In Which We Are Screened

 

My natural skin shade is very similar to the glistening white of a potato's interior.  That means growing up on the subtropical coast of Texas came with frequent sunburns. I would get out of school for the summer and then get blistered, Step One, Step Two. I do not remember there being a Step Three. 

Even though those days of foolishness are behind me and I avoid the sun as if I were an actual vampire, I know those lazy hazy crazy days of fried hide could very well catch up with me with some silly old skin cancer. And so I took myself off for a cancer screening at yet another new doctor. It's all part of Mrpeenee's Full Employment for the Medical Industrial Complex.

And can I just mention once again how very annoying I find each of these new doctors demanding that I login to yet another new app to provide details about my medical history? Especially since once I have completed the forms online, the office will require I fill out the same paperwork in person. 

Anyway, let's just move on to my actual checkup for the possibility of melanoma (spoiler alert: I do not have melanoma). Considering how long I spent downloading and completing his stupid app, it really seems like the doctor could have spent a little more time checking out my pelt, but when they called the visit a "skin cancer scan", they weren't kidding.  The good doctors visit could only have been more cursory if he had simply stuck his head in the door and shouted "How ya doing," before dipping out. Once he had finished giving me the once-over, he reported with a sort of surprised and almost disappointed air that I didn't have anything wrong.  I don't care, I understand getting a negative report is exactly the best outcome, and I'm glad of it. 

Skin that deserves more attention:

Starting off strong in the Buttchop Invitational.

A curve like that is just meant to slide down some lucky cocksucker's throat.

Summer is coming to an end, alas.

See above.

A cowboy for my niece Amber.

The always alluring Marbys Negetti.

Meaty

In Which We Go to the Movies.

 

Thirty years ago, the life I have now would have been pretty much unimaginable to me.  My day-to-day existence is firmly tied to my phone, a tiny computer I carry around in my pocket. I gave up owning a car and am now chauffered about by a robot taxi. Texts are my preferred communication to the point that I will refuse to answer any phone calls. If you're having an emergency and are trying to call me about it, oops, sorry, leave a message.

Aside from the techno marvels, I have also seen tremendous changes in my personal life. I have outlived so many old chums that the Venn diagram of my emergency contacts and my friend group is just one overlapping circle. One part of that steadily shrinking gang is a bunch of miscreants the origin of which would have been one of those things so baffling to the 1996 version of me.

So here's how that all started: several years ago I stumbled across the performance art website called Chaturbate. Do I have to explain what that is? I don't want to, I'm busy. If you don't already know, just go look, you'll be amazed.  And welcome to the year of our lord, 2026. My favorite model and artiste there is the Romanian Rockit himself, Mikey.  I didn't realize initially that one of the unwritten rules for this chicken chokin' channel is that viewers just watch silently without interacting. Is it really a surprise that I, on the other hand, would gab along like it was a fucking group chat?

Mikey liked that because just sitting there and whacking turns out to be boring.  Again, a sentence I could not have imagined 30 years ago. But there you go.  So we got to be friends and then other frequent flyer visitors evolved into a core group of buddies that has lasted for years now. I don't remember how it happened, but eventually we decided to start watching movies together and commenting by text about whatever cinematic masterpiece had sucked us in. And so now every week, Sunday night is The Chaturbate Film Society Night at Movies.

I love these group movie experiences. For one thing, we watch plenty of movies I would not have otherwise chosen, but wind up really enjoying. I would give you examples, but my old man memory fails me yet again. By Monday afternoon I cannot remember what we watched the night before. Fortunately Amazon Prime saves a list of these masterpieces and I went back and looked to see what my viewing pleasure has included. 

A list of highlights would be Everything Everywhere All At Once (brilliant), Tuner (really unexpected and charming), Good Luck Have Fun Don't Die (I think I liked it better than the rest of the gang but I really found it hilarious and weird). I also thought Redux Redux was pretty good and there are others, so many others, (we've been doing this every week for years) but I got tired of scrolling through all my video history.  While we're at it, I would like to recommend something I watched without the club, An Englishman Abroad.  Alan Bates and Coral Browne, written by Allen Bennett, where Miss Brown plays herself in the true story of her bumping into Guy Burgess in Moscow in the '50s. Trust me, it's brilliant. 

Dog movies that definitely got a thumb down from us are universally anything that runs for more than an hour and a half. If you can't tell a story in 90 minutes, you need an editor with a firmer hand. Our group taste leans towards humpy lead actors in science fiction and action. Lottsa action. If something doesn't blow up in the first 15 minutes, why bother? Also why is the beautiful Henry Cavill in so many bad movies. Do better Henry, beauty does not last forever.

