In Which We Live It Up

Back when I was a good deal younger than I am now, leading the fabulous existence of an '80s queer in New Orleans, I remember thinking occasionally what a quiet, restrained life I had.  Looking back on it, I must have been out of my mind, more so even than usual.  Those were the days when I'd go out to queer bars and bath houses pretty much every single night whooping it up, listening to loud music and chasing dick. Now if I have a haircut and a doctor's appointment both in the same week, I am laid low for days. 

I was considering all that this last weekend.  Diane von Austinburg was in town and we made a day of it.  We met up with our friend Hotfoot to go check out a charming new little museum with a very interesting couple of exhibits.  It wasn't crowded and the space is a dynamite use of an old bank downtown.  We dug it.

After we had had our fill of being cultured, we headed for a bar, because what else do you do late on a Sunday afternoon?  Hotfoot's husband Drumstick joined us there and after a couple of drinks we adjourned for sushi.  Diane and Hotfoot both said it was excellent.  Drumstick and I both agree sushi is nothing but overpriced cat food and we refuse it.   Still, it was a very nice dinner hanging out with old friends. 

But wait, there's more! After dinner we came back to my place and played Yahtzee like the wild dogs we are.  They all polished off a few bottles of wine and even though I was the only one not drinking, I was also the only one to not win a game.  I was so annoyed, I briefly considered cheating, since they were all so wasted by then they wouldn't have known, but even I have my limits.  Everyone had completely conflicting demands about what music I should be playing.

The whole underpinning for the evening was a celebration of Super Agent Fred's birthday.  We toasted to him, and we told stories about him, and we all got a little teary-eyed occasionally.  It was very reminiscent of evenings gone by when we would explore bars all over town, the sushi place was one of Fred's favorite spots, and a Yahtzee tournament was a tradition of ours.  It was a good time and times like that help say goodbye.

Speaking of Super Agent Fred, I have been able to make progress (finally) on the website where I will be offering up his art.  I know I have been really slow getting a handle on all this, but I am able to think I should have something soon.  

You know what else Fred was very fond of?  Naked men:

Fred was very fond of the species known as "daddy".

A cowboy for my niece Amber, who appreciates beef.

 

And buttchops for me.

Speaking of buttchops, someone would seem to have been a naughty little puss.

I've mentioned before how I love big boys with that dumb look on their sweet face.

I can never remember this guy's name.  If anyone knows it, please share with the class.

Surly, but so darn beautiful.

Season's Beatings

A dear old friend from our misspent college days in Austin appeared here in town and we got together for coffee, then lunch, then drinks and wrapped up with dual manicures.  It was the ultimate Ladies Who Lunch sort of experience and quite amusing.

As such things will do, the conversation eventually drifted over to masturbation.  Doesn't it always?    A problem with consistently making an idiot of myself is that people don't know when I'm being serious, so when I announced "I think masturbation is life affirming," our dear old friend just laughed, but I wasn't joking.  Spanking one's monkey is pleasure for pleasure's sake and what could be more life affirming than that?  For once, you're not trying to prove anything to anyone, no one is keeping score, all the crap that keeps you down is momentarily put aside in favor of me, myself and I: my favorite three musketeers.  Nothing but you and whatever filth your id feels like dredging up.

Still, word has reached us that some consider the art of self love with distaste.  I say if God was against jacking off, why would he provide us with opposable thumbs and porn?  Are these people waiting for permission?  If so, mrpeenee hereby grants you the right too all the squeeze play you want.  So here's to lightening the load.  Go ahead and rub one out right now.  Think of this as my christmas present to all of you.

Joyeux Noël

Wedding Belles, Part Two

What a gay, romantic week it's been here at the old chez peenee.  Two of our oldest friends, Cow Queen and K, popped into town to get married and stayed here with me.  It was their thirty-something anniversary, and after a very tastefully small ceremony at City Hall, we had a lovely lunch at one of my favorite Italian restaurants downtown.

