In Which We Revel in Some Domestic Bliss

 

This plant is a Purple Shield, it has some Latin name that I am not going to try to spell here.  I always thought they were cool because, uh, they're purple, ok?  I bought this one in February despite not being sure how well it might do inside here.  In fact, it has more than tripled in size since then.  That's a huge relief, when I had a garden, almost all of the plants would be thriving, minding their own business, and I would obsessively fuss over some sickly little specimen that was obviously never going to make it. 

Even better, it has apparently felt the call of spring and has set flowers.  I was delighted when I saw all the buds, but then the actual blooms turned out to look like puny orange dandelions. Oh well. 

In local cat news, I followed Diane von Austinburg's very sensible suggestion that I lure Octavia out from under the bed with treats.  Turns out Octavia is a snack whore.  I can relate.  Once she connected me with treats, she let me pet her and then once she let me pet her, she has started demanding attention.  

She slept with me this morning, which was really sweet except for the part about waking me up by yelling at me to pick her up and put her in bed.  She can jump up herself, but she has sort of a hard time with it.  I'm going to get some of those steps so I don't have to act as some kitty longshoreman.  Once she settled down, she set to licking my arms because apparently she didn't approve of my hygiene.  If you've never been licked by a cat, it is very much like being attacked with wet sandpaper.  Again, so sweet, except now my forearms smell like cat food.

Dudes I wish were yelling at me to get in my bed: 

Maybe he needs me to lick him.

Thoughtful and meaty, an excellent combo.

I just love a man with good balance.  I fall over enough for both of us.

I think I may have featured this guy sort of recently, but I'm too lazy to check.

Artistic buttchops.

In Which We Are Becatted

 

Everybody say hello to our new cat, Octavia.

I know this is not a very good picture, but it's the only one I have because immediately after this, she made a break for the guest room and has been hiding under the bed ever since.  That was Sunday evening and today is Friday, so you do the math. And actually, she is only a new cat int he sense that we are only recently acquainted.   She is 12 years old, to be mathematically exact.  So she is an old lady cat, but I'm an old lady man, so that seems like an OK match.

I understand the poor thing being freaked out.  She was leading a pretty sweet life in Cat Jail when I swooped in and dragged her off to my evil, if attractively decorated, lair.  For all she knows I am a monster.  So I'm trying to be patient and let her acclimate at her own time. 

Diane von Austinburg, who knows all about kitties, offered the very sensible suggestion that I should hang out in the same room as Octavia but without forcing myself on her.  So that's what I'm doing, I hope in this way she gets more accustomed to me and will eventually be my little friend. 

Her life before Cat Jail does not seem to have been all roses.  The Cat Jailers report that when she came in, she had such bad flea infestation she had wound up with anemia and she had a urinary tract infection, which is fairly common among old female kitties.  In fact, it's not rare among old females, period.  Apparently, her owners decided to surrender her (for euthanasia!) rather than pay for the antibiotics for the infection.  I am honestly not judging them, times are tough and vet bills can fall pretty far down on the list of expenses a family has to deal with.  I'm just glad the San Francisco Animal Care and Control, which is Cat Jail's real name, saved her and cleaned up all her medical issues in time to hand her over to me. 

So here we are, Octavia and me, hangin in the guest room.  I have to say, it's not a bad place to wind up. I almost never spend time in here to the point that I think of it as "Diane's room."  Apparently so does Diane, but we may now have to adjust that to "Octavia's room."   Sorry Diane.

Scenes from a guest room: 

Speaking of pussies: 

The mirror has two dicks, and they're sweet looking big ones, too.

Muscle pussy.

I wish my apartment had radiators, I think they are the ideal heater.

"wearing one's underwear on one's head" is a shorthand I use to refer to general craziness.

Ooh la lala lah.

Recently, chaturbate Mikey complained about my using soft dic pics here, to which I can only reply "Don't be greedy."

Don't be greedy.

