In Which We Are Needled

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In Which We Go Backwards

 

So just to bring everybody up to speed in case you haven't been paying attention (and I know you have not been paying attention, you bad little puss,) I have scoliosis which has resulted in chronic back pain for more than 40 years.  Just as a side note, no one noticed I was developing into a hunchback in highschool even though looking at back photographs, it is glaringly obvious I was a teenage Quasimodo.

My latest foray into trying to deal with a backache that will just not shut up was getting trigger point injections.  I'd go to my orthopedist and he would shoot me up with long lasting lidocaine and some steroid.  It worked great, life-changing, better than any other treatment I have suffered through since Jimmy Carter was president.

I went in last Friday for my latest shot and the muscley little bitch (all the technicians in this practice look like they have to squeeze in their medical duties in between photo shoots as fitness models) announces that this shot is the last one I can get. I said "No." And then I said, "Nonononono." Nurse Muscle Bitch seemed unimpressed with my argument and just claimed patients are limited to four shots because of the steroids which can lead to osteoporosis, malpractice suits, blah blah blah.  I replied to all of his reasoning with my own brilliant point, "I don't care."

And I don't.  I am trying to balance a concern that I might develop osteoporosis at some speculative point in the future against living with an achy back all day, every day right now and I come down on the side of Future Mrpeenee is just going to have to deal with soft bones.  And that's if I live long enough for them to crumble.  Does that seem likely? No, no it does not.

But Nurse Muscle Bitch was not buying it.  He got the look on his face I'm all too familiar with from having tried to explain my ideas to other medical professionals, a look similar to someone trying teach multiplication to a not very bright child.  

Admitting defeat, I asked what I was supposed to do next.  He looked sort of baffled that I would expect him to offer any possible option and then suggested I get a Botox shot.  Maybe he thought the squinty, annoyed look I had developed needed some work.  Botox, got it, let's get on that train.  But no, his practice does not have that on their menu.  So where does he suggest I go?  "A pain specialist?" he offers in a very tentative manner.  He seemed concerned that I might continue to up the ante with even more difficult questions.  Did I mention he was really muscley?

So now I'm back to my old friend, the pain specialist with my old friend, the back ache.  My creaky old back and I, handed off from one doctor's waiting room to another like an old issue of Readers Digest.

More muscley bitches:

Maximo Garcia, costarring his Maximo Dick piece

Either this guy can stand in the garage or he can fit his butt in the garage, but not both at the same time.

Plop goes that cock meat and the world is a better place.

I miss my garden.

I wish I knew who this guy is.  I think he is terribly cute.

Cleanliness is next to godliness.  I just wish I was next to him.

Some dicks are Culturally Significant.  This is one of them.

Insipid art and really fine buttchcops.

Yes, yes indeed.

Look, I know we all want dick pics, but sometimes just being cute is enough.

In Which We Present This and That

At one point Mr Penney had rather fabulous eyelashes.  Long and thick, when I put on mascara they would look like false eyelashes.  Often in classes when I should be paying attention but was bored, I would play with them.  But that was long ago and these days they are sparse as hens' teeth.

As you approach old age typically men worry about losing the hair on top of their head. No one mentions that both your eyebrows and eyelashes also are going to jump ship.  All your hair assumes the attitude of "It's been real, thanks for all the fish, buh bye." Except of course for your ear and nose hairs which will become more lush by the day.  I could make a toupee out of the bristles sprouting from my nose.

Today's post is going to be sort of random.  Very much a view into mrpeenee's thought process, scattered, haphazard, brief, and ending in naked dudes.

***

My back continues to be pain-free, thank Lucifer.  I got a trigger point injection a couple of weeks ago and it worked like an absolute charm.  For decades I've wondered what it would feel like for my back to not constantly be telegraphing signals of pain.  "I got the message, you can stop now," I would tell the stupid joint that was all the problem.  It never listened.  But now the injection has shut it up and I could not be more glad.

***

I live astride the dividing line between the Castro and the Mission neighborhoods and every holiday the Mission lights up with dozens of illegal fireworks all night.  One of the best things about this apartment is the excellent view it provides of that subversive celebration.  Imagine my disappointment then when on this New Year's Eve no sparkling lights and booms blossomed.  Not one.  

***

When R Man got me my wedding ring, instead of the date inscribed inside, he had them use the Latin phrase "In secula saeculor um" which means forever and ever.  At least I thought that's what it meant, I have been informed by a commenter that the Latin is incorrect.  I don't know what they think I'm going to do about it, get a new ring?  Oddly enough I do not speak Latin so I can't really argue, but I also don't really care.  R Man chose it and that's good enough for me. 

***

Word reaches us today of the death of David Soul, upon whom I had such a crush back in the day.  He had to share my fantasy with Bobby Sherman, his co-star on Here Comes the Brides.  David defined the concept of blonde hotness, but Bobby was dreamy.  Flights of angels, baby, flights of angels.

***

Considering how puny my beard is, I suppose it's surprising how strongly I dislike it.  What is the point since there is so very little of it?  It hardly deserves the dignity of calling it a beard, it is nothing more than a collection of patches of very thin, sad bristles.  I'm sure there are geisha ladies who have more robust facial hair.  Also considering I have been shaving for 50 years, it seems like I should be able to do a better job of it than I actually do. All of this is weighing on my mind because of a recent shaving accident which resulted in my upper lip bleeding like a shark attack victim, oops.

And now, for the naked dudes:

The mirror has two dicks.

There is something so thrilling about a big heap o' muscle naked in a hotel room.

Charles Paquette has changed his nom de smut to Brandon Bosse.  Who knows why.

Dean Young demonstrating the classic Landing Pad pose.

Clown tats.  Yuck.

Beefy goodness presented by our old friend Colt Studios.

