In Which We Live It Up

Back when I was a good deal younger than I am now, leading the fabulous existence of an '80s queer in New Orleans, I remember thinking occasionally what a quiet, restrained life I had.  Looking back on it, I must have been out of my mind, more so even than usual.  Those were the days when I'd go out to queer bars and bath houses pretty much every single night whooping it up, listening to loud music and chasing dick. Now if I have a haircut and a doctor's appointment both in the same week, I am laid low for days. 

I was considering all that this last weekend.  Diane von Austinburg was in town and we made a day of it.  We met up with our friend Hotfoot to go check out a charming new little museum with a very interesting couple of exhibits.  It wasn't crowded and the space is a dynamite use of an old bank downtown.  We dug it.

After we had had our fill of being cultured, we headed for a bar, because what else do you do late on a Sunday afternoon?  Hotfoot's husband Drumstick joined us there and after a couple of drinks we adjourned for sushi.  Diane and Hotfoot both said it was excellent.  Drumstick and I both agree sushi is nothing but overpriced cat food and we refuse it.   Still, it was a very nice dinner hanging out with old friends. 

But wait, there's more! After dinner we came back to my place and played Yahtzee like the wild dogs we are.  They all polished off a few bottles of wine and even though I was the only one not drinking, I was also the only one to not win a game.  I was so annoyed, I briefly considered cheating, since they were all so wasted by then they wouldn't have known, but even I have my limits.  Everyone had completely conflicting demands about what music I should be playing.

The whole underpinning for the evening was a celebration of Super Agent Fred's birthday.  We toasted to him, and we told stories about him, and we all got a little teary-eyed occasionally.  It was very reminiscent of evenings gone by when we would explore bars all over town, the sushi place was one of Fred's favorite spots, and a Yahtzee tournament was a tradition of ours.  It was a good time and times like that help say goodbye.

Speaking of Super Agent Fred, I have been able to make progress (finally) on the website where I will be offering up his art.  I know I have been really slow getting a handle on all this, but I am able to think I should have something soon.  

You know what else Fred was very fond of?  Naked men:

Fred was very fond of the species known as "daddy".

A cowboy for my niece Amber, who appreciates beef.

 

And buttchops for me.

Speaking of buttchops, someone would seem to have been a naughty little puss.

I've mentioned before how I love big boys with that dumb look on their sweet face.

I can never remember this guy's name.  If anyone knows it, please share with the class.

Surly, but so darn beautiful.

In Which We Review

 

It's been a great year so far hasn't it?  We've been reveling in cool sunny days, definitive California winter weather. And I'm plenty glad of it since I have turned into one of those old ladies who can tell when the weather is going turn nasty because it makes my bones ache. And that brings up the point that I am old because I have not died, so, you know, yay.  I celebrated New Year's with a salute to my white trash heritage by eating the traditional black eyed peas and cabbage.  In this case, I made hummus with the peas instead of chickpeas, which was fine, but sort of dull, and coleslaw, which was dynamite. The resultant fart fest was also dynamite, an absolute hurricane up in here. A single match would have blown us all to Kingdom come. Woohoo. 

Other 2025 news includes the astonishing fact that I have remembered that it is, in fact, 2025.  Also neither cat has puked thus far.  I am as astonished as you are.  The Trump administration and Shit Show hasn't started yet, so we should enjoy these last few un-shit show days. And I continue to be very amused by the British game show Taskmaster and its high-handed host, Greg Davies. Also I got the water filter in my refrigerator replaced finally.  I take the wins where I can.

Of course there could be no highs without some lows, no peaks without troughs, no uncut dicks without cheese.  Gay porn continues its sad, sad decline.  The rise of skinny twinky bitches continues.  Amateurs and their phones have triumphed over studios with professionals who knew lighting and how to move a camera.  I look back on the work of smut auteurs like Kristen Bjorn, 

Or the glossy perfection of Colt Studios, 

Or the iconic Al Parker,

I think of those past triumphs and I weep. I understand this is mostly a result of being a cranky old man, but I also contrast these works with some out-of-work waiter pointing his phone at his dick and calling it a day and I am just glad I was around for the high water mark of nekkid men.

Speaking of naked men,

Sultry, that's what you want in these wintry night.

Brandy Martignago wants to wish you the happiest of New Years.

You know what would go good with black eye peas and cabbage?  Ham.

Wow.

