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 Indulge in Bloodsports

I realize a lot of my posts lately focus on my struggles with the American medical industry, but when you reach my incredibly advanced age, medicine is about the most interesting thing you have going on.  I used to be an expert on sex clubs in San Francisco and now I have opinions about doctors' waiting rooms all over town.

Anyway.

My latest medical misadventure started when my regular doctor told me my blood work showed that I had too many red blood cells.  Does that seem like a problem?  It sounded like some kind of superpower to me.  Actually, initially I thought she was saying I had anemia, which is sort of too few red blood cells and which led to a very confusing chat.  Eventually she was able to cut through my mental static and explain that too many red blood cells makes your blood too thick which can lead to strokes.  Oops.  So, not a superpower, is what I'm hearing you say. 

Of course this finding led to me being handed off to yet another doctor, because that's what my life is these days.  As I wandered into the hematologist's office, I thought "this place looks really familiar" but there are plenty of offices in that building and I assumed the bland decoration simply must be common there.  It wasn't until I sat down for my conference with the good doctor, that I suddenly realized I was back in the same office where Rman was treated for the cancer that killed him.  It turns out the hematologist is also an oncologist and was Rman's doctor.  I mentioned to him that he had broken the bad news to us at that very table.  He was sympathetic, but seemed to want to talk more about my blood.  Fucking vampire.

The condition has a fancy name, polycythemia, because it's a fancy condition and I am a fancy boy for having it.  The fancy condition led to a gala round of tests and blood work and an ultrasound slideshow.  Of course that entailed even more waiting rooms which all could have benefited from my homosexual good decorating skills.  I circled back to the doctor/vampire and he dropped a whole bunch of medical words (which he might have been making up for all I know) and then concluded that he didn't know what was causing the problem. Oh, I am so glad we got that out of the way. The treatment was to remove some of the too thick blood, which had the sound of a quaint 18th century bloodletting.  I was concerned leeches might be involved. 

I had my first blood session last week and it was really easy.  The very chill chicks who drained me initially said it would take about a half hour.  Pooh.  I was through in literally less than 5 minutes.  Turns out I am just that good at bleeding.  I then got to watch them dump the equipment and a bag of my blood into the medical waste bin.  That's okay, it's not like I was using that anyway. 

The only other advice I got about dealing with the polycythemia was to drink more water and thus help thin out my blood, but I think "drink more water" is just one of those standard bromides that doctors trot out regularly.  My pee is always very pale and clear so I am convinced I'm not particularly dehydrated.  Nevertheless, I have been guzzling water like a camel getting ready for a caravan.  Speaking of pee, about 3/4 of my waking hours are now spent in the bathroom, pissing away. Should I cut myself when shaving, I'm sure I will leak water like the Titanic. 

Also, I suffer from kitties taking up all the room in the bed. 

Dickheads.  I am surrounded by dickheads.

Dickheads (and butts) I wish I was surrounded by:

I'm sure your neighbors appreciate the view.

I'll just hang out here.  Thanks.

I forget this guy's name, but then, he has forgotten how to put his panties on.

Some superior buttchops, but also feets for all you feet freaks out there.

We are going long on asses this week, because that's what I have to work with.

I am not 100 percent sure this guy is not AI, but I am convinced he is too cute to ignore.  Complaints that he is not nude should be addressed to someone who gives a fuck.

In this week's edition of Baroque Butt.

In Which We Act Our Age

 Okay, so I will be 70 years old next month. Seventy. Seven tee.  How is that possible?  This was not part of my plan, but is creeping decrepitude really part of anybody's plan?  Winston Churchill left office the day I was born, a bit of trivia which sounds like ancient history these days.  I am exactly as old as Disneyland and McDonald's.  Eisenhower was president and I'm sure there are plenty of Americans now who have never heard of him.  Baby boomers are generally defined as having been born between 1945 and 1965 which puts me smack dab in the middle of that demographic bulge.  The plague years of the AIDS crisis, Y2K, Elton John's wandering hairline: I've seen it all.

This is most certainly not going to be one of those tirades people make about how "I still feel young inside" because I don't.  I am old and I am okay with that.  I used to be fearless (foolishly so) and with a great deal more energy; now I am stodgy, cynical, and oh-so cranky.  I refuse to apologize for any of it, I have earned it all.  If I choose to be irritated by The Youth of Today (and the vantage point of my advanced years allows me to realize The Youth of Today are always irritating, regardless of what day today is) that is my privilege. 