And then, a slightly less romantic trip to the emergency room for Cow Queen.  After we got home from all the wedding festivities (no bouquet toss since the majority of the party was composed of widow ladies) Cow admitted as to how his leg was aching and reminded me that he had been in the hospital a few years ago with MRSA, the drug resistant staph infection, and that his doctor he'd been at pains to warn him how easy it was for it to come back.  He also revealed a big hole in his shin that he had won falling down a ladder at work last week.

He was reluctant to go to the emergency room, but a lifetime with R Man had taught me how to overcome such moronic protests.  Why is it when the words "infection" or "blood loss" or "chest pains" hang heavy in the air, I am the one who thinks how attractive the local hospitals are?  The idea that I am the responsible one in the room should make everyone a little less comfortable.

So I stuffed his protesting ass in the car and wheeled off to my favorite E.R.  A lifetime with R Man has also equipped me with a connoisseur's knowledge of them.

It wasn't bad, less than three hours, mostly spent discussing the wedding and the lunch and then we were back home.  So it wasn't the ideal honeymoon.  At least he scored a bunch of oxycontin and that has to count for something.

Photographic Proof

I am so bad about not taking pictures that when I got back from New Orleans, I simply assumed I had none.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered some aliens had apparently been snapping away on my behalf.  Herewith, Mardi Gras 2014:

Asian Magnolias exploded into bloom right after we got there, a botanical "Hey gurl, welcome back"

Two views of the patio of our charming, charming French quarter hotel

Magda and the author planning something or the other.

Magda sucking down a delicacy known as a Frozen Irish Coffee which turned out to be deadly poison and laid the poor  thing to waste for days

The coldest fucking parades I have ever stuck it out through, bolstered as I was  by my sistahs in crime,  from left, Secret Agent Fred, Sister Mary Feet in the Air, Magda, and the author, dressed as Roz Russell in The Women.  Please note the staggering amount of beads all caught in mid air.  We scorned any that had landed on the filthy sloppy ground.  Friends referred to us as "Bead Whore," but they were just jealous.  Sad, really.

The Haul back in our room.  We had planned to hurl our largesse to the clamoring crowds below on Mardi Gras day from our balcony, but the fucking freezing cold rain eliminate that plan, so we just abandoned our riches when we left. I felt like some Russian white countess kissing off the family jewels as she scampered out of town ahead of the Bolshies.

My new house, plain, echoing, smelly (goddam hobo tenants,) and LOOOONG.  Forgetting something in one of the front rooms when you're in the back makes you seriously consider roller-skates.

6

So this is mrpeenee's sixth birthday.  I have no idea how these things happen.

I originally started this whole thing only because I wanted to comment more easily on Thombeau's long gone and most lamented Fabulon and at the time, Blogger made it easier to sign in if you had your own blog.  I still miss Fabulon.

Anyway, after that things just sort of got out of hand.  I certainly never imagined I'd make friends here, connections that would be a great comfort during those dark times around  R Man's death.  It helped a lot.

And now I have people I've never physically met who have opinions about my sex life and decorating and cat (appropriately, I'm typing this without my right thumb because of a big ol' gash on it from Saki. I swear I am sending him back to Cat Jail.)  And commenters.  I love comments.

And muscle pussy. 

In six years, I have outlasted that pissy queen who used to just post comments so he (or she) could deride my grammar.  I would like to point out Diane von Austinburg is a professional editor and if she can suck up my fondness for gerunds and erratic punctuation, I think everybody else should too.

I have stuck it out through the creepy infatuation of my stalker who used to post coyly and too-affectionate notes and tried to pick comment fights with bloggers I actually admired like Mitzi and Mean Dirty Pirate.  Of all the nerve! I actually turned to MJ from Infomaniac about him (which should tell you how unnerved by him I was) and her advice to ignore him and he would eventually go away was quite right.

Lots of muscle pussy.

We have all lasted long enough for the return of Cafe Muscato, which is most appreciated.

Also, through the magic of bloglandia, I have been able to dragoon Ask the Cool Cookie into helping with Secret Agent Fred's house in Baltimore and a big thank you to him for that.

