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 the Good Doctor Takes a Peek

 

Ruh roh

Well thank God that's over. 

Last month I changed medical practices and got a new doctor. To celebrate our tender, fresh relationship, he went on a spree of ordering tests for me.  It all seemed rather one-sided to me; I didn't make him trot off to some waiting room for yet another intrusive procedure. But you know what a good sport I am, so I just went along with all his foolishness. A hearing test, a bone density test, a cardiac stress test, it seems like there is no end to them. He seemed sort of disappointed that I get regular eye exams so he couldn't order one for me. 

Naturally, since I am an old man, one of the screenings was for a colonoscopy, everyone's favorite medical procedure. I've had two of these before and since they had turned up no problems, I was willing to skate along without another one, but the new doctor insisted. In fact it seemed sort of like some kind of fetish, but I refuse to yuck someone's yum, and so this week saw me prepping for my close up yesterday.

I'm not going to linger on the prep details. You have to fast, you have to drink a gallon of this nasty glop, and you have to poop your brains out. It all went from a dribble to a squirt to some kind of natural disaster, but let us draw a veil of silence over any more specifics. More than anything, I was struck by how complicated the directions were this time. I don't remember being so confused about how all the rules and schedules worked before. As I said, you poop your brains out, so all the detailed timeline I had to work with just seemed like overkill.  Poop will out.

But eventually all things pass, right? I overcame the fasting, the pooping, the confusion, and suddenly there I was on a gurney in the procedure room with my skinny old man ass bare to the world and the anesthesiologist getting ready to pump the good stuff in. I made some remark about the very odd music they were playing, like some kind of Temu EDM and that's the last thing I remember. That's the thing about colonoscopies, they always come with a free session of amnesia.  The next thing I knew I was riding in my friend Aaron's car, a brief fragment of memory which was immediately followed by another blank spot.  After that, I suddenly found myself eating pizza at my computer.  How I ordered and paid for the delivery is beyond me; I only hope I was wearing pants when I went down to the lobby to get it. 

I have no idea what they found up in my Grotto of the Unknown, the doctor is supposed to let me know later this week. What I do know is that I am never going through another one because I plan on going to my grave without ever letting someone take a peek inside my butthole again. Never.

Medically necessitated naked guys: 

That is not what I looked like.

I crashed after the pizza and slept for almost 24 hours. 

But the pizza was delicious.

Everybody say hello to Carlos.

In Which We Are Patient

 Look I know I talk a lot about my health concerns here, but I'm an old man and I don't have a lot of other exciting topics to explore.  Especially lately, I have been going through an absolute spree of doctor appointments.  I am single-handedly keeping the American medical community profitable.  

This festival of medicine started off with my consultation for my upcoming cataract surgeries.  And keeping with my new tradition of being handed off from doctor to doctor like a goddamn secret Santa present, they sent me to my regular doctor for a clearance that promised that I wasn't going to die in the middle of getting my cataracts scraped off. 

Speaking of being handed off, turns out my regular doctor's practice has been bought by yet another medical group.  This happens every couple of years, some corporation buys the old corporation and I get an email announcing I have to register for a new "patient portal".  I want to point out every time I have filled in all the information the portal demands, I still have to complete the same questions on a form the next time I go in.   Consequently, the last couple of times this has come up I just ignore the whole ridiculous mess knowing that by the time they catch on that I have refused, some other entity will buy them and the point will be moot. 

Once I luddited my way past their information gatekeeping, the physician assistant announced they  needed an EKG.  I'm always up for a good time, so I didn't protest.  Of course, nothing is simple, so the EKG showed that I have a slightly enlarged heart which, naturally, called for me to be referred to yet another specialist, a cardiologist.  I would like to point out this EKG had nothing to do with my eyeballs which were supposedly the reason I was there in the first place.  The PA airily assured me I was cleared for the surgery, but said I needed to get right on that cardiology thrill ride. So that's coming up in September.  Also I need a tetanus shot, because of course. 

That was yesterday, today's doctor appointment was my hematologist to talk about that silly old too much red blood cell stuff.  He looked at a bunch of numbers and asked me if getting a pint of blood drawn every month was helping. Why was he asking me?  Shouldn't he know that?  I said I couldn't tell any difference so he pretty much answered "Oh well. That's that. Nothing else else I can do" and shuffled me out the door.  What?  

I think so much of this medical frenzy is simply that the tests they run on me are actually too efficient.  The EKG senses a tiny blip and suddenly I'm scheduling a stress test with a heart doctor.  My blood work shows that I am barely over some threshold for my red blood cells and I am trotted off to the hematologist.  And every conference includes the phrase "it's probably no big deal, but . . . "  I think we should all be focusing more on the "no big deal" part of the equation.  