Social media is littered with tales of my contemporaries who foolishly try to emulate the actors in commercials from all sorts of snake oil selling that "age is just a state of mind" bullshit.  Denial is not going to protect you from being old.  Age is your back hurting and all the cartilage in your joints shot to hell and the energy level of an unwound clock and trying to take up hang gliding is not going to change that.  I genuinely have a friend who will get up before dawn to go cross country skiing and I think "What the fuck is wrong with you?  Just calm down, bitch."  And then I have to go lay down because his example exhausts me.  You can struggle against the tide all you want, but when you have to fill in your birth date online and you need to scroll and scroll down through the years to get to yours, it just reminds you, there is no fighting the march of time.

Youth in all its taut-skinned glory:

Nekkid guys this week will all be "vintage" which is code for "old".  Seen here, the beautiful buttchops of Tom LeDuc.

Tim Kramer, who exemplified the Big Dick, Dumb Looks phenotype so dear to the hearts of many.

The beefy glory of Brett Mycles.

Of course, I can't wander down nude memory land without bumping into Colt Studios, Kyle Jessup. 

The superior ass stylings of Billy Herrington, also courtesy Colt Studios.

Steve Cort is an long time favorite around here, and he cranked out smutty pictures by the thousand, but it's hard to find any good ones of him online these days.

Ed Dinakos, prime beef.

Vintage always brings with it hairy dudes, in this case, Al Parker, on the left, Steve Taylor, Parker's real life boyfriend in the middle (little piggy that reportedly he was), and the charming Will Seagers, right.

Lastly, one of my favorite pictures from back in the day, Aiden Shaw, by Pierre et Gilles.

In Which We Do Not Age Gracefully

 

There are days when waking up takes all the energy I have.  I lie there, nothing more than a lump in bed, and try to bargain with my bladder.  "Look just let me go back to sleep and I will piss as much as you want in a couple of hours."  That works just about as well as you might expect. 

Turning into an old man was never part of my plan.  I had somehow envisioned being 40 years old for several decades and then peacefully dying in the arms of a muscly Go-Go boy.  I don't know how that scheme went awry, but here we are, Grouchy and Creaky, the two dwarves who didn't want to put up with Snow White's bullshit.

On those ill-advised occasions when I do get out of bed, I am an absolute symphony of small explosions.  It's one thing to have my joints sing out, but I swear even bones that don't move get in on the racket.  Just walking across the room sounds like a bucket of kindling meeting a bulldozer.  I have occasionally yawned and my jawbone makes such a loud crack it makes my ears ring.  Why is my own skeleton turning against me?  Why?

I hung out with a dear old friend recently who is the same age as I but in much much better shape.  Bitch.  I was telling her about my plans to go to London and Paris this spring and she was trying to convince me not to take a cab from the airport in Paris.  Instead, her bright idea was that I should take the train into town, transfer to the Metro to some station in the vicinity of the hotel and then walk.  Walk.  I explained that even after a good night's sleep in my own bed and unencumbered with luggage, I can barely make it a block up the street here to go drink coffee at my favorite cafe.  I could tell she thought I was exaggerating, but people have thought that about me most of my life and I have refined the ability to ignore them into an art.  We will be taking a cab. 

Guys who are most certainly not old.  Yet.

This week's blog is brought to you by the letter "ass".

Paolo Belucci and his lovely dick snout.

Putting the "ass" in "massive".

In the closet.

Strapped in and ready to rock.

My brother Mike tried to teach me how to help install drywall, but after he saw my best attempt at mudding and finishing, he just asked "How did you do that?" and then he sent me off to wash paint brushes.  I think I just needed a teacher who looked like this

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.
  

Do You Smell That?

So I recently beat out this guy for a seat on the bench at Peet's cafe, cause I am super spry, and he sort of glared at me, but get real, I grew up with two mean older brothers.  You think your beetling eyebrows are going to deter me?  Huh.   But then he got the last laugh when he plopped down next to me to chat with some loser on the other end of the seat and a wave of his stinky old man smell washed over the whole place.  Is that what I needed to go with my cream cheese and blueberry danish?  I think not.  So very not.

