In Which We Go Backwards

 

So just to bring everybody up to speed in case you haven't been paying attention (and I know you have not been paying attention, you bad little puss,) I have scoliosis which has resulted in chronic back pain for more than 40 years.  Just as a side note, no one noticed I was developing into a hunchback in highschool even though looking at back photographs, it is glaringly obvious I was a teenage Quasimodo.

My latest foray into trying to deal with a backache that will just not shut up was getting trigger point injections.  I'd go to my orthopedist and he would shoot me up with long lasting lidocaine and some steroid.  It worked great, life-changing, better than any other treatment I have suffered through since Jimmy Carter was president.

I went in last Friday for my latest shot and the muscley little bitch (all the technicians in this practice look like they have to squeeze in their medical duties in between photo shoots as fitness models) announces that this shot is the last one I can get. I said "No." And then I said, "Nonononono." Nurse Muscle Bitch seemed unimpressed with my argument and just claimed patients are limited to four shots because of the steroids which can lead to osteoporosis, malpractice suits, blah blah blah.  I replied to all of his reasoning with my own brilliant point, "I don't care."

And I don't.  I am trying to balance a concern that I might develop osteoporosis at some speculative point in the future against living with an achy back all day, every day right now and I come down on the side of Future Mrpeenee is just going to have to deal with soft bones.  And that's if I live long enough for them to crumble.  Does that seem likely? No, no it does not.

But Nurse Muscle Bitch was not buying it.  He got the look on his face I'm all too familiar with from having tried to explain my ideas to other medical professionals, a look similar to someone trying teach multiplication to a not very bright child.  

Admitting defeat, I asked what I was supposed to do next.  He looked sort of baffled that I would expect him to offer any possible option and then suggested I get a Botox shot.  Maybe he thought the squinty, annoyed look I had developed needed some work.  Botox, got it, let's get on that train.  But no, his practice does not have that on their menu.  So where does he suggest I go?  "A pain specialist?" he offers in a very tentative manner.  He seemed concerned that I might continue to up the ante with even more difficult questions.  Did I mention he was really muscley?

So now I'm back to my old friend, the pain specialist with my old friend, the back ache.  My creaky old back and I, handed off from one doctor's waiting room to another like an old issue of Readers Digest.

More muscley bitches:

Maximo Garcia, costarring his Maximo Dick piece

Either this guy can stand in the garage or he can fit his butt in the garage, but not both at the same time.

Plop goes that cock meat and the world is a better place.

I miss my garden.

I wish I knew who this guy is.  I think he is terribly cute.

Cleanliness is next to godliness.  I just wish I was next to him.

Some dicks are Culturally Significant.  This is one of them.

Insipid art and really fine buttchcops.

Yes, yes indeed.

Look, I know we all want dick pics, but sometimes just being cute is enough.

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 Revel in Some Domestic Bliss

 

This plant is a Purple Shield, it has some Latin name that I am not going to try to spell here.  I always thought they were cool because, uh, they're purple, ok?  I bought this one in February despite not being sure how well it might do inside here.  In fact, it has more than tripled in size since then.  That's a huge relief, when I had a garden, almost all of the plants would be thriving, minding their own business, and I would obsessively fuss over some sickly little specimen that was obviously never going to make it. 

Even better, it has apparently felt the call of spring and has set flowers.  I was delighted when I saw all the buds, but then the actual blooms turned out to look like puny orange dandelions. Oh well. 

In local cat news, I followed Diane von Austinburg's very sensible suggestion that I lure Octavia out from under the bed with treats.  Turns out Octavia is a snack whore.  I can relate.  Once she connected me with treats, she let me pet her and then once she let me pet her, she has started demanding attention.  

She slept with me this morning, which was really sweet except for the part about waking me up by yelling at me to pick her up and put her in bed.  She can jump up herself, but she has sort of a hard time with it.  I'm going to get some of those steps so I don't have to act as some kitty longshoreman.  Once she settled down, she set to licking my arms because apparently she didn't approve of my hygiene.  If you've never been licked by a cat, it is very much like being attacked with wet sandpaper.  Again, so sweet, except now my forearms smell like cat food.

Dudes I wish were yelling at me to get in my bed: 

Maybe he needs me to lick him.

Thoughtful and meaty, an excellent combo.

I just love a man with good balance.  I fall over enough for both of us.

I think I may have featured this guy sort of recently, but I'm too lazy to check.

Artistic buttchops.

