere close by.

The beach is closed for the season.  Sigh.

Inked up and ready to go.

In Which We Are Eclipsed

 

A solar eclipse, even a partial one, is the kind of nerdy phenomenon that always interests me.  So when this latest one was going to pass Northern California, I was all in.  

Then the morning of it, I set my alarm, spring from my bed, and was confronted with 

the densest overcast you can imagine.  Gray as a landlord's heart, foggy as mrpeenee's attention span.  The weather seemed determined to make a point; it was even more overcast than usual, certainly more than was necessary to foil any attempt at eclipse watching.

I love San Francisco, I do, and the fog here is just part of the package.  An afternoon in Houston was enough to remind me how much I adore our chilly weather.  We just have to accept views of things like meteor showers or fireworks or eclipses are going to have to fight it out with the fog and the fog always wins.

Guys who also always win:

Matthew Cameron, now with extra photoshopped meat.

Sometimes, muscles are enough.  Julian Aryouelo.

Levy Van Wilgen.  I have simply given up trying to avoid the sins of photoshop

The overwhelming Marbys Negretti.  Sometimes he goes by Mr. Kent.

A new favorite here at mrpeenee Enterprises, Jett Wayne.

Jett also frequently poses as the gas station attendant of your dreams.  Cleanup on aisle My Dick.

I think Steven Dehler looks better with longer hair, but who is gonna argue with that ass?

Jon Kale, one of those Bel Ami sluts.  I wish I had a round window.

Marbys Negretti again.  I wanted to mention how much I admire great big muscley guys who are also enthusiastiic bottoms.

Let's end on a classical note, Jake Tanner from Colt Studios.

In Which We Consider Catarrh and Possible Cannibalism

 

So when I got back from Houston a couple of weeks ago I had a raspy sore throat that has since morphed into a juicy little cough that will not go away.  In the past, whenever I have spoken to a doctor about some cough, they always ask, in the most delicate manner possible, if it is "productive" which is a refined way of referring to snot.  I could describe this one in detail, but let's just move on.

Houston is a semi-tropical swamp and so the mildew and spores and flora floating around in the air there are pretty spectacular.  Since I grew up with all of them, I had always assumed I was somewhat immune, but it appears having been gone so long means I have relapsed.  This current fuss feels like I have moss growing in my lungs. I don't feel bad, no fever, just a say-something croup that demands attention.  It's the kind of cough that makes you wish you had waited for the other elevator when your fellow passenger breaks out with it.

Anyway.

I mentioned before that I will occasionally take it on myself to organize the package closet downstairs in the lobby.  No one asked me to do it, but taking on the giant moraine of Amazon flotsam and jetsam that piles up there everyday just appeals to my OCD.  I like the sense of having tidied up something.

Last night I was digging through the current mess and ran across a box marked "nutritional supplements." It's San Francisco, of course some people here are not willing to simply eat food.  What I was struck by, though, was the name of the company manufacturing it: Soylent.  SOYLENT.  I can't decide if their marketing team is genius or idiotic.  Anyway since I had my marker out printing apartment numbers on the deliveries, I felt moved to add my comment:

Wouldn't you?

Guys who are deliciously people:

Spooky pussy.

Neil, from the aptly named porn geniuses Paragon Men.

Peek a boo, I see you.

Amazingly, I forget this guy's name.  That is just rank ingratitude.

Like the song says, "Everybody oughta have a maid...."

I haven't featured a cowboy in  a while and since I was complaining about Houston, it seemed appropriate.

Kissy face.

Presenting the charming Angelo Ruslan.

And the always welcome Philippe Soulier.

In Which We Take Another Walk

 

I am in the throes of insomnia these days, the very throes, I tell you.  The other morning, after lying in bed for 4 hours, I finally surrendered and admitted I was not going to be able to force myself to sleep.  So I went out for a little walk with my destination pegged as a cafe called the Patisserie Viennoiserrie, a name so pretentious it makes my teeth hurt.  Much like my visit to the doctor last week, I decided to take you all along with me by photographs.  Here we go on mrpeenee Goes to the Cafe.

This is the courtyard of our building, lush and quiet and green.  The trees are birches and the small shrubs are foxtail fern.

I cut down a little alley behind us I like this house very much, so crisply white and sort of pissy.  In a good way.

These three are all part of a charming flower bed that wanders down the sidewalk in front of a real estate company. I love that red hollyhock.

Another flower bed along another sidewalk is this one behind the middle school for our neighborhood. The kids grow squash and sweet peas and other random vegetables.  They else have this stunning red amaranth in the bottom photo.

To show San Francisco's not all preciously cutie pie, there's this abomination of an apartment building that is a block long and half a block deep, huge, weird and ugly.

Then there's this charmingly odd place right across the alley from the big ugly joint which demonstrates what they probably tore down for the abomination.  

Decorating some ugly little wall because we're GAY.

So I got to the cafe (and I don't understand why someplace called the Viennese is decorated with French froufrou) and I discovered it is not only pretentious but crowded and that's when I remembered I don't really like it.

So instead I went over to a quiet, charming little place I like only a block away and had breakfast outside on their patio. Yay.

Pretty weeds.

This is the front of the middle school with the flower beds in the back.  Isn't it cool?  High art Deco.  The middle school I went to was constructed of worn down red bricks with plaster cow skulls as architectural decoration. I'm not making that up.  It was a thing in Texas in the 1920s.  I originally wrote that as just "the 20s" and then remembered that we are in the 20s RIGHT NOW.

Hard to tell but the sign says "Liquor." It's the little bodega directly behind my building which has come to my rescue more than once when I'm suddenly short an ingredient. I figure if they don't have it, I don't need to be eating it.

Also super agent Fred referred to a little corner store as a bodega and whomever he was speaking to took exception to the word and told him he was racist for using it.  What?  English is stuffed full of Spanish words we borrowed because they're handy.  Fatheads, they're everywhere.

And that concludes a walk in mrpeenee's very large shoes.  I hope you enjoyed it.

This charming picture was sent to me by one of my commenters, I appreciate his generosity.

Is he trying to figure out the big words?  Poor dear.

It has suddenly gotten warm in San Francisco after an unusually cool summer.  Following on the heels of a few very hot days spent in Houston, I am not amused.

For once, lounging poolside seems very appealing.

Because along with poles and holes, I am also fond of tits.

Naked guys in sling shots are going to be the very next craze.  You heard it here first.

But extra large booty will always be in style.

So meaty, so coy.

Artsy, but not fartsy.

he's just pretending to be surly, I'm sure he's a very sweet boy in reality. Some reality, anyway.

The luscious Santiago, courtesy of Lucas Kazan.

Lastly, Saint Henry of Caville, once again refusing his destiny of Born to Porn.