Blogs.  They're handier than you might think.

Lots and lots of Muscle Pussy

Picture It

Ask the Cool Cookie comments in our photo blathering post below "... what am I contract working on at this moment? A professional photo organizer. At least I get paid to do it."  I say Right On, Girl, but am astonished at the same time.  It's difficult enough slogging through all my own photographic proof of shenanigans long gone, and I know, in large part, who the shenaniganners are.  I can't imagine how you could deal with a stack of strangers mugging at the camera.

For instance, in digging through a tasteful box of loose prints, I wind up brooding, "I know that's Diane, but what's with the guy wearing a pig on his head?"  What happens when Cookie runs across the equivalent of this porcine portrait?  How many can you file under "Miscellaneous?"  Plenty, I suppose.

Courageously enough, I am making room by throwing away some.  Editing, editing, always editing.  Photos of somebody's dog, studio portraits of in-laws who always irritated me, school pictures of tiny tykes who I would be unable to pick out of lineup now (and that seems like a fate that could certainly be awaiting some of them.)  Somehow it seems radically daring to toss them, but honestly, I have thousands of others that I'm actually interested in, why hang on to the flotsam?

Speaking of Shenanigans, here's mrpeenee modeling the latest in endangered polyester, courtesy of a friend who has drifted off, the victim of time and tides.  How I wish I could say differently about the coat, but she took it with her.  Rats.

And if I were fortunate enough to have the original of this, would I ever toss it?  Certainly not.  As Diana Vreeland once said "I miss fringe."

Porn Friends Gone By

I wanted to knock this post out before I forgot about it, my teensy tiny attention being what it is and how I have to use it to focus on quantum physics and yarn and what I'm going to have for lunch.

Anyway, I've been very struck by a picture blog I stumbled on recently called brutoseros which is an absolute archive of gay porn people so very thorough it might be verging on OCD.  Instead of a few token examples of each performer, whoever is putting this together posts a comprehensive survey of their work.  You want to see what Chris Rockway looked like before and after his unfortunate haircut? This is the resource for you.

One has to applaud such dedication.

Also,  a few days ago, the post featured the only pornster I actually know, this devastatingly humpy Swiss guy who worked under the nom de smut of Alain Gerard, which is pretty close to his real name.

When R man and I moved out here, he reunited with his old friend Richard, a slightly disgraced and semi-defrocked priest.  Alain (who hadn't gotten into showbiz at that point) was Richard's friend and so would show up at parties to distract those of us given to drooling over muscular blondes.   Pretty much everybody there, in other words.

A couple of amusing dinners were enlivened by Alain and some straight (straight-ish) guy and what they seemed to think was their discreet flirting.  R Man and I were amused, anyway, the guy's wife didn't seem to find it too funny, but then she spent most of the evenings drunk and crying in the bathroom.

Alain was determinedly oblivious to the effect he had on me and my pants, possibly because he was accustomed to tongue-lolling adoration and possibly because he was distracted by trying to snag R Man.

That happened a lot; living with R Man, I had long since become accustomed to cute guys pushing me aside so they could try to climb up on the R Man Ride.  Let's compare and contrast, shall we?

R Man

the author

Let me point out, before this turns into an absolute pity party, I got plenty, plenty of mens and the ones sniffing around for me were not looking for R Man so being drastically different from each other worked for us.  I don't know how these gay couples that are essentially each other's clones divvy up who gets what.  Not my problem.

Eventually Alain drifted off to L.A. and the world of feelthy peectures.  And now that I think of it, Richard left the church and wound up in Seattle where he started his own porn company, called something like ooodaddy.com where he worked in front of the camera as well, so I guess I know two pornsters.

Yay peenee.

Porn Drinks

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Vote Now

Let's all just take a moment to admire today's houseboy before mrpeenee wanders off into another of my long-winded stories, shall we?

