In Which We Are Gay

 

Every June I mention here how struck I am by the sudden appearance all up and down Market Street, the main street of San Francisco and the street on which I live, of these gay pride banners.  They go up overnight; one day they're not there, the next, boom, they're everywhere.  It's magic.  Fairy magic even.

Every year I also admit to my shameful plans to avoid the actual Pride Parade.  I am plenty old enough to realize fully how astonishing the evolution of public acceptance of gay people is, even if it is not as accepting as I would like.  I can only imagine how amazed my 20 year old self would have been at a modern parade.  Enormous corporations lining up to participate? Queer cops? "I'm Proud of My Gay Son"?  Drag queens on TV? None of those things would have seemed possible to a young me. And yet here we are, surrounded by them and instead of celebrating them, I am looking forward to staying home with my cat and scrolling through naked guy Tumblr.  But that's a kind of gay pride, right?

Jon, from over at the Give em the Old Razzle Dazzle blog, participates every year in the London version.  He is a Good Gay and I stand in awe of him.  But speaking of standing, the very idea of spending all afternoon on my feet at the ginormous celebration that follows the parade makes my back ache.  Over the years, I've watched plenty of parades, marched in parades, helped organize them, and now I'm ok with just staying out of the way and letting anybody else who wants to enjoy themselves.

I understand acceptance of gay people is under attack and fighting back is important.  I have led my adult life unabashedly out and I'm glad of it.  It's just that hanging out down wind of the ongoing grease fire that is a fajita stand and wondering why anything as meticulously planned as SF Pride doesn't have any goddam seating isn't the answer.  San Francisco has a population of less than 800,000 but the attendance at the whole pride shebang clocks in at over a million people.  Surely they won't miss me.

If these guys were going to be there, I might reconsider: 

Salute.

Whoever this guy is, he should certainly be proud of his buttchops.

The always adorable Valentin with his boyish charms.

Tanlines are always a fashionable accessory.

You know what else is always an effective accessory?  A great big whacker and a hairy pussy.

Don't fall off sweetie.

I like smooth boys and hairy daddies and everything in between.  That's my idea of gay pride.

I suppose I should clarify San Francisco Pride Parade isn't until June 30.  Let's celebrate.

In Which We Indulge in One More Kitty Post

 

If I was a therapist, I would hand this out to my clients and charge them for it. 

OK, OK, OK, I promise I am not going to turn this into a cat blog, but Octavia is still a new experience for me and I want to share it.  If you are not a cat person, I'm sure this is tedious for you, but bear in mind there are naked guys at the end. 

So I got a new brush for Octavia.  It's very fancy and sturdy with a device built-in that pushes up the base from below the bristles and thus dislodges the cat hair tangled in them.  I am suspicious by nature and figured this was just a gimmick; amazingly, It works.  I'm digging it and, more importantly, so is Octavia.  She purrs and allows me to brush as much as I want to. 

Perhaps you remember my previous cat, the Evil and Adorable Saki. The evil element in his nature meant anytime you reached towards him, you stood a pretty good chance of withdrawing a mutilated and bloody hand. Saki liked being brushed right up to the point where he didn't at which time he would make you regret your choices, especially those involving brushes.  Unfortunately, that point was never apparent until too late.

Saki PTSD, that's what I deal with.  Octavia loves to be petted, but every time I'm stroking her and she moves her head, I flinch back, convinced I am about to be maimed.  I think it's understandable, I still have scars from Saki, but Octavia deserves better so I'm trying to get over my mental handicap. 

Anyway, I'm sorry for the excess kitty updates, I'll attempt to do better and next week hopefully I'll resume my regular blogging: whining about life and closely studying naked guys. 

Naked guys:

Hats on backwards and big dicks, it's a classic combo.

Naps.  Who doesn't love them?

The aptly named Alton Hunk.  Russian and meaty.

A good tanline is so flattering.

What lovely head on that dick, which is different than just a dickhead.

Once again, I start out looking at cock and wind up admiring the decorating.  That is a lovely turquoise on the wall there.

I miss my garden.

Again with the backward cap.  I mean, if you're insisting on giving a blowjob, OK.

In Which We Are Becatted

 

Everybody say hello to our new cat, Octavia.

I know this is not a very good picture, but it's the only one I have because immediately after this, she made a break for the guest room and has been hiding under the bed ever since.  That was Sunday evening and today is Friday, so you do the math. And actually, she is only a new cat int he sense that we are only recently acquainted.   She is 12 years old, to be mathematically exact.  So she is an old lady cat, but I'm an old lady man, so that seems like an OK match.