One small problem with our running commentaries is that it's easy to get distracted by the action (lottsa action) and miss out on the texts. Then when I finally look back, there will be a string that makes no sense. "He is so dead" "I did not see that coming" "I hate her" are doubtlessly insightful in the moment, but I have no idea what they're talking about now.

Anyway, this may not be the hangout I was imagined back in the day, but I'm perfectly happy with sharing a movie night with a gang of jack off aficionados. Turns out the future is such an odd place to live. 

Naked guys in the here and now: 

Speaking of 30 years ago, Kristen Bjorn was the creator of some of my favorite smut.

A daily beauty regime is essential.  Just ask Henry Cavill.

It's been foggy, gray, and chilly, the classic San Francisco summer.

When it comes to man sausage, I love a fatty.

Once again, I can no longer tell if it's real or AI.  I suppose I don't care.

If this is AI slop, then I just choose to be sloppy.

I can only hope that  this exists in the physical universe.  And that some old man is fondling it.

In Which We Are Painted

 

Here is some context to help this little tale of woe make more sense: I stay up all night reading and enthralled by YouTube videos and otherwise wasting my time and then go to bed about 6:00 a.m., just when the rosy fingered dawn is peeping over the horizon. This is not some occasional imprudent affectation, it is my regular schedule. I will not be taking questions at this time. 

So anyway, earlier this week I was jostled sort of awake by the racket my cat Toby was making showing his scratching mat who was boss. He was banging around like a goddamn percussion section, even more so than usual. It went on for a while until I came close enough to something like consciousness that I could realize Toby was next to me taking up more than half the bed as usual. What got my attention was the noise was continuing. Toby and I are the only authorized attendees allowed here in my bedroom so if we weren't making the din, who the hell was? 

There is nothing like a quick jolt of panic to finish waking you up, and that's what helped me to realize it was the guys painting the outside of my building who were chatting and yucking it up in Spanish while on one of those very scary looking platforms suspended from the top of our building and banging against the wall. 

the scene of the crime.

The property management people had warned us that the painters would be here, but I had underestimated just how disruptive they would be. Plus, as you can see in the picture below, my particular unit is at the very end of the building in the part that is sheathed in tastefully oxidized panels  and not subject to painting. 

I naively took that to mean I wouldn't have to deal with any sleep depriving foolishness, but I had overlooked that there is one tiny bit of my apartment where one of my bedroom windows sits and that is just past the end of the metal plates. That tiny bit had had to be painted. Thus the early morning aerial racket directly outside my boudoir.  

It's really sort of impressive how very casual the boys out there are considering they are dangling over the sidewalk on some flimsy looking scaffolding that's just hanging off the side of the building. I spent way too long trying to come up with the name or term for this dangling scaffold, but it turns out "aerial window washing equipment system" is the closest I could come up with, although "death trap" seems like it would be equally accurate. Let this video demonstrate: 

Dude, you are one snapped cable away from becoming a workplace tragedy. Plus you're making way too much noise, could you keep it down? 

Guys I wouldn't mind waking up for: 

If you gave a monkey a phone, it would have the same perplexed look on its little face, but it wouldn't be as cute.

Did you know too many cashews can result in the poops? It is a sad, sad truth.

I cannot be trusted with a bag of cashews, I have to decant them into a sensible serving size in a bowl or i will continue to shovel them into my gob until they come out the other end as fast as they go in.

My editing this post is considerably hindered by Toby the cat demanding brushes.

Poor thing cannot fit his massive buttchops into the tub.

I have no idea what may be going on here.

I just remembered I had planned to make this week's nekkid guys all B&W, but I slipped up.

Oops.

In Which We Suffer Yet Another Birthday

 

There are times when I sit down to write my latest hilarious blog and I discover I have absolutely no idea about what to write. I turn to the mrpeenee Automatic Post Topic generator and all I get is static.  Goddamit.  Surely I can come up with something to complain about, but no, I get no traction.  And then I remember, fuck this. I cannot get fired, I am my own boss, I am the master of my fate.

But while sulking about my absolute lack of ideas, and how my blog is an utter task master, and how I really want to drag it behind the barn and shoot the mother fucker, I remembered that I had not celebrated mrpeenee's anniversary this year.  My blog's actual birthday is July 24, 2007 anno domini and every single year I am amazed to have passed yet another milestone (see "drag it behind the barn and shoot it.")