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 Return

 

The mission statement of mrpeenee, Inc. LLC

Well that was fun.  I left Venice early Tuesday morning and got home something like 16 hours later, 16 very tiring hours.  Turns out even having a chair that makes into a bed, while making the whole ordeal easier, does not totally do away with the hassles of flying.  I've been home two days and I'm still trying to get my frail carcass back to normal.  Or as normal as it ever gets.  I'm just glad to be back to my own bed, my own pillow, and my own toilet and I understand that is the definitive old man statement.  Don't care, won't care.

Let me once again emphasize how much I appreciate what a good sport Diane was about traveling with me.  There we were, in two of the great cultural centers and my plan was to take naps and have coffee and pastries, which is exactly what I do here. The St. Regis cafe, a block from our hotel in Paris, gets 5 enthusiastic stars, would go again, in a heartbeat.  Also the place in Venice that sells pistachio cream filled croissants was really good.

Here's my review of Delta airlines, with which I flew home: the planes suck (The seat to bed thingy worked okay, but was so narrow I couldn't fit my elbows down by my side when lying down, and I am not a particularly wide individual.) but the personnel were great.  I originally had a 6-hour layover in Atlanta and needed to get a boarding pass for my leg back to San Francisco.  The desk I had to deal with had three ladies filing their nails and refusing to make eye contact and one large homo.  Naturally, we bonded, girlfriend got me a first class seat on a flight that was boarding pretty much right then.  I was home, and glad of it, before my original flight even took off.  

In short I'm delighted I went, I had a wonderful time, and I am never leaving San Francisco again. 

Fellow travelers: 

Well, someone knows how to have a good time.

I've decided to start a new religion

Extra beefy is always welcome around here

Everything counts in large amounts.

Extra tasty, just for you.

Buttchops

In Which We Flee to Italy

That's mrpeenee, there on the left.

Eighteenth century rich Englishmen who had too much money and not enough culture would embark on what was called a Grand Tour in order to get rid of some of the first and maybe pick up some of the latter.  Diane and I have taken on a sort of abbreviated version of one and have left Paris for the damp embrace of Venice. 

You have to take a boat from the airport into town, because, duh, Venice. As soon as I stepped out of the airport doors and was met with the briney, fishy smell of the lagoon, I was transported back to my childhood in the swamps of the Texas Gulf Coast.  Muck, it has a Proustian effect on me.

I naively hoped the gangs of tourists would not be as dreadful as everyone said.  And they aren't.  They are, in fact, much worse.  Diane and I got lost trying to get to the Piazza San Marco, which is actually not far from our hotel, but the mobs of tourists, combined with Venice's incomprehensible layout was just more than we could master.  Plus my refusal to ask for directions didn't help.

God love her, Diane was such a trouper.  She never complained, even as we wandered, battered by the crowds, for 3 HOURS.  We finally just gave up and were headed back to the hotel when we accidentally stumbled on, drum roll, the Piazza.  We had a very nice tea there and then came back to collapse in the hotel. 

A dazed mrpeenee in the very charming Cafe Florian tea room on the Piazza San Marco

Here is a partial list of things that piss me off about the tourist rabble here.

• Bitches
• Bitches who smoke in my vicinity
• Bitches who are in my vicinity 
• Bitches posing for their influencer TikTok
• Bitches who stop in front of me, oblivious to all the people crammed in behind them 
• Bitches who crowd up right on my heels when some other bitch has stopped in front of me and I can't go anywhere.  Bitch.
• Teutonic lesbians

We have a perfectly lovely hotel:

I am up in the attics, in a large, but odd room, with ceilings that are occasionally higher than I am tall.  Occasionally.

I have to go into the bathroom to put on or take off a t-shirt because I can't raise my arms above my head anyplace else.  I really am charmed by the room, although that's possibly a result of a concussion from blamming into the beams.

R Man and I came to Venice more than 30 years ago and loved it.  And I still love it.  Even as my last good nerve is being frayed by the busloads of vaping, vapid teenagers shipped off here on their own Grand Tours, I keep bumping into some quiet corner that reminds me how enchanting this place is.

Italianos I wish were crowding up on me:

Gianluigi Volti with all of his big meaty bigness, smooth. . . 

. . . and hairy. You decide.

Paride Spaziano and his big lemons. 

Mateo Lanzi with considerably more overhead clearance than my current room has. 

 I'm not wild about bad ink, but I will make an exception just this once for Italian soccer bitch Giorgio Torelli

Alessandro Cavagnola, who refuses to show his bits even though that is clearly what the universe demands.

A pair of Marin Barba Rosie's buttchops.

Giorgio Ramondetta, with what has to be the world's most discreet tattoo.

Alex Palmieri, big,beefy, and beautiful and who also, as Mitzi from Clutter from the Gutter so charmingly phrases it, "takes it fudgeways."