I understand the poor thing being freaked out.  She was leading a pretty sweet life in Cat Jail when I swooped in and dragged her off to my evil, if attractively decorated, lair.  For all she knows I am a monster.  So I'm trying to be patient and let her acclimate at her own time. 

Diane von Austinburg, who knows all about kitties, offered the very sensible suggestion that I should hang out in the same room as Octavia but without forcing myself on her.  So that's what I'm doing, I hope in this way she gets more accustomed to me and will eventually be my little friend. 

Her life before Cat Jail does not seem to have been all roses.  The Cat Jailers report that when she came in, she had such bad flea infestation she had wound up with anemia and she had a urinary tract infection, which is fairly common among old female kitties.  In fact, it's not rare among old females, period.  Apparently, her owners decided to surrender her (for euthanasia!) rather than pay for the antibiotics for the infection.  I am honestly not judging them, times are tough and vet bills can fall pretty far down on the list of expenses a family has to deal with.  I'm just glad the San Francisco Animal Care and Control, which is Cat Jail's real name, saved her and cleaned up all her medical issues in time to hand her over to me. 

So here we are, Octavia and me, hangin in the guest room.  I have to say, it's not a bad place to wind up. I almost never spend time in here to the point that I think of it as "Diane's room."  Apparently so does Diane, but we may now have to adjust that to "Octavia's room."   Sorry Diane.

Scenes from a guest room: 

Speaking of pussies: 

The mirror has two dicks, and they're sweet looking big ones, too.

Muscle pussy.

I wish my apartment had radiators, I think they are the ideal heater.

"wearing one's underwear on one's head" is a shorthand I use to refer to general craziness.

Ooh la lala lah.

Recently, chaturbate Mikey complained about my using soft dic pics here, to which I can only reply "Don't be greedy."

Don't be greedy.

In Which We Survive a Tangle with The Man

 

Guess what?  Diane von Austinburg and I are going to Europe in the spring, Paris and Venice, to be specific.  I haven't been to Europe in decades; after R Man died, it just didn't seem appealing to try a trip like that without him.  And then by the time I became resigned enough to life without him, my back had degenerated to the point that I couldn't face the idea of a 10 or 12-hour flight.

But coincidentally, my trip back from Houston was on a plane with seats that converted into flat beds, full sized comfortable beds.  A whole new world of possibilities opened before me.  If I could lie down for the bulk of the flight, flying to Paris suddenly seemed very doable.  Sleeping for a 12-hour stretch is no great effort for me, I have been training for this for years.

Plus since then, I got my trigger point injection which has dealt very handily with the pain in my back.  The injections last about 6 to 8 weeks so I will be able to get another one right before we go and should be pretty much pain-free.  What a concept.

Convincing Diane was a snap, god love her, she is such a sport, game for anything.  So that only left one hurdle, renewing my passport.

A career of working for the federal government has left me permanently leery of being entangled in any part of their web.  Nevertheless, I wasn't going to revel in fresh croissants in Paris and strolling along canals in Venice without a passport and so I dove into the very murky waters of travel documents.

The State Department handles passports and they used to have an office devoted entirely to that across the alley from where I worked, so handy. But that was before decades of Republican attacks on the size of the government did away with all that customer friendly nonsense and instead moved the whole function of accepting passport applications over to, drumroll please, the US Post Office.  I suppose they thought moving passports to the most reviled agency in the government would discourage citizens from fleeing the country.

First I got my passport photo taken (Diane said it did not make me look like a serial killer, which would've been sweetly supportive, I suppose, if I had made any reference to thinking that it did make me look serial killer-ish. Hmmm.)  I made an appointment, showed up on time (amazingly) only to be confronted with a locked door and a scrawled message to use the regular post office window instead, because what's the point of going to the specific level of hell that is a post office if you are going to duck out on dealing with the exquisitely surly postal employees.

During our lengthy time together, the clerk never once looked me in the eye, not even when she was trying to say my birth certificate was invalid.  Bitch, what do you want for me?  That paper is more than 60 years old, has gone through several hurricanes as well as my erratic youth, and it's all I've got.  There was a tense couple of moments when it was not clear if I was going to be able to stuff my face avec croissants in Paris after all, but she finally shrugged and stapled it to the passport form.  

The clerk asked me if I wanted the form rushed and I said no, which immediately seem to raise all sorts of red flags.  I guess I was the only customer who had ever declined their idea of a rush job.  She was so suspicious of me that she kept kind of circling back to that point throughout the rest of the process.  We would be sailing along on some random other part of the questionnaire and she would again spring "Do do you want this rushed?" like she was hoping to be able to trip me up.