In Which We Return

 

The mission statement of mrpeenee, Inc. LLC

Well that was fun.  I left Venice early Tuesday morning and got home something like 16 hours later, 16 very tiring hours.  Turns out even having a chair that makes into a bed, while making the whole ordeal easier, does not totally do away with the hassles of flying.  I've been home two days and I'm still trying to get my frail carcass back to normal.  Or as normal as it ever gets.  I'm just glad to be back to my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet and I understand that is the definitive old man statement.  Don't care, won't care.

Let me once again emphasize how much I appreciate what a good sport Diane was about traveling with me.  There we were, in two of the great cultural centers and my plan was to take naps and have coffee and pastries, which is exactly what I do here. The St. Regis cafe, a block from our hotel in Paris, gets 5 enthusiastic stars, would go again, in a heartbeat.  Also the place in Venice that sells pistachio cream filled croissants was really good.

Here's my review of Delta airlines, with which I flew home: the planes suck (The seat to bed thingy worked okay, but was so narrow I couldn't fit my elbows down by my side when lying down, and I am not a particularly wide individual.) but the personnel were great.  I originally had a 6-hour layover in Atlanta and needed to get a boarding pass for my leg back to San Francisco.  The desk I had to deal with had three ladies filing their nails and refusing to make eye contact and one large homo.  Naturally, we bonded, girlfriend got me a first class seat on a flight that was boarding pretty much right then.  I was home, and glad of it, before my original flight even took off.  

In short I'm delighted I went, I had a wonderful time, and I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Fellow travelers: 

Well, someone knows how to have a good time.

I've decided to start a new religion

Extra beefy is always welcome around here

Everything counts in large amounts.

Extra tasty, just for you.

Buttchops

In Which We Flee to Italy

That's mrpeenee, there on the left.

Eighteenth century rich Englishmen who had too much money and not enough culture would embark on what was called a Grand Tour in order to get rid of some of the first and maybe pick up some of the latter.  Diane and I have taken on a sort of abbreviated version of one and have left Paris for the damp embrace of Venice. 

You have to take a boat from the airport into town, because, duh, Venice. As soon as I stepped out of the airport doors and was met with the briney, fishy smell of the lagoon, I was transported back to my childhood in the swamps of the Texas Gulf Coast.  Muck, it has a Proustian effect on me.

I naively hoped the gangs of tourists would not be as dreadful as everyone said.  And they aren't.  They are, in fact, much worse.  Diane and I got lost trying to get to the Piazza San Marco, which is actually not far from our hotel, but the mobs of tourists, combined with Venice's incomprehensible layout was just more than we could master.  Plus my refusal to ask for directions didn't help.

God love her, Diane was such a trouper.  She never complained, even as we wandered, battered by the crowds, for 3 HOURS.  We finally just gave up and were headed back to the hotel when we accidentally stumbled on, drum roll, the Piazza.  We had a very nice tea there and then came back to collapse in the hotel. 

A dazed mrpeenee in the very charming Cafe Florian tea room on the Piazza San Marco

Here is a partial list of things that piss me off about the tourist rabble here.

• Bitches
• Bitches who smoke in my vicinity
• Bitches who are in my vicinity 
• Bitches posing for their influencer TikTok
• Bitches who stop in front of me, oblivious to all the people crammed in behind them 
• Bitches who crowd up right on my heels when some other bitch has stopped in front of me and I can't go anywhere.  Bitch.
• Teutonic lesbians

We have a perfectly lovely hotel:

I am up in the attics, in a large, but odd room, with ceilings that are occasionally higher than I am tall.  Occasionally.

I have to go into the bathroom to put on or take off a t-shirt because I can't raise my arms above my head anyplace else.  I really am charmed by the room, although that's possibly a result of a concussion from blamming into the beams.

R Man and I came to Venice more than 30 years ago and loved it.  And I still love it.  Even as my last good nerve is being frayed by the busloads of vaping, vapid teenagers shipped off here on their own Grand Tours, I keep bumping into some quiet corner that reminds me how enchanting this place is.

