In Which We Indulge in Bloodsports

I realize a lot of my posts lately focus on my struggles with the American medical industry, but when you reach my incredibly advanced age, medicine is about the most interesting thing you have going on.  I used to be an expert on sex clubs in San Francisco and now I have opinions about doctors' waiting rooms all over town.

Anyway.

My latest medical misadventure started when my regular doctor told me my blood work showed that I had too many red blood cells.  Does that seem like a problem?  It sounded like some kind of superpower to me.  Actually, initially I thought she was saying I had anemia, which is sort of too few red blood cells and which led to a very confusing chat.  Eventually she was able to cut through my mental static and explain that too many red blood cells makes your blood too thick which can lead to strokes.  Oops.  So, not a superpower, is what I'm hearing you say. 

Of course this finding led to me being handed off to yet another doctor, because that's what my life is these days.  As I wandered into the hematologist's office, I thought "this place looks really familiar" but there are plenty of offices in that building and I assumed the bland decoration simply must be common there.  It wasn't until I sat down for my conference with the good doctor, that I suddenly realized I was back in the same office where Rman was treated for the cancer that killed him.  It turns out the hematologist is also an oncologist and was Rman's doctor.  I mentioned to him that he had broken the bad news to us at that very table.  He was sympathetic, but seemed to want to talk more about my blood.  Fucking vampire.

The condition has a fancy name, polycythemia, because it's a fancy condition and I am a fancy boy for having it.  The fancy condition led to a gala round of tests and blood work and an ultrasound slideshow.  Of course that entailed even more waiting rooms which all could have benefited from my homosexual good decorating skills.  I circled back to the doctor/vampire and he dropped a whole bunch of medical words (which he might have been making up for all I know) and then concluded that he didn't know what was causing the problem. Oh, I am so glad we got that out of the way. The treatment was to remove some of the too thick blood, which had the sound of a quaint 18th century bloodletting.  I was concerned leeches might be involved. 

I had my first blood session last week and it was really easy.  The very chill chicks who drained me initially said it would take about a half hour.  Pooh.  I was through in literally less than 5 minutes.  Turns out I am just that good at bleeding.  I then got to watch them dump the equipment and a bag of my blood into the medical waste bin.  That's okay, it's not like I was using that anyway. 

The only other advice I got about dealing with the polycythemia was to drink more water and thus help thin out my blood, but I think "drink more water" is just one of those standard bromides that doctors trot out regularly.  My pee is always very pale and clear so I am convinced I'm not particularly dehydrated.  Nevertheless, I have been guzzling water like a camel getting ready for a caravan.  Speaking of pee, about 3/4 of my waking hours are now spent in the bathroom, pissing away. Should I cut myself when shaving, I'm sure I will leak water like the Titanic. 

Also, I suffer from kitties taking up all the room in the bed. 

Dickheads.  I am surrounded by dickheads.

Dickheads (and butts) I wish I was surrounded by:

I'm sure your neighbors appreciate the view.

I'll just hang out here.  Thanks.

I forget this guy's name, but then, he has forgotten how to put his panties on.

Some superior buttchops, but also feets for all you feet freaks out there.

We are going long on asses this week, because that's what I have to work with.

I am not 100 percent sure this guy is not AI, but I am convinced he is too cute to ignore.  Complaints that he is not nude should be addressed to someone who gives a fuck.

In this week's edition of Baroque Butt.

In Which We Are Decafed

 

Stop the presses.  I have given up coffee.  That may seem like unearth-shattering news, but my devotion to the sweet black nectar was a long-standing passion.  The center of my every day is a trip down to Peet's, the world's finest cafe, for a cup of joe and a pastry.  Diane von Austinburg has long been resigned to any activity with me being guaranteed an interruption for a latte.  I once tracked down an espresso in Montana where none should have existed based solely on my fervor for one.

So what happened to my longest running love affair?  I got old.  I had noticed my guts rumbling and complaining and even become aware that my pee smelled like a stale cappuccino.  While I had been thinking about giving it up, I wanted to wait till I got back from Paris, because what is the point of France without coffee?  So 3 weeks ago, after I got back from Europe, boom, I cut myself off.  No more java for you, mrpeenee.

