In Which We Have a Chat

 

I only recently discovered that not everyone goes about their day chatting with themselves.  I think in whole sentences most of the time and when I don't, I still think in fragments and it's all directed to an audience inside my pointy little head.  Some of it may be delusional like "I have time to go have coffee, take a shower and get to the doctor's appointment on time," but it's still a conversation.  This kind of dialogue with oneself is called an inner monologue.  Apparently lots of people do not process their thoughts this way, instead they often just use images.  Weirdos.

I also use images like when I think "Imma take off for Peet's" I will have an image of the cafe and the trip there and the gang of loud homosexuals that hog a table in the hopes that they won't be there, but those pictures are just secondary to my rambling dialogue, illustrating what I'm already thinking.

What's more, I often phrase these inner sentences in the plural, such as "let's go to Peet's," rather than "I'm going to go to Peet's". Walt Whitman said "I contain multitudes" and he was a big ol' homo, so he must be right.  And speaking of multitudes, I will occasionally have a disagreement with myself.  "Oh you think you can go get coffee and still make it to the doctor?  Get real, queen."  I'm frequently very harsh with myself.  Alice in Wonderland had these same kind of inner brain arguments; I don't know if comparing myself to a fictional child having a nightmare is a good thing or not.  Let's just move on. 

Through the magic of the internet, I came across the concept of naming different aspects of my thought process as Present peenee, Past peenee, and Future peenee.  When, for example, I don't want to unload the dishwasher, I, speaking as Present peenee, will talk myself into doing it by telling Past peenee that Future peenee will appreciate it.  I even go so far as to have Present peenee thank Past peenee for putting the dishes away.  It goes the other way too when I indulge in the joys of procrastination and tell myself whatever I'm putting off is a job for Future peenee.  Future peenee is often very annoyed by this.  Yeah, Future turns into Present and they both get mad at Past who has morphed into Present and it gets awfully loud and uncomfortable what with all the yelling.  Pipe down, bitches.

We all want to assure you that we are not schizophrenic, we're not going all Three Faces of Eve or Sybil up in here.  It's just a way to organize my thoughts, such as they are.  I happen to think in whole sentences, and the sentences sometimes turn into conversations.  This blog is very much a reflection of my inner dialogue.  Sometimes I just crack myself up I am so hilarious.  I could go on, but one of my favorite peenees is demanding sour cream potato chips so I gotta go. 

Future peenee presents imagery for us all to enjoy:

Our Chaturbate boyfriend Mikey looking all buff and stuff at the beach.

Speaking of being at the beach, I just love buttchops that are too big to be contained by a mere speedo.

Anonymous muscle pussy 

William Mann with all his big stuff.

This guy has more hair than the wolfman.

I'm glad this guy puts his name on his pictures because I forgot it.

Nick Poulos.  Pandering to my audience.

Ass, ass, ass.

We approve.

I forget this guy's name, which is just ungrateful.  He is one of those Colt Studios' sluts.

Rick Koch, cuz everybody loves good cop porn.

Past peenee thinks we may have used this picture before, but the rest of us don't care.

I composed this whole post on my phone because Octavia was snoozing in the sun next to me and I didn't want to get up.  It's a sweet life. 

In Which We Take a Trip

 

I was reminded of the following story by this charming illustration I stumbled across on Tumblr.  It is a sheet of blotter acid from back in the day.

One fine spring afternoon many years ago, a gang of miscreants with whom I worked on a small newspaper in New Orleans and I went off to spend the day at a cabin near the beach in Gulfport, Mississippi.  It was a tiny structure teetering on the brink of being a shack with a great big screened porch.  

These sort of shabby, but not chic, little joints were all over the Gulf Coast in the halcyon days of my youth.  They were comfortable but nothing special, usually sort of musty, and frequently built by somebody's grandfather with whatever crappy supplies he had lying around.  Putting any more effort or money into construction of something that was just going to get knocked down by some hurricane was regarded as laughable.  They were often referred to as The Camp.  I'm sure they are pretty much all gone by now, either flattened by, again, a hurricane or replaced by some ridiculously elaborate McMansion, which was also inevitably hurricane doomed. 

I'm sure this particular The Camp came fully stocked with crabbing nets and flounder gigs and probably some rod and reels for surf fishing because all of these places had those.  Oh and coolers for beer.  Definitely coolers for beer.  This one was pretty standard with a big front room with a kitchen in it and then a bathroom and a couple of bedrooms.  The first thing you did when entering was open all the windows to air out the mildewy smell and then immediately shut them all so you could turn on the air conditioner.  

The whole point of our expedition was to get there and get loaded by taking some LSD.  Since I'm easily amused, I always liked acid.  I enjoyed taking a break from the physical reality and the hallucinations which took my tiny little brain for a drive were always colorful and pretty.

The cabin had a huge hot pink azalea growing right next to it, actually taller than the roof.  Once I was tripping (like a million screaming monkeys, as we used to say,) I spent most of the afternoon sitting on the screened porch and staring up into the magenta flowers.  I eventually had to go pee and in walking across the main room to the toilet and back, I got lost.  You know why?  Cause I. Was. Loaded.

Hoohoo.  Good times.

Boys who look like they would be a good time: 

Tyler Otto and his lovely buttchops.

Glenn Isner, another one of those skinny-big-dick combos everybody finds so darn attractive.

And yet another.

Jadsen, from over at AllAmericanGuys, where the models all have sweet asses, but no last names.

Massimo Arad, daddy in the dunes.

Oooh, spooky.

Another mononymic beauty, Mathias and his low hanging fruit.

Look, a love story for Pride month.

