Stormy Weather

No snark from me about mrpeenee readers who are riding out Hurricane Sandy.  Eeks.  It sounds astonishingly bad, even, as the youth of today would have it, srsly bad.  I had planned to make a public service announcement reminding everyone buying emergency supplies that when the power goes out, even the cheapest bourbon tastes better without ice than any gin, but events sort of overtook me, so here's hoping the best for all you Mid-Atlantic types.

Bracing for the surge.

I supported our sisters in peril by going out for a massage at the spa this afternoon.  I snagged one of my favorite massage guys; he does this thing where he pinches your Achilles tendon HARD.  It is both excruciating and exquisite at the same time.  Fabulous.  I only hoped that help.

It's a peenee Life

Darlings, I have had