There, isn't that better?  Now for a story with wind of great length:

We are in a quandary.  Our dear friend The Fashion Sensation has had Parkinson's disease for several years; her condition has worsened dramatically over the last two years.  That would, of course, be enough to cause grave distress among her friends.  The quandary arises because of her wholehearted embrace of a string of what I think are crazyass bad decisions, to wit, quit her big shot, career defining Important Job, divorce her odd, but charming husband, and move off to a farm outside Toronto to live with some guy she met online last spring and with whom she has been conducting a torrid Skype-based affair.

And you wonder why my stories are long-winded.

I tried addressing my concerns with her, using small, firm words, particularly the one that living in Toronto would expose her to snow. But, since she grew up in some godforsaken state abutting Canadia richly supplied in frozen tundra, she apparently does not share my deep seated and wholly sensible suspicion of the stuff.

I would have expanded my objections to include the fact she has been considering this since April, but waited to spring on her unsuspecting hubby until two days before they were supposed to leave on a trip to Berlin (in January?) when he was sick in bed the fact that she has filed for divorce.  Uh, honey?  So making it hard for me to stay on your side.

Plus, I'm constantly distracted by her attempts to expand on the details of how Skype Love works between man and woman.  Why do straight women think gay men need tutorials?  I know how the plumbing operates; the rest does not need my attention.  Do I share the finer points of felching?  No.

So anyway, in a totally cowardly way, I have been avoiding conversations, even emails because I feel like if I really am convinced this is the Big Mess Express, I should have intervened and done so before now.  And tonight when she wrote to say today was her birthday and could we go out for brunch this weekend did not help the "I am Such a Bad Friend/Worm/Dog" sensation.

In my defense, let me remind the court that my good pal Brian once took me aside to warn me the guy over whom I was making a fool of myself didn't love me, would never love me, and that I should just move on.  You can see where this is going, right?  Yes, the guy was R Man and by ignoring Brian's advice, I opened myself to thirty years of wedded bliss.  I have ever since then been reluctant to hand out  advice.

Maybe this is The Fashion Sensation's big, last chance at happiness.  What do I know?

I'll tell you what I know.  The Canadian told her he wanted to take care of her.  Not was willing to.  Wanted to.  I took care of R Man at the end and it was awful, heart-breaking, exhausting work.  I'm glad I did it, for my sake as well as R's, but to say it's something you want?  Ick.  Plus he writes her long letters with darling water colours and drawings and pressed leaves and, I don't know, glitter rainbows.  Probably.  Behavior I expect more from a teenage gay boy.  Not some guy I'm interested in handing over an ailing old friend.

I was going to throw this open to a vote, should I or shouldn't I hurl myself into the breach with a loud "Get a grip honey,"  But really it's too late.  I'll just go to brunch and see what happens.

Instead, we can vote on which houseboy you prefer, Brock (above) or Santiago (below).

The Return of peenee

Yes, I'm back, thank you.  Secret Agent Fred and I had a lovely time in New Orleans, although I seem to remember more of it than Fred does.  Poor dear was just the teensiest bit too enthusiastic in celebrating the New Orleans sport of drinking oneself blind.

We also got to hang out with that bloggers' blogger, Jason, from Night is Half Gone and he and I had a very amusing afternoon eating beignets (there are some New Orleans cliches you simply have to embrace) and talking blogger talk, which essentially meant we were gossiping about you, our dear, dear readers.  My dears, the things Jason said about you.  Of course, I tried to defend you, but he was not to be denied.  For a fairly reasonable fee, I will forward you the filth he poured out about you.  Please allow sufficient time for me to make it up.

So we saw many cute boys, some of whom seem to be lost in Fred's bourbon fueled mists, but none of whom were this cute.

Now that I'm back, I've turned my attention once again to the L.A. Times' crossword puzzle which today included the clue:

"Rock from a Sock"

I was eventually able to chisel out the answer as being:

"See Stars" or possibly "Sees Tars"

Am I missing something?  I mean, I want my puzzles to be challenging, but including simple gibberish seems to be cheating.  Does this make sense to anybody?