Italianos I wish were crowding up on me:

Gianluigi Volti with all of his big meaty bigness, smooth. . . 

. . . and hairy. You decide.

Paride Spaziano and his big lemons. 

Mateo Lanzi with considerably more overhead clearance than my current room has. 

 I'm not wild about bad ink, but I will make an exception just this once for Italian soccer bitch Giorgio Torelli

Alessandro Cavagnola, who refuses to show his bits even though that is clearly what the universe demands.

A pair of Marin Barba Rosie's buttchops.

Giorgio Ramondetta, with what has to be the world's most discreet tattoo.

Alex Palmieri, big,beefy, and beautiful and who also, as Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter so charmingly phrases it, "takes it fudgeways."

In Which We Continue to Holiday

 

So how has Paris been, mrpeenee?  Tres bien, merci.  And what have you done while in the city of light, mrpeenee? Pretty much not a damn thing, which is my idea of a perfect vacation.  I mean if I wanted to accomplish something, I could just get a job.  

Diane and I went to see the Mark Rothko exhibit which I think was the best art exhibit I've ever seen.  There were several large galleries that were dimly lit so that lighting on the paintings just made them glow.  Gorgeous.  The crowds were large-ish, but not problematic, especially once I got pissed off at these pushy ladies shoving in front of me and I started just shoving back in front of them.  Outta my way bitches, I have ethereal abstract beauty to absorb. 

The show was structured so that you went from room to room in a fairly organized fashion and it ended up letting out into big hallway that had a long line filling it.  There was no indication of what the line was for, it was just everyone who had been in the room before it queuing up.  There was a rope dividing it lengthwise so I wandered up the empty side to see what the story was.  I saw a sign in French something about Max Richter, a composer I actually like but whom I did not want to stand in line to listen to.

Diane, god love her, agreed with me and so we just walked on past the line up to where it ended in a large open space.  There was another room opening off of it which was identified as the Mark Rothko Room from the Phillips Collection in Washington DC.  I had earlier mentioned to Diane that that particular collection is one of my favorites so I was delighted to run into it again.  I breezed into the room and felt like I had bumped into some old friends.  It was only as we were leaving that I realized the line was, in fact, not for some concert, but for that room and I had just busted past not only everyone waiting patiently in line, but two attendants who were carefully maintaining how many people were in the room at one time.  Oops.  Again, outta my way, bitches.

Then we had a little tea in the cafe there where they were featuring a delicious little sponge cake that was a salute to Rothko's genius.

Heeheehee.

Aside from that, all I've done is eat and indulge myself.  The evening we got here, I had a massage.  It was just okay, but it did include the lady massaging me (and I do not like to be massaged by ladies, but that's what they had available) who had me put on the world's most ludicrous garment. 

A piece of black sheer material, ridiculously too small and not at all flattering to an elderly, respectable widow such as myself.  I absolutely did not want to wear it, but I did.  And now it is my souvenir de Paris.

The next afternoon I got a nice manicure and pedicure and then just now I had a lovely shave at the barber.  The lather was delightfully scented and the barber shaved my face with meticulous tiny strokes, and then wrapped my face in nice hot towels.  I hate shaving, but if I have to I'm perfectly happy to contract it out.  It made me realize that getting shaved is probably the most intimate thing you can do that doesn't involve anybody's dick.

So it's been a lovely visit.  We leave tomorrow for Venice and more idle indulgence.  Ooh lala.

Beau mecs

I thought it would be funny to have all the naked guys this week be French, but when I googled "naked French guys" the pickings were pretty scarce aside from this Dieux du Stade which is very nice, but has no dicks and besides everybody's already seen it.

And so instead, let us turn to our old friend, anonymous buttchops from Tumblr.

Alejandro Belmont and his alarming cum gun.

I don't know if this guy is French, but his foreskin certainly could be. 

Vacation nude.

Artsy because I'm in Paris and all that.

Isn't he pretty?

More French-appearing dick skin.

Also I'm sorry I haven't replied to everybody's very charming comments last week, but I've been terribly busy doing nothing.