It hasn't been difficult, no headaches, no cravings, no whimpering.  I still toddle on down to Peet's every day, but now I restrict myself to a large iced tea, like the respectable elderly widdah that I am.  The baristas I'm friends with there noticed and commented with some concern, but I headed  them off before they were actually able to organize an intervention.

I seem to not have a weakness towards addiction.  Every time I've decided to give something up, for whatever reason, all I've had to do is put on the brakes and move on.  Other people, I know, struggle and are tortured by the grip of addiction (hello Matthew Perry.) I am just so glad that I missed out on that, because I have waded through the swamps of plenty of addictive thrills.

In my life, I have given up, in chronological order, alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, opioid pain medicine, Valium, Ativan (admittedly that was a bumpy ride,) garlic, dark chocolate, and being a responsible adult in general.  Actually it feels like I'm leaving something out, but I don't want anyone to think I'm bragging.  And with all of them, I just decided "okay well I'm not going to do that anymore" and I stopped.  Yay me.  Even the Ativan and opioids weren't difficult to give up, just white knuckling through the physical withdrawal was the most unpleasant part, and if I had had the brains to taper off them, I could have missed out on that.

So anyway, here I am, living without all the things that used to make my life so amusing.  Well, almost all the things.  I still have porn and sugar, but I am determined to go to my grave with them. 

Men I am hooked on:

Stas Chugunov, which reminds me, Wordscapes, the word game I am so fond of, will not accept the words "glans" as if I'm trying to slip in some smutty reference.  It's a medical term, fer cripesakes.

I don't know what emergency he responds to, but what ever it is, I am pretty sure I have it.

You know when he pulls that out, there is an audible "plop."

A pretty boy's musclepussy and a cheap motel room, it's a classic combo.

The artistic sylings of Xavi Aragon.

Maybe not nekkid, but so darn summery.

There is something so very appealing about a guy who is not exactly pretty, but who possesses such a gorgeous pussy.

In Which We Are Needled

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In Which We Are Uncredited

Once again, the evil internet pirates have absconded with my credit card numbers.  Goddamit.  I could ask in a piteous tone of voice, "How could this happen to ME?" but I happen to know full well how it happened.  My ongoing fascination with AI generated smut has led me down a dark path to several dodgy websites, any one of which would have been all too glad to boost my credit card and then share it with its nasty little friends. 

This happens every couple of years and I have become resigned to it.  I know the drill all too well.  I call my credit card company, admit my shameful indiscretions, and the lady on the other end then drills down through my charges to winnow out the bullshit ones (and of course they always have the most lurid names.  ". . . And there's one for BootLickinBitches for $13.99. . . ." and then I have to acknowledge that that is in fact a genuine charge of mine.) She will then cancel my card and turn me loose onto the thrilling roller coaster of updating all the subscriptions and automatic charges that are the lifeblood of my economy.  

I mentioned the last time this happened that it is a brutally effective way of dealing with all the ongoing charges that I have made and just never gotten around canceling.  Well, they're canceled now.  All the little piglets suckling at the Capital One trough are cut off.  Unfortunately, so are all the ones that I depend on.  My rent, my groceries, my Uber, even, dear god, my beloved Peet's cafe.  This evening I will have to dive into the madness, trying to remember my usernames and passwords of dozens of stupid sites, many of whom I have not had to log on to since the last time I changed credit card numbers. 

I tried to weasel out of this annoying little dance by begging the lady this time to just cancel those bullshit charges and not cancel my card.  Her response was pretty much along the lines of "Oh you know what? No." She seemed sort of sympathetic, but this was a dance she was also very familiar with.  At least I was prepared for it this time.

So anyway, here's some naked guys.  I gotta go figure out my Verizon account while I still have one. 

I know I rarely give enough attention to hairy daddies even though they are popular with many of my readers, so here is Matthew Herrick in all his fuzzy glory.

More Herrick, because I googled "hairy muscle daddy nude" and plenty of the results gave me the heeby jeebies, so I only have a few for you fur freaks.

What about Paco Rabo?

I would like to swat dat ass.

Skinny and smooth, that's more to mrpeenee's taste.

But here you go.

I try to be accommodating, but the world of naked men pictures just leans more towards smoothness.

Lastly, I don't know if this is AI or just plain old PhotoShop.  I have decided not to worry about it.