More Colt, but I forget his name. How many fabulous naked men can I remember?

Beefy.
  

In Which We Offer Season's Bleatings

 

I found my Christmas card

I was walking home on the very respectable Market Street right past the very respectable corner of Sanchez when some slightly broken down homeless guy with a big dingy gray beard held up a prescription bottle full of mystery pills and shook them at me.  I very politely declined because, you know, manners, and kept walking, but then I wondered "Did I just turn down drugs from Santy Claus?"

Drugs are on my mind more than usual these days.  I remain off of the pain meds that were so dear to me for so many years.  Not because of any high-minded opposition to opioids, but simply because once I stop taking them I found out they did nothing for my pain level. 

Now that I've sucked it up and gone through withdrawal, It just seems like I'm better off without them.  However, withdrawal brought with it an occasional spike of depression.  When I mentioned it to my doctor, she dug around in Google for a while (bitch, I could have done that, a thought I did not mention  to her.  Well, maybe I mentioned it a little bit.) 

She finished her conference with Dr Google and announced that what I needed was ketamine.  I briefly wondered if she was inviting me to a rave, but then I settled down.  Turns out ketamine is the new depression drug that all the best people are trying.  It's not just for club kids who have too many opinions about house music any more.

I have a history of drugs that go back several amusing decades.  I was not only slutty, but always up for a good time.  One Mardi Gras, friends of a friend had something they called "mysterious white powder." I went back for seconds.  How was I to know it was PCP?  Maybe.  Speculation later held that it might also have been pig tranquilizer.  My point is, I am no stranger to chemically enhanced amusements.  Still, I'm surprised when medical professionals suggest drugs I could probably get more cheaply and easily at the 16th Street BART station.

I am now supposedly scheduling my ketamine treatment through some online site which is probably not as sketchy as it sounds.  Probably.  We'll see.

Also since I'm not on pain meds (which didn't do anything) my back still hurts so this afternoon I went to yet another doctor and got a trigger point injection: lidocaine, some steroid, and something else.  I don't know, I wasn't paying attention; I was busy thinking about how humpy the nurse shooting me up was.  Anyway, it actually seems to be helping which is a good thing because the shot itself - ouchie.  So merry fucking xmas, and all that.

Guys you wish you'd find under the tree:

The aptly named Joey Swole.

Some guy with a dick.  That's all I got.

Zac Beech wishes happy burfday to baby jesus, sorry about that whole crucifixion thingy.  No hard feelings, huh?

Matt Vose and his extra large fatty.

Scott Carter, looking cuter than ever with his new beard.

DON'T DRINK OUT OF THE FUCKING CARTON.  Uncouth lout.

Speaking of apt names, here we see Matt Luscious, aka Creamy Gorilla.

Garic Soldatov, always welcome here at mrpeenee, Inc.

Another anonymous piece of beef, but who would say no?

Chase Stobbe and his notable nipples.

Another very nice big fatty, courtesy of Frank Dominguez.

One of those Kristen Bjorn tramps.

In Which We See the Light

 

So what's wrong now mrpeenee?  I was minding my own beeswax in the kitchen Monday evening when I suddenly had to sneeze.  I turned my head to keep from spraying the counter and I managed in that simple moment to pull a muscle in my back.  Actually it's kind of my side and my back, over my ribs.  The fact that I can injure myself so easily annoys the piss out of me, but I am simply a fragile blossom.  Ironically, and I do hate cheap irony, the pulled muscle is involved in every single time I sneeze or cough, and I have spent a lot of time doing both lately, and hurts when I do so.  Dammit.

In unrelated, but pretty news, San Francisco hosted some big deal financial conference, APEC or SPCA or SPICEGIRLS.  I don't know something like that.  They didn't ask me, they just went ahead and did it all.  Typical.  I think it's like the G7 conferences but for the non-G7 world.  The city was abuzz with frantically washing the streets and blocking off sidewalks downtown so that people working there were just out of luck and shoveling homeless people out of sight.  I'm okay with washing the sidewalks; by this late in the dry season they are pretty filthy, but I could do without the rest of the harassment.

An arts group decided to contribute to the festivities by constructing a laser that shot colored light beams up Market Street, the main street of San Francisco.  I was skeptical, but interested, especially since I live on Market Street.  The first night it was on, I looked at my window and didn't see anything and thought it was just a bust.  The next night, though, I actually went outside (amazing, I know) and looked down the street towards downtown  where the laser originated and BOOM 

Diane von Austinburg very cleverly urged me to see if I could get a better shot up on our roof deck.  I thought it was unlikely because the deck has great views of everything except straight up Market, but I always listen to Diane (sort of) so I went up there and sure enough, there is a tiny little corner you can lean out over the edge of the building to see this:

if you don't plummet to your death, which is probably a good idea.  It really was very spectacular and sort of like a gay Bat Signal.  Of course they took it down once all the big shots left town.

Naked guys:

This guy goes by the unlikely moniker of Mr. Bradford.  I would be willing to call him whatever he likes for a crack at that crack.

Once again, I am simply fed up with ridiculous PhotoShop.

Speaking of guys who seem to have adopted typos as their screen name, here we have Grag Stone.

I don't know why this week's lovelies have such odd names, I didn't plan it, but here's Letterio Amadeo.

Here we go from odd names to no names, cause I don't know who this beautiful rump belongs to.

I forgot to mention that Grag Stone is also my new favorite imaginary boyfriend.  He is both very cute and an enthusiastic bottom.

Blake Mitchell, the naughty puss.

Even in these odd, odd times there is the occasional bright spot, such as Austin Wolfe sharing his big ol' hog with such generosity.

I usually try to achieve a balance here between butt shots and dick pics, but I am just woefully short on asses this week.  I will try to do better.  Also, this Bryce Evans.