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 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.

In Which We Revisit Ancient History

 

I was looking back at some of my old posts because I was trying to remember this particular post.  I thought it had happened around this time 16 years ago (16 YEARS AGO! My god.)  Turns out I was a week late for the actual anniversary, but considering how vague my memory is, I think this is pretty good. Anyway, here is my own little way back machine moment:

Nov. 9, 2007

I've had my share of odd days, but today may be one of the strangest. For one thing, today is the anniversary of mrpeenee and R Man. Twenty-six years ago tonight we hooked-up, as the youngsters say, in the backroom of a bar in New Orleans and started the complex navigation to the lovely happy life we have now. Coincidentally, I was 26 years old, so tomorrow morning, I will will have had him in my life longer than I lived without him. In all those years, I have never had any hesitation in saying he is the center of my universe, the joy of my life, the cream in my coffee.

After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.

It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.

My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.

Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.

Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, nevertheless) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.

And now, back to Nov 17, 2023.  It all turned out OK, fucking terrifying, but OK.  R Man lasted another  4 years, and I was plenty glad to have them.  And now I live around the corner form where Chow, the restaurant I mentioned in the first paragraph, used to be.  

Anyway, here's some naked guys:

Somebody is enjoying himself.

I know I promised naked men, but isn't this guy cute?  He reminds me of R Man when I first met him.

Dillon Roman and his great big pocket rocket.

Dwain LeLand, titstitstits

I ran across this and the next few shots over at Sicko Ricko's blog listed as "Random Dick."  OK. 

I started this evening off listening to Bette Midler's album from 2014 It's the Girls, which is mostly sort of MoTown hits genius, and then Pandora wandered off eventually landing on Sonique's Sky (which I love) through the ancient disco offerings of Jackie Moore and This Time Baby and now we have somehow landed in the inevitable 80s and Don't Go by Yaz.   I expect Cher to drop by any minute.  All that's OK with me.   So is this Random Dick.

I am not usually sentimental, but the combo of remembering scary days gone by with an all-too-appropriate soundtrack has won out.  Old disco does that.