Sometimes tits deserve their own attention.

That's not how you wear panties, but OK.

Nuevo daddy.

Daniel Montoya, costarring his musclepussy.

In Which We Dabble in Art

Were you the one in the gimp suit?

 When Super Agent Fred died in back in September, I inherited, along with Toby, the world's sweetest cat, all of Fred's artwork.  Our friends and Fred's family took everything they wanted (I announced at the funeral no one would be allowed to leave without taking something.  I was fully prepared to turn the whole thing into a hostage situation) but even so, there was still quite a bit left.  My plan is to set up a website and advertise it as free art on Craigslist and see what happens. I'm trying not to use the phrases "unload" or "get rid of" but my delicate sensibilities will only go so far and I would really like to share some with the wider world and out of my guest room.

I had initially thought I would photograph each piece for the site, but after almost 4 months of doing exactly Jack shit, I contracted with a photographer to come in and shoot them for me.  So he was here this afternoon and managed in a little more than 2 hours to accomplish more than I was able to in 13 weeks.

He was very pleasant and very capable and I was glad of it. The schedule is that I will get the pictures back from him next week.  I've already set up the site and will try to overcome the slacker inertia which is such a charming part of my personality so that I can load all the pictures up there.  I will keep you naughty pusses abreast of developments.

He also came fully equipped with the affordable perfume so beloved by tradesman everywhere.  When I owned my own home and had to deal with the maintenance there, I got to be so familiar with it, I came to think of it as eau d' plumber.  I don't understand why any guy who comes to work on your place is guaranteed to arrive a few seconds behind a cloud of cologne.  And not just any cologne, but one with a sharp pungency which drills through my nose into my sinuses and from there into my skull. 

Both of the cats demonstrated their individual personalities when confronted with the photographer's invasion of their space.  Toby was friendly and wanted pets and demanded to be allowed in the room where he was shooting just so he could keep an eye on things.  Octavia was initially sort of skittish, but then decided she couldn't be bothered and went back to bed. 

I'm looking forward to organizing the Super Agent Fred Memorial Free Art Giveaway.  Initially when I was wrestling all of the pieces into my guest room, I thought there was about 50 or 60 of them.  Today, it turned out there are, in fact, more than 200.  So there's plenty to go around, no pushing please.  But nobody is getting out of here without at least one. 

Guys who are works of art:

I just love these bigguns.

I don't know how much work he has expended on thoser abs, but t was all worth it.

Get in loser, we're going to the mall.

In the studio

Plop

Don't think about summer being over, think about it coming now that we've passed the solstice.

Chiaroscuro

Nice calves.

In Which We're at Home with Nature's Architects

 

When I was just a young and impressionable peenee, I was presented with a diagram of a Beaver Lodge and I was instantly enchanted.  Yeah, I realize now it is dark and wet and muddy and cold and smells like stinky old beavers, but at the time, and even still, it seemed so cozy.  And it has secret entrances! What could be more cool? 

Since then I have fallen for other animal habitats that give off the same sense of a safe enclosure.  Surely I was not the only one to be disappointed to find out turtles don't wander around with an empty house on their back, but rather, a skeleton stuffed full of gooey organs.

Ditto snails.

Top of the charts of course are rabbit warrens.  Not just one hidden away snug little room, but an entire complex of them.  Nooks and crannies and rooms and hangout spaces.  Salons even.  All of it full of bunnies.  What could be better? 

So along has come the wholy misguided fascination with tiny homes.  They seem like something that would be right up mrpeenee's fascination with snug animal asylums, but oh nuh uh.  I am a tall guy and when I speak about having a roof over my head, I want it to be considerably farther over said head than these little toy houses allow. So you can keep your cramped little shacks.  I would rather live with the beavers.  

Guys I want to snuggle up with: 

So Merry Christmas to all you naughty pusses from mrpeenee and Sam Dekker.

I'm not going to even bother asking who's on the nice list because what are the chances with my readership?

I know perfectly well what would happen if some hairy old man appeared in the homes of you bitches. 

Steve Kelso, now with candy cane. 

I don't know who that sort of feral looking top guy might be, but that is our old favorite Jay Tee on cocksucking duty. 

Speaking of pornstars I can identify, here we have Jaxton Wheeler.  Look, I didn't misspell his stupid name, he just showed up with it like that.

And to, all a good night. 

But keep an eye out for Krampus.

In Which We Bake Off

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