Belated

Oh no. Oh nononono.  Is it to late to go back in time to October 4 in order to wish our old friend Ralph Happy Birthday.   Sources claim he's 70, but that's in Gay Years.  The old dear is charming and funny and I hate to consider what he must think about me standing him up.  My most sincere regrets and here, have a houseboy on me.

Town and Country

Secret Agent Fred and I just got back from a short trip to our friends Mark and Gaye up in Napa.  Napa was a sleepy farming burg which transformed, much like Aspen and the Hamptons, into a place where really rich people can go and complain to each other.  Nevertheless, it's a lovely place and Mark and Gaye have a nice plain house there with a lavish vegetable garden.

The Wine Country.  This is certainly not Mark and Gaye's  place.  It's a snotty champagne winery that was rude to Fred so we left.

We hung out with chickens

And goats.

We ate such fabulous food, tomatoes and corn and basil and tarragon and lots and lots of squash all rushed from the garden to the kitchen where I was slinging serious hash.

As usual in the country, we found many dead things, like this ferret.  Fred's the one on the left.

We picked tons of blackberries, just like when I was a sullen little white trash child in the wilds of Texas.

The garden was not just massively productive, but really pretty as well.  Because Mark likes to build things, every meal included a discussion about where to eat it, on the screened porch, on the patio, on the pergola, on the floating deck, on the terrace, yaddahyaddahyaddah.  This is one of the arbors.  The man needs to calm down.

But he very sweetly caught a bunch of little mosquito fish form their pond for the lily pond I'm  building.  He was srt of impressed until I admitted the "pond" is pretty much an oversized garbage can I bought and am filling up with water and lilies.  And mosquito fish, imported from Napa.

Normally I'm tepid about going to people's "country place."  I feel like if you're sucker enough to get on the hook for a second house, I don't know why I should be commandeered to come amuse you, but everyone I know who has one is always agitating for visitors to come justify the joint.  Still, I'm glad we went since it was a good time and Mark and Gaye are charming and we scored enough produce from their gardens to keep a small religious cult going for a couple of weeks.  What, exactly, Saki and I are supposed to do with it all is beyond me.

Old Dear, Part Two

Darlings, I'm working on my mrpeenee's Fifth Anniversary Gala Dragaplooza: Cinco or Swim, but first just a quick note about how terribly amusing it was to have my dear old sistah in the house.  We were immensely cultured, hitting three museums: the Man Ray/Lee Miler show (so-so, actually bordering on dull,) the Jean Paul Gaultier show (tremendously fabulous) and the Cindy Sherman retrospective (even more tremendously fabulous.)  We also embraced our true low brows by thrashing a number of thrift stores.  I am proudly sitting in a only-slightly-rickety desk chair we snagged for $7.40. While at a rather upscale venue called, simply, Stuff, I was sucked into the groove of the sound system's Aretha Franklin Rock Steady.  I spun around from a particularly hip shakin' bit and came face to face with the owner who seemed sort of stunned, as people so often are when exposed to my dancing.  And did that faze Magda?  No it did not.

Truly, it was a wonderful time and I fully expect my enhanced, exaggerated Southern accent to calm back down soon, now that the old dear isn't around to egg it on.

Bless her.

The Old Dears

I happen to know the bodice on that titian haired temptress  is relying heavily on staples.

Sweeties, mrpeenee will be distracted over the next few days as I pay host to our dearest, oldest friend, Rich, aka Rikee, aka the Felonious Tart, aka Magda visiting from New Orleans.  We have been friends so long, I don't even remember why I refer to him as Magda.   I believe it has something to do with tambourines, but then so many things do, don't they?

One long ago Mardi Gras, he watched over me while I was so loaded I was unable to do anything except lie on the floor of my bathroom, tripping, tripping, tripping.  At least, he did until he went out for a drink, but he came back.  And isn't that the mark of a true friend?

We always used to make jokes to each other about winding up being old ladies together and now, here we are. My, my, my.  Could be worse.  Could be dead.