And then this evening at the Kabuki Spa, where I was on the receiving end of one of the great massages of our time, the locker room was ripe with Eau de Old Guy.  You know what I mean; it is the aural equivalent of the wrinkledy specimens so unfortunately on view over at Infomaniac

What is with that?  Why is there a specific stench tied to how old you are?  A quick Google search reveals there is, naturalment, a Japanese study that reveals it is a real thing (duh) tied to the breakdown in fatty acids among seniors.  And while we're at it, have you ever noticed any bizarre question leads to a Japanese study?  Other research has topics like Political Subdivisions in 18th Century Bohemian Nationalism.   Japan's got Why Do Old People Smell Like That?

This is not idle curiosity on my part.  Not only do I have exquisitely delicate sensibilities, I am an Old Guy.  Worse I am a fair skinned Old Guy and somehow my peeps and I are the ones who seem particularly fragrant.  More Google searching turns up the assurance that this stinkiness seems to be tied to evolution cruelly insuring that nubile youth do not inadvertently mate with monkeys too old to provide for the offspring.   "Yes, I would let you mount me if you did not smell of impending death."  Ouch.  Harsh, evolution, harsh.

And so I wash and scrub (with Dove soap.  If I cannot smell like a young buck, at least I can smell like a Lady) and I have made Secret Agent Fred promise to soak me in a tub of lavender fragrance, Clorox and turpentine if I ever to start to turn into a stinky old man.  Still, I brood.

On a related note, circling back to the Kabuki Spa, let me just say that I am opposed to the death penalty, but only conditionally.  I firmly believe anyone who farts in a steam room deserves the chair, cause really?  Perhaps you are not familiar with the engineering of steam rooms, but believe me, fresh air circulation is not way up on the list.

But to prove I am not just cranky, here:

Almost certainly not weighed down by Stinky Old Man Smell.

Stupid Back

My back, never terribly cooperative at the best of times, has been giving me grief all week.  I took to my bed with ice packs and muscle relaxants, hounded my chiropractor, prayed to the Psychic Friends - nothing helped.  Then this morning I dragged my sorry ass of to a "late brunch" (which is code for drinks and vicodin) with Secret Agent Fred and several friends and now, many hours later, I feel ever so much better.   Maybe it was the pizza.

A graphic representation of my backache this week:

Ick.

Much better.

Worthless.

Much better.

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.

Back from the Blind

Perhaps you already know about the wonders of Flexible Spending Accounts. Your employer deposits a chunk of your salary you choose each year and you get to spend it on your medical expenses. The money is not taxed and, in federal employees' case anyway, the entire amount you designate is available immediately so it's like an interest free loan for a year. The down side is any money in the account you don't spend by the end of the year, you lose. It's like a not very amusing game. In December you have to guess how sick you're going to get in the next year and how expensive it will be.

This year, I wildly overshot and so now I'm scrambling around trying to spend up all the money still hanging around my account. Since the pinheads at FSA will not recognize rentboys as legitimate medical expenses, I was considering decorative surgery, but decided to spring for new glasses instead. I picked them up this afternoon.

I assume plenty of you guys are myopic because, you know, so many of you use big words in your comments. Thus you'll understand the thrill of new glasses. Never again will the world look so crisply clear as it does through brand new lenses.

So what did I see, wandering through the Castro, my eyesight all tuned up?

(Of course I didn't think to take my camera, so all images are approximate and swiped from various websites.)

The agapanthus on Market and Noe are remarkably brilliant blue.

The storefront that used to house Earthtones, a fairly charming tchotchke store, is now reopening as a combination wine bar and jewelry store.

What? Is their business plan that customers will get drunk and pop for overpriced bijoux? It seems like an unlikely concept.

Plenty, plenty of cute guys. Reveling in my new found ability to focus, I was looking around absentmindedly and suddenly realized I was staring at an absolutely ravishing boy. Good Heavens.

He had on a lovely olive green sweater, too.

Even as I realized what I was doing, I also saw that he was looking directly through me, invisible as a glass window in his path. That didn't bother me; I had my turn and now it's his. What it did do, however, was make me wonder what it would be like to be young and so very good looking and living in San Francisco. I know, I know, everyone has their own pains and sorrows, rain falls on the beautiful and the ugly alike, blahblahblah. Still, what is like, to turn heads everywhere you go? I'll never know, I'd just be satisfied with his sweater.