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.