And so now here I am, blind, burdened with too many blood cells, and a big beautiful heart.  All the tests and treatments and procedures all come back to one insight: I'm old.  Well, I could have told you that.  In conclusion, as all these doctors inevitably wind up telling me, "let's keep an eye on that."

Here's what I really want to keep an eye on, 

Butt

Peek a boo

Such shapeliness must not be contained.

Why so glum, chum?

Buttchops of the World.

You know he giggles when he pulls his pants down.

This guy works under the nom de smut of Con Wh0re.  Whatever you say sweetie.

In which We Drip

 

There seems to be a sand dune lodged up inside my sinuses.  Although the weather here has been as delightful as usual (we only have two flavors, cool and sunny or cool and foggy, the ideal San Francisco summer,) the wind has been just one small step short of a hurricane. It hasn't rained since March, so that wind has lifted all the dust and dirt airborne and plenty of it has found its way up my nose. 

Runny noses run in my family.  My grandmother, my father, my brothers, at least one of my nieces, and I all go through life clutching a handkerchief. After a lifetime of dealing with snot, I decided to see what was causing it and to try and deal with it, so I slunk off to the thrill of an allergy test.  Because all that coughing and wheezing had to be the result of an allergy, right?  Right?

Wrong. Turns out I am allergic to absolutely nothing except dust mites, and there's nothing particularly unusual about that, everybody is allergic to dust mites.  Instead, I have non-allergic rhinitis, which is medical talk for "runny nose".  They don't know what causes it and there's no cure.  Those of us cursed with it are just stuck with noses that drip like a faucet that never quite turns off.  Just to make things better, it creates a loop: our sinuses get irritated from all the mucus passing through and that makes them create more mucus.  Drip drip drip. 

And that brings us back to the weather report.  One of the things that makes mine worse are breezy days like we've been having this month.  So maybe I should amend my earlier claim that I'm not allergic to anything and admit that I am allergic to the wind.  I could expand on that, but I need to go blow my nose.  Honk. 

Breezy boys: 

Get some sun this weekend.

This post is brought to you by the letter ass.

I'm hoping this isn't AI, although the size of that meat makes me suspicious.

Girl, your room is a mess.

Lotta buttchops this week, cause that is just what I have on hand.

I wish I had that on hand.

I had to go make a special prospecting trip to Tumblr just looking for dick pics.

I hope you appreciate all my hard work.

Who doesn't love a nice summery boy?

In Which We See the Sights

For years every time I've indulged in the thrills of a doctor visit, the medical profession will roll out some version of the sentence "Well, you're getting older . . . ."  Lately I haven't heard it so much, presumably because I am not getting older but rather I have now arrived at that destination. 

I did bump into it last spring when my eye doctor tried to brace me for some bad news by explaining that everybody, simply everybody, eventually gets cataracts if they live long enough.  Trying to be sympathetic, I murmured something about, "Yeah that's a shame,"  but then realized he was telling me that I was developing a cataract.

I finally had a consultation at a clinic that specializes in cataracts.  It was one of those specialized outfits that has found a medical niche and has created an absolute factory to deal with it.  After a barrage of tests, the main doctor guy blew in to say my cataracts were no big deal and I could wait a few years for the surgery if I wanted to.  He phrased the news as if he were presenting options I should deliberate about.  I asked him if many of his patients argued with him when he told them they didn't need surgery. 

While relieved (and I left in a hurry in case he changed his mind) I still had to deal with the after effects of having my eyes dilated for all those stupid tests.  Decades of myopia have taught me how little I like dilation because it leaves me with a headache and kind of queasy and, oh yeah, blind as a bat.  This particular session used some kind of super special dialation that made my pupils big as big saucers. Had I wanted to, I'm sure I could have seen the inside of the back of my head. 

Even with my sunglasses on, I was stumbling through a landscape of screaming white light and occasional blurry shadows which might or might not be my Uber.  Acting mostly on faith, I climbed into one of the shadows and whoever it was then dropped me off across the street from my building.  I was so relieved it took me a minute to realize, I now had to navigate six lanes of very busy traffic by means of echolocation, pretty much. But the dark lure of my vampire lair bedroom was calling to me so I just threw myself out into traffic and hoped for the best. I seem not to have been run over and I don't have to have cataract surgery yet, so yay. 

I think what I need is some seeing eye muscle pussy:

Bathing suit season has now ended, so sad.

Nuts

The combination of a hot muscley guy and books is always a winning one.

