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.

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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.

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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.  

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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. 

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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.

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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.
  

Out of the Darkness

So I meant to post on Wednesday, Sept. 25 that it was the fifth anniversary of my wedding to R Man, but before I could get around to it, the power went out, so instead Secret Agent Fred and I wandered around the house, lighting candles and tripping on things.

I was going to whine about living without R Man, but you know what?  I don't want to.  I'm doing better now than when he died then and I expect to continue that way.  Instead of writing some droopy, sad little post about missing R Man, I went to bed early.

Then this afternoon, I took Saki down to get his claws clipped on Castro while I went across the street to get my own nails done at Handjob.  I don't know why he pretends manicures are so traumatic, I like them.

I have no idea what's going on in the photo above.  I just find it amusing.

Ironic Hair

Polk Street is an odd San Francisco thoroughfare.  It runs through several very schmancy neighborhoods and yet it manages to be shabby.  Castro is the more well known gay center, but Polk was the original gay ghetto.  We lived near it and I got to know it well enough to realize every block had a liquor store, a dry cleaner, a cheap diner and a gay bar.  Every block.  A very short hop down from the center of what was the rentboy stroll is the front door of City Hall.  It's San Francisco, there's not a lot of room to spread out.

But the last decade of skyrocketing rents has routed pretty much every bohemian or louche or plain old funky neighborhood and Polk Street is no exception.  Almost all the old gay hustler bars have given way to guys with oversized glasses and teeny tiny hats drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon.

It's Hipsterland: expensive, ironic and grimy.

Pretty much I don't care, they got to go someplace, I suppose, but this week my barber called to say his back had given out and I needed my hair cut and somehow I wound up at the People's Barbershop on Polk at Bush Street.

A temple to hipster's fetish of guy-ism with a hearty dash of steampunk thrown in for decor, if it was any more hip, I would have been issued a monocle and a wool vest.  Who am I kidding, if it was any more hip, I would have been barred at the door.

So now I have a $60 haircut I don't like.  The sides are fine, but the top has sort of a poufy roll which, considering how little hair I have to work with, is pretty amazing.  I look sort of like Julie Harris in Member of the Wedding, but not as attractive.  Or butch.

A Day of Beauty

What a lovely, San Francisco kind of day. It rained all night, but today is crisp and fresh washed, the perfect day for an elderly poof, such as I, to go down to the Castro to get my hair did and a mani-pedi. Loved it.

Castro Street was at its most charming.

Some guy was sprawled on the side walk so I asked "Are you all right?" He replied indiginanatly "Of course I am." Of course he was, and all was right with the world.

Is there anything better than gossip to go with your hair-do? My beautician, Jeff, was in rare form because a big muscley thing was in one of the chairs on the other side of the very small shop and Jeff had to practically whisper the dirt to me, which just improved it, n'est-ce pas? Seems Miss Muscle Thang has recently divorced his wife the better to pursue his sideline of snagging rich old men. He looked sort of like this, but more or less in clothes.

On behalf of old men everywhere, I say if you look like a gold digger, if you gots the gold digging equipment, go dig the mother fucking gold and make some old man happy. Plus, for some reason, Jeff does a better job cutting my hair when he's distracted with gossip, so yay.

Then, on to Hand Job for my nails. Although I never specify who I want, I almost always wind up with Malwani. I have the impression she is not the most popular girl there, possibly because she is one of the homeliest trannies I've ever seen. But really, I'm not there for a date, so what do I care?

She does have spectacular nails, which is encouraging.

There used to be a kind of nice looking guy here who has vanished and my dragdar tells me he may have grown his hair out, rooted through his mawmaw's jewelery box and emerged as Malwani. There are some Ladies who go through the change and give it their all, attempting to be the most feminine creature possible. Others make no effort to hide their more masculine voice and profile, who decide that they are all the girl they need to be and they are the ones I applaud and that seems to be Our Girl Malwani.

Also, Malawani understand my cuticles.

At the other end of the Hand Job spectrum, their receptionist/esthetician is this terribly cute boy named Frank.

I think a little eye candy improves any beauty regimen, don't you? One of the services Hand Job offers is a Boyzilian Wax, the very idea of which makes my nuts retract into my body cavity and which I think Frank may be modeling here:

He's also a model, you can see his site at Nakkid youth

I have no idea if his facials include a happy ending; I'm simply happy to live in San Francisco, where the guy booking your pedicure is possibly an up-and-coming porn star, or should be anyway.

Hair Don't

Gosh golly, quick, somebody call The Hair Hall of Fame Hotline, I got a hairdo emergency.

It all started so innocently. I went in to get my hair did cheerful as all get out, totally unaware of the horror that lay ahead. That's when it all went so wrong, so tragically wrong: my regular beauty operator was not there. I was so stunned by the catastrophe, I actually agreed to let one of the other beautician take a crack at my coiffure. What a fool I was. I should have known no one understands my hair like Jeff.

And now, now that it's too late, all I can do is weep bitterly. I've tried voodoo, the Psychic Friends Network, pulling on it, but nothing helps. I have to go find my goddam turban.

More Beauty Tips

I wandered into middle age resigned to a receding hairline; the sheen of my scalp was obvious early on. One of my strongest vows to myself was to never try to hide it. Comb-overs, rugs, plugs: ick, no thanks. Still, one day when R Man and I were trying to buy me a suit I was stunned to look in the three way mirror and find a bald spot in the back. I felt betrayed by my own follicles. Wasn't it bad enough they were fleeing from the front? Did they have to sneak out the back as well?

But even once I capitulated on the top of my head, I was not prepared to realize I was also losing my eyebrows. What the hell? In all the cultural bitching about aging we have, I don't every remember anyone touching on the topic of eyebrow loss. More than the sparseness above, I think my patchy brows is my most aging feature, with the few remaining hairs all old-man shaggy and gray, the worst of both worlds.

Before

After

My recent sojourn at the spa/salon brought to light the idea of eyebrow tinting. What do you think? I wouldn't go for the Joan Collins circa 1963 thang, but I think just darker brown than the washed out gray I'm working with now might be just the ticket. It's bound to be cheaper than a Botox party.

Clip Job

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