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 Cannot Keep a Secret

 

One of my Chaturbate chums is my old pal Brain.  Before I get any further, let me just point out the screen name he uses is brewerbrain and yet I am the only one who refers to him as "Brain", everyone else calls him "Brian" which is so much duller and just plain wrong.  "Brain." It's right there in the screen name.  Do you think all the rest of the Chaturbate gang have some kind of dyslexia?  

Somewhere down the line, Brain mention to me that he had a friend who always teased him about his job, claiming that Brain was working on a secret death ray.  I thought that was pretty funny and since I'm always willing to swipe any joke so that I don't have to bother with coming up with one, I glommed onto it and have been riding that bitch ever since. 

Having worked for the federal government for decades, I had no trouble believing someone is in the death ray business.  What I refuse to accept is that someone could be in a secret business in the government.  I was trapped for several years toiling in the personnel office and I know all too well how much paperwork is generated by even a medium sized office of a small agency.  Are you saying somebody stuck with filing the stupid direct deposits and tax forms and explaining what the health insurance changes are this year, that that poor schmoe is going to keep his trap shut about who he works for?  What about the lawyers that have to certify that everybody went through the sexual harassment training? And the IT idiots who have to figure out the passwords everybody forgets? What about the vendors who need to come in and unjam the copiers?  Personally, if any attractive barista had complimented me on my sweater, I would have blabbed every secret the agency had been stupid enough to entrust me with.

So when someone wants to explain to me how the moon landing was faked or how COVID is a conspiracy and all of it is a secret which has only been pierced by some knucklehead with a podcast, I roll my eyes so far back I am able to look at the inside of my skull.  I am not naive, I know the government is capable of terrible evils and even that they have been able to hide some of them from a gullible public.  But I also know that the average office is not even able to get everyone to clean out the refrigerator when it's their turn.  I can only hope that kind of incompetence is enough to protect us from the death ray conspiracy.

Guys I want to conspire with:

This guy toils in the fields of feelthy pictures under the ludicrous name of "Flex Xtremo."  I am willing to overlook that because he is such an enthusiastic muscle bottom.

I went to the store to get raisins, it seemed like a simple enough task.  I thought they would be by the canned fruit, but no, and the produce section, another seemingly likely bet, also was raisin-less.  Finally, I ran them to ground in the snack section, which is absolutely wishful thinking on the grocer's part.

Our old friend Grag Stone.  That is not a typo.

Valentin, who only uses one name, like Cher, demonstrating car sex at its finest.

Yowzah.  I don't know why he's looking so cranky.  Maybe his back hurts from carrying around all that dick.

Lochie Carey, enjoying the breeze.

I already told you, that sock is gone.

Do you remember the Kinks' song I'm a Ape Man?  It comes to mind.

In Which Credit Is Taken

Financial advice from mrpeenee

So every year or two, some evil little troll manages to get their grubby paws on my credit card number.  They then go on some low-level spree buying all kind of odd crap.  The first time this happened, they bought antique dolls and a topaz bracelet.  Mostly I was offended at the idea of brown jewelry being attached to my credit.  

Usually when this happens, my credit card company will contact me about some particularly suspect purchase (I should note, I legitimately make plenty of suspect purchases so good for them for parsing out the criminal ones.)  After I testify that I have never heard of the criminous business involved nor did I make that charge, the credit card guys cancel my card and I get to climb back up on the thrilling roller coaster of dealing with all my many recurring fees and charges tied to that now defunct card.

Do I need to explain why I'm bringing up this cycle of crime and punishment?  Yes, yes, I have once again been the victim of identity theft.  I got a text yesterday that innocuously asked if I had actually charged 30 something dollars for some company called wiworwe.me (who, in case you bump into them, you should be aware they are MOTHERFUCKING THIEVES, WORTHLESS SCAMMERS, and SHITTY GRIFTERS WHO SHOULD BE TRAPPED IN A CALL CENTER IN HELL.)  When I saw the text, I had some vague sense of unease, but I was sort of distracted and I just replied "nope."

The card company, god love them, I guess, immediately sprang into action and texted back to say they had canceled my card. Boom.  That's when I remembered that is exactly the result that happens when you admit that you don't recognize a charge.

I wish I'd had the sense to simply ignore the whole thing and written off the $30 as just some kind of fee the universe charges me.  Happy to pay that much to avoid dealing with updating all the many, many accounts I have tied to my now defunct card.  My rent, which I pay with the card, is coming up on Tuesday so I had to hotfoot it over to my landlord's website and change my account to some temporary cash source, my phone bill came through pretty much at the exact same time the credit card was dying so I had to fix that, and, for that matter, I couldn't even charge coffee at Peet's, the world's finest cafe. Life is just hard without a credit card.  I don't know how the Amish get along. 

There is a bright side to this.  I know from past experiences this is simply a brutally efficient way of cleaning up my finances by scraping off all the little fees and subscriptions and accounts that I have accumulated but don't really use or need.  I thought about that as I was dealing with the lady at the credit card company as she was going through a list of pending or possible charges.  I kept waiting for some luridly unlikely porn bill to pop up, but somehow we missed all that.  She instead focused on my $2 expenditure on Google for some word game I play.  Coincidentally, I had that same evening charged a really expensive flight to Houston for next September and she never even brought that up, but $2 for Google?  She was on that motherfucker.

Naked guys I wish I could charge: 

Why aren't luscious rentboys like this ever involved with my charges?

I would absolutely open a new credit card expressly for something this good.

Pussy like this wants my credit info?  I will type it out for him.

He wants to know my mother's maiden name and what street I grew up on?  Okey dokey.

He probably just needs a new pair of roller blades.

Instead, I get some chiselers who probably don't even have a tanline.

I hope their time in hell gives them a sunburn.  Inside their butthole.

Denton Baxter, who I've always thought was cute in a goony way.