He seems not to understand how to use kitchen tools, but who cares?

He looks like a sweet boy who needs a firm hand.

Diane von Austinburg and Chaturbate Mikey have both commented recently that I don't include enough hairy daddies, to which I say "Go publish your own damn blog."

In Which We Play Doctor

 Did I tell you about the Uber I recently had where I, minding my own business, suddenly realized the musical entertainment was a Christian rock radio station.  Dude, really? Could we maybe change to  heathen R&B? Agnostic jazz? Something that doesn't include the word "praise" quite so often or quote some fairy tale from the bible.

I have been spending quite some time with Uber of late.  Part of the joys of being an old man are the abundance of doctor's appointments that I get to enjoy.  Waiting rooms all across San Francisco have become known to me.  When I was younger, I would pass the time by rearranging the furniture in them more to my liking, but now I just sit there and sulk.

But mrpeenee, I hear you ask, what is the point of these medical rendezvous?  Oh, this and that, most of it expensive and usually painful. I had to get my trigger point injection in my back cause the first one had finally worn off and also which, ouch. 

Speaking of ouch, I had to get the various bits of sun damage spread out over my hide checked on.  As a small blonde child growing up on the Gulf Coast, I had plenty of blistered skin and my frequent sunburns are coming back to haunt me.  Discolored lumps and bumps now litter any patch of skin that was ever exposed to the sun. My doctor refers to them as barnacles.  Hilarious sweetie, absolutely side splitting.

You deal with these by taking liquid nitrogen on a q-tip and dabbing it on the offending lump. The nitrogen cauterizes said lump ("cauterize" is a fancy word for "burn that shit off" and it is exactly as much fun as it sounds.) I always exaggerated the discomfort and would squeal and berate my doctor for humorous effect.  My original practitioner was always quick with the dabbing part so we could move on to my theatrics.  My current doctor apparently feels the need to be more thorough and will cheerfully swab away like it's some arts and crafts project.  I want to explain to her that this is not some hobby, but I'm so busy gritting my teeth I can't quite get around to it.

Also, I had to go to the chiropractor, but since that's mostly just a gossiping, I don't really mind it.

Medically necessitated naked guys:

The weather continues to insist on being winter.

I forget his name, which just seems like rank ingratitude, sorry.

Serious buttchops.

Even the most tasteful interiors are improved with the addition of a beefy young man.

Once again, redhead pussy is simply irresistible.

Also I had to go the eye doctor because my computer glasses aren't working.  So frustrating when I am trying to mine the nude dudes of Tumblr.

But somethings even I can see.

In Which We Take a Walk

 

Because I have AIDS, I go to the doctor every 6 months just to check to see if the meds I take are working (spoiler alert: they always work.) Since my treatment is not going to provide any drama, I have to make my own and to do that, I turn to burning off the sun damage on my skin. My childhood as a fair-skinned idiot in the subtropical hothouse that is the Gulf Coast of Texas, means that I got plenty of damage to work with.

The damage has resulted in actinic keratosis, a fancy name for bumps.  My doctor daubs liquid nitrogen on them and that burns them off.  It is exactly as much fun as it sounds.  Slightly more amusing is the doctor's preparation which consists of her saying "okay this is going to hurt.  This is going to hurt terribly much.  It's going to be agonizing." until I finally tell her to shut up and just get on with it.

I was walking over for my most recent torture session and decided I would take at least one picture every block.  Herein mrpeenee Goes to the Doctor:

The world's most gigantic bougainvillea.

Noe Street has charming community areas where the sidewalk widens out and which the neighborhood fills with potted plants and flowers.

I don't know what's going on here. This was everybody's favorite Japanese restaurant but it burned years ago and is still just sitting charred and empty.

I appreciate the work that goes into keeping a flower bed so tidy.

I love the architecture in my neighborhood.  Someone once described all the bay windows that are such an important feature of it as looking like the buildings are corrugated.

I love this color of bougainvillea

The view from my doctor's office.

And one last look down the quiet treelined charm of Noe Street.

Before we move on to the nekkid mens (and don't think that I am unaware that's why all of you come here.  Pervs.) I want to ask my fellow bloggers if you know a way for me to alert my readers on the odd occasion I get around to putting up a new post.  My last blog host, which shall remain unnamed, automatically sent out an email letting everybody know my deathless prose was once again available and I would like to  return to that.

Anyway, on with the nekkid mens I have found lately

I like guys having a good time

Peek-a-boo

What a lug.

Who puts the Ass in Massive?

Sunny delight.

My long time fascination, Marbys Negretti.

In the weeds.

Finis.