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

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

In Which We Survive

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

In Which We Are Sick as a Sick Dog

 

So, mrpeenee, what adorable souvenir did you bring back from your trip to London and Paris?  Two of them actually: a bookmark from Air France and a bad head cold from London.  The very nice flight attendant in our cabin gave the little bookmark to Diane and she gave it to me; I don't know why I didn't get one directly, maybe I just don't look literate.  I can see how that could happen.  Coincidentally, R Man and I used to collect bookmarks on our travels.  They're easy to transport, and the gift shops in museums would often have very cool ones as a memento. We wound up with several leather ones or fancy graphics ones and I still have the world's largest collection of them in private hands.

The collection, in situ, marked and ready to rock

As for the cold, I suspect it got an early foothold from the vent in my hotel room in London blowing directly into my face.  Then, not one, but two days stuck in the massive petri dish that is Heathrow Airport just sealed the deal.  When I finally tottered back into my apartment on Thursday evening, I felt pretty knackered, but I thought that was just the traveling catching up with me.  By Saturday, I threw in the towel and admitted I was sick.  I have spent the week since then dealing with every symptom you can conceive of.  The volume and range of excrescence my body is generating has been genuinely impressive and my coughing has become less of a symptom and more a way of life now. 

Whenever I'm sick, my voice drops several octaves.  My timbre these days is very similar to that of the fine American actress Miss Kathleen Turner, if Kathleen Turner were in the last stages of the Black Death.  I'm not even convinced my voice is audible to humans anymore, it probably just shows up on some Richter scale reading somewhere.

The cats remain very attentive, I think they can sense there is something wrong with me, more so even than usual.  Although I suppose it's possible they're just trying to get first dibs on eating my corpse.  I'm feeling better today, but just remember if they find my cat mangled dead body, I request a non-denominational funeral at sea with a military band playing the classic "Funkytown." 

Guys who could make me feel better:

Asstastic

Snuglly.  I looked up that spelling twice and I am still not convinced of it.

Cheese it, the cops.

Gotta love them gingers.

Getting this post up used up all my energy allotment for the day, I'm going back to bed.

In Which We Wander

Diane von Austinburg and I both remarked at times on this trip to Paris and London how very easy it has been.  And it truly was, right up to the point when it wasn't. The last day of our trip, we left the hotel with plenty of time, I fumbled through check-in, said goodbye to Diane, who was on a separate flight, and settled into the very fancy first class lounge, because I am a fancy boy.  It was all very nice, quiet and well appointed. 

The problem was it was just a little too comfortable.  After I found my fabulously cozy chair and started reading a very interesting book I had saved for this very purpose, I sort of lost track of time.  Actually "sort of" is an understatement; I completely lost track of time.  That's what reading will do to you.  When I finally looked up I realized I was in real trouble.  I had to scramble out of the rarified atmosphere of first class and down through a train ride to another terminal where I found the gate had closed at 2:55.  The time was 2:58.  Oops.

So then I had to drag myself off to customer service (everybody's favorite department) with my tail between my legs and admit that I had missed my flight for no better reason than that I am an idiot.  The lady at the desk was very nice and refrained from passing along to the ticketing agent the insight I had shared about my absolute lack of mental ability, and got me a ticket for the next day.  And how much did that cost you, mrpeenee?  Let us not dwell on such sordid details and just file that under the heading of A Lot.

Diane had mentioned that Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport is the largest freestanding building in Great Britain, and I am here to confirm that, having dragged myself across every square fucking inch of that fucking building.  Of course the gate where I missed my flight was on the other side of the airport from where I needed to go to rebook my ticket which was then back across from where I needed to go to be "escorted out" since having gone through security I couldn't just wander off into the wild world. Heathrow airport is actually a very large shopping mall with various airport functions scattered in hither and yon.  All the directions I got for where I needed to go were couched in terms of consumerist landmarks, "Customer services is next to Starbucks," "Have a seat across from Chanel and we'll call your name." By the time I had crossed and recrossed the whole damn place my feet hurt, I was sweaty, and all too glad to collapse in the Heathrow Sheraton.  I can recommend their spaghetti bolognese.

The next day I went back through the whole thrilling adventure of getting through the airport and actually boarding the plane.  The only rough patch was the gate where three different flights were boarding simultaneously and a riot seemed imminent.  It was the most chaotic scene in an airport I've ever witnessed, and I've flown Southwest out of New Orleans when everyone, the ticket agents, the crew, the passengers, everybody, was drunk.

But I got home, hooray, and the cats are very glad to see me.  Toby has spent most of the last 24 hours standing on my head to celebrate.  I know every time I leave on a trip when I get back I announce firmly, "I am never leaving San Francisco again," but this time for sure.

There's no place like home, and no guys like naked guys:

How I could have used some of this as I was crying myself to sleep in the Heathrow Sheraton.

It all turned into a very long day of Not Getting Home.

Plus I had to then admit my shame to everyone, Diane, my friends taking care of the cats, the staff at the airport and hotel, that I missed my flight because I wasn't paying attention.

At least the British Airways guys were professionally polite, my "friends" were exactly as supportive as you would expect.  They all laughed.

It makes me realize there is no future in human friends; it's all AI from now on for me.

You think traveling in first class would remove you from the hoi polloi, but I am here to tell you there is no escape.  That mob at the gate I had to fight my way through was the hoi-est polloi you can imagine.

One of the things I'm reminded of whenever I travel is that people smell bad.

Also, I don't know how we managed to travel without phones, back in the dark ages.