Nineteen years is an impressive record for someone with as little attention span as I have. When I started down this ridiculous path, I certainly had no idea I would stick around this long. My blog has outlived my husband, several cats, David Bowie, and frequently my will to write. If it weren't for the nekkid guys segment of each post I don't know how I would go on. 

Mike Betts, still my favorite nekkid guy.

Every year as part of my anniversary salute, I pause to remember fellow bloggers who started out about the same time as me.  There used to be a whole pack of us, but as blogging turned into a quaint novelty, almost all of them have dropped off. Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter, the Mistress from Mistress Borghese, and Inexplicable Device from Inexplicable Device, are the few, the happy few still sticking it out. Tough old birds all and I lift a glass to salute them. Some who didn't make it this far are actually no longer on this side of the grass (LX, Kabuki Zero) and others simply wandered off out of this land of make-believe (Jason, Mean Dirty Pirate, the Cool Cookie, Cafe Muscato, and the much missed Fabulon). Mitten Drinnen, aka Norma Desmond remains as a frequent commenter and Mistress Infomaniac is a ghostly, ghastly specter who only rises from her grave once a year on her blogiversary. Whether you're still here or not, I remember you all with great fondness.

So anyway here's to mrpeenee, the finest blog on this page.  Long may I wave.

And now back to our regularly scheduled nekkid guys:

I occasionally run across porn sites that focus on tickling. The whole idea never fails to strike me as incredibly unlikely. Here we have Italian side o' beef, Marco Pinotti getting the treatment.

I realize I don't give enough attention to the species known as daddies, so here is Alex Tikas.

Whachoo looking at?

 

He's got a package for you.

Surf's up

The warm weather has meant the action below my window on the sidewalk, always lively, has been particularly raucous, including some guy on Wednesday night about 11 o'clock playing the bagpipes.

He was pretty good, you know, for bagpipes, but the whole thing was so unlikely, I was very tempted to put on my pants and go downstairs and ask him "what the fuck?"

But a lifetime living in the big city reminded me to mind my own business.

I want to fuck this guy so bad it's sort of annoying.

In Which We Investigate Boston

 

I went to Boston last week for a short vacation.  I know the last time I left San Francisco I swore I would never leave again, but that was a lie, one I tell every time I venture out of the city limits.  Diane von Austinburg was attending a conference there and I had never been, so I decided to meet up with her and see what the old place had to offer. 

It's pretty.

I had sort of an unexamined bias that had pegged Boston as gray and drab.  Totally untrue and I apologize for my misconception.  It's green and lush and filled with the most charming red brick architecture. Also the food was delicious. 

mrpeenee tucks into some really tasty seafood. 

I stayed at a nice, but snooty hotel, the Fairmont.  It was a great deal more pleased with itself than it actually deserved to be.  In my misguided youth, I worked at a lot of hotels in a variety of roles so I have an insider's idea of how things should work. Considering how much of their marketing bleats about their top-notch service, the Fairmont really could have come across with better. I don't want workers to grovel, but I do expect an expensive and very self-satisfied hotel to have waiters who show up at my table on time and for the hostess not to be wearing scuffies.

The decor leaned heavily towards Edwardian Robber Barons who felt drag queens were just a little too restrained. 

I think the high point was a massage I got because I hadn't been able to sleep and I was physically fried. I tracked down a massage joint not too far from the hotel and a) it was excellent and b) I realized when I rolled up that I had stumbled onto the gay neighborhood.  Apparently I have a homing instinct like a queer pigeon.

Oddly enough, this trip exposed me to an army of well-meaning natives who all referred to San Francisco as either "Frisco" or worse, "San Fran" and California as "Cali". If you are tempted to do either, please do not.  I cannot describe the rage that induces in those of us lucky enough to live here.  Maybe if you feel the urge to blurt out "I love San Fran" just bite down really hard on your tongue lest somebody from Cali does it for you. 

Also I paid extra for access to a lounge at the airport on the way home and it turned out to be very reminiscent of the free breakfasts cheap motels offer.  That is not a good thing. 

You know what is a good thing? Naked guys. 

The meaty charms of Brock Magnus

Also, there were way too many toilets involved, which substituted air dryers for decent paper towels.

My flight on JetBlue had seats which TURNED INTO FLAT BEDS. That is absolutely the only way to travel.  The only thing that could have improved it would've been this boy in the bed with me.

pussylicious

 

The superior buttchops of multi-alias Pavel Novotny, aka Jakub Moltin, Jann, Brad, Jan Dvorak, Max Orloff,  etc., etc.