I was finally able to totter out of there, past all the people in line behind me who had been making sotto voice, passive aggressive complaints about how long I was hogging the window.  I considered hissing at them as I passed, but I was so glad to escape I decided not to.

Anyway, a little more than six weeks later, my passport showed up in the mail months before I needed it and with my waterlogged birth certificate stapled firmly to it because, honestly I don't know why, it's the post office, maybe they have a staple fetish.

So come April, Diane and I will be winging our way to the glories of Paris and Venice.  I have cleverly scheduled us so that on my birthday, I will have breakfast in Paris and dinner in Venice.  Doesn't that sound fabulous?

Naked dudes who are also fabulous:

I am pretty much completely out of naked guys' identities this week.  Sorry.

Surfer dudes are always welcome.

I know some of my readers are very fond of hairy, beefy guys.

Whereas everyone likes a well turned buttchop

Maybe the Post Office thinks if they make the passport system too easy then everyone would have one and then, I don't know, the terrorists win?

Have mercy.

Big nuts.

In Which We Are Carolled

I was so close.  For the last couple of years I have celebrated making it all the way to Christmas without being subjected to any Christmas music.  I know being so hostile to the mewling tunes of this joyful season makes me an easy target for people wanting to call me a misanthropic grinch.  Fuck that.  It's only that I am willing to say out loud what  everyone else is thinking.

This year seemed to be shaping up for yet another Xmas uninfested by Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer and the like.  Since I pretty much go nowhere except my bathroom and Peet's Cafe (and they have totally gotten on board the no Christmas music train) I felt safe, foolishly safe.  I would just slide through what Jon, from Give Em the Old Razzle Dazzle, calls the festering season without my ears being punished.  

And then I had to go see my doctor.  What was waiting for me there?  Guess.  I opened their door and was confronted with Andy Williams, Perry Como, and Nat King Cole crooning fucking carols. And not just any carols, but the insipid, saccharin version.

Ugh, this is already been a difficult year.  I should have known.

Guys to soothe your holiday battered earholes:

Jean Franko, still in the wrapping, sort of.

I finally found out the name of this guy and his angelic backside, please give a warm peenee welcome to Alfred Herrera

Here we have the seasonal stylings of Jack Harrer, another one of those Bel Ami sluts.

My friends and others who enjoy low humor used to call this pose The Landing Pad.

Some anonymous, but humpy strumpet.

I know it's been a long year.  Lay down and take it easy for a while.

In Which We Can Host

 

Secret agent Fred's apartment building is doing some work on his place so he and his terribly sweet cat, Toby, have decamped over here. It's always a pleasure being able to hang out with Fred and it's very amusing to have a kitty back in the place.

This week's special guest star, Toby.

Fred has had a very rough year, his cancer keeps hanging around like an unwelcome guest, chemo and radiation were both an important part of his schedule, he wound up with anemia and was so beaten down by it all that he was one of the few people I know who spend more time in bed than I do.

At the end of the summer though, he suddenly bounced back, energetic and in good mood and interested in hanging out with us.  It was an enormous relief; this time last year, I was very worried that we would be looking at a fredless future quite soon.

So I have been really enjoying having my old friend back and when he wanted to spend some time up, I was all for it.  We had a very amusing couple of days and went out to dinner, things are going great.  Until they weren't.  On the way home from the restaurant, Fred sort of collapsed and wound up puking all over the sidewalk and staggering back to the apartment.  I thought I would have to carry him and wondered if instead I should just call for an ambulance.  The whole gastrointestinal storm blew up in just a moment, but had real lasting power.

The poor old thing spent all day in bed yesterday and most of today.  My nursing prowess tends towards asking "how are you feeling?" over and over as if I could harang the patient into feeling better.  I try to imply that they are letting me down by not recuperating fast enough.  Knowing that that is, oddly enough, not helpful, I restrain myself instead and just ask what they need and occasionally offer aspirin or tea or ginger ale or plain rice.  Late this afternoon, Fred got up and accepted my rice idea and is now ensconced on the living room couch.

Having gone through these peaks and valleys several times with R Man, I know there's really not much for those of us on the sidelines to do other than just hold on and hope for the best.  When you're sick there's just not a lot anyone can do for you.  Anyway, at the moment Fred is doing better so I'm just going to enjoy a dinner of rice with him.

Guys:

I love big ol' hardons that just pop out.

The most popular guy on the work site.

Daniel Osgood.  Cause sometimes you just want to be pretty.

A new favorite of ours here at mrpeenee, inc., Juan Hortoneda.

 A peek o' cheek.

Paride Spaziano, the beautiful.

My Halloween post included a bunch of cop love pictures, this is just a leftover.

I forget this guy's name.  Sorry.