Blood and Porn

All I wanted to do was transplant a largish Pieris from one pot to a larger one, but the pot the stupid thing in was not giving it up.  I struggled and struggled, but the plant was stuck.  It's possible I got frustrated, I do that.  It's also possible I took a hammer and busted the pot to get the plant out.  A shame, since the pot was a lovely blue and white ceramic one and I regret losing it, but not as much as I regret cutting a big chunk out of my left thumb cuticle on a shard of it.

Because the skin on your cuticle is so thin, wounds there tend to bleed freely, as this one did.  The whole house looks like a serial killer's place after a long weekend.  Plus, I was scheduled for a manicure this afternoon and the girl I wound up with certainly looked at my bandaged thumb askance.  Since I secretly refer to her as the Butcher of Castro Street for the odd gusto she brings to dealing with hangnails, I wasn't really worried, but still, I was plenty to glad to pull into the bar where I was supposed to meet up with Secret Agent Fred.  It had been a long day, filled with White People Problems.

Fred was ensconced chatting with some nice looking older guy who eventually revealed (with no prodding) that he had been a model for Colt Studios back in the day.  I have an researcher's knowledge of porn so I was plenty interested.  He said had never worked under any nom de smut, which immediately told me he was pretty far down on the totem pole; everyone who matters gets a fake name, even if it's as dumb as "Bill Bailey."  Speaking of poles, he was quick to mention the issue he was in was the classic Men Who are Hung.  I wasn't impressed,  nice people don't brag.

He wandered off, despite my assurances that Fred is easy, and I came home determined to find that issue and see if was really in it.  Since I have amassed a collection of more than 1,400 titles that might seem daunting, but I looked it up on the Colt site so I was just flipping through looking for the cover.

Amazingly, it is one of the few mags I don't own.  What are the chances?  So tomorrow I'm off to the used porn store to check.

Life is a Dance Floor

I was dancing just now (Pink, God is a DJ.)  Actually, I was just bouncing rhythmically in my chair with lots of head bobbing and drag queen hand gestures and realized Saki was watching me with great concern.  Then he tried to swat at me.

Tragically, I was not accompanied by Jane Lynch and a trio of safety gays since I'm sure Jane would have protected me from Saki.  Or she might have taken his side.  No telling, really.

This Just In

God love the commenters of mrpeenee, miscreants all.

In two recent posts, I included photos of guys who had intrigued me, but whose identities were lost in the mists of the internet.

Exhibit A

and B

 Of course, readers of this blog would be the source for all things smut and sure enough, two of our minions came through.  And a big thank you to both of them.

umaneo reports the first one is straight porn guy Tommy Gunn.  My in-depth investigation reveals that he is an attractively rough looking customer.  In the scenes I watched (for archival purposes only,) the young ladies receiving his attentions up the poop chute seemed genuinely discomfited.  Oh, yeah baby.  Wait, that's not what I meant to say, I meant, Brute, of course.

almchrl1 then chimed in about the second one "He's a Russian model, Dj and performance artist.I fergit his name…."  Turns out a quick google of those terms reveals he is one Pavel Petel,   Besides being a great big humpy hot homo thang, he also has a number of interesting insights into being a great big humpy hot homo thang in Moscow, where his sexual identity is illegal.

His Tumblr site, HERE, is most amusing, you should go look around it.  I especially liked the spread of him dressed as a unicorn, with a fat hardon, hanging with a pink gorilla.  I can also recommend "King of Twerk," but then again, I would, wouldn't I?

Cause If They Don't Dance, Then They're No Friend of Mine

Turns out I vacation so I can take naps in beds other than my own.  Secret Agent Fred and I took the train down to Los Angeles and I spent almost the entire 11 hour trip asleep.  Nothing is as lulling as the rolling rhythm of a train and there's really nothing else to do, anyway.

The L.A. tain station is gorgeous

We stayed in the Biltmore downtown,  where the lobby and other public spaces were also pretty spectacular, with all the original, elaborate details intact,

but our shabby rooms upstairs were like being confined in an old folks home designed by somebody who had seen The Shining once too often, complete with fluorescent lights and dingy yellowing paint.  We fled to a tonier hotel I like in West Hollywood, so I could sleep in a nice place and so we could be closer to the gogo boys of Santa Monica Boulevard.

The car rental place stuck us with a white Chevy Impala, the Car of Shame.  The poor clerk handling the exchange was trying to be pleasant, he was pretty cute, and acknowledged this was not exactly the Batmobile, but I was overcome by some kind of gay Tourette Syndrome where I couldn't help blurting out bitchy snark.   I am ashamed, but it's true, we did look like we could be busting hookers in Hollywood.  Did I just imagine the valet parkers sniggering as we pulled up?  Maybe, but this was L.A. after all, where you are what you roll.

Speaking of muscular semi-naked guys dancing to Madonna, we had a lovely evening out at some bar that I swear is a time warp to 1990.

The strippers were terribly cute and Fred has a way with them, they're drawn to him like he's a puppy with a fistful of singles.

Tragically, I now find out we missed the 2013 GoGo Boy Appreciation Day Festival and Competition by a few weeks.  Count me in for next year's.  I'll see you there.

Choo choo

Somehow, I don't imagine this is our conductor.

Secret Agent Fred and I are spending Christmas day taking the train down the coast to Los Angeles.  It's supposed to be a really spectacular trip and I like riding on trains,

but right now, four hours before we're supposed to leave, Fred and I are both sort of loaded (in Fred's case, you can delete the "sort of" part.  Plowed would be a better description.)  Still, how hard can it be to get on a train?

Hmmm.

We'll be back soonish, I'll tell you all about it.

Houseless

Oops, I forgot to mention after all the drama about trying to buy that house in New Orleans that it didn't work out.  Oops.  The rapacious sellers simply wanted too much money for a house equipped with an antique electrical system and plumbing that was essentially a bog.

I looked it up just now and it's back on the market with an increased price tag.  Wow,  just wow.  When I was considering it, the price they were asking was a chunk over comparable places in the neighborhood, so how they're justifying this is beyond me.  They do mention in the description it has "updated" plumbing, which I assume means they've patched up the sewer.

I'm still looking for a place there, but there's nothing on the market and probably won't be until after New Year's.

Maybe I'll just invest in muscular Australian youths.

More Thanks. Lotsa Thanks.

Oh, hay.  Do I still have a blog?  Waddya know?

Do you remember Thanksgiving?  A couple of weeks ago?  Some friends and I went down to Big Sur to spend the Feast of Fat in this place that was astonishingly sumptuous.

This is the view from the backyard.

To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, "I find it harder and harder every day to live up to Northern California's excessive prettiness."  Sometimes it's sort of oppressive, much like what I assume dating this guy might be like.

I made turkey and cornbread dressing and gravy, all of which was totally delicious, if I say so myself, and our friend J made pulled pork for sammiches, which was even more tasty and the place even had a dance floor where mrpeenee demonstrated the moves that made him the terror of bars throughout the 80s

and there was a giant soaking jacuzzi tub for after dancing.  All fabulous.  And that's when the cocaine came out.

Oh my little schnitzels, I haven't done any coke since Ronald Reagan was president, but it turns out I can still snorfle it up like a Dyson.  My co-miscreants, all of whom are considerably younger than me and were not around for the Liza Minnelli years were most impressed.  Apparently they had fallen for my respectable facade all these years.

Equally impressive to them was at the very end, when there was only smallish pile left and someone (NOT ME) spilled water on it.  I had only the briefest pause before I announced "I'm licking that up."  Who wants to waste cocaine?  It was one of those decisions you make that even as you're processing it, you think "Probably not the best idea," but that doesn't stop you.  And besides the feeling returned to my tongue by the next morning.  Pretty much.

A lovely Thanksgiving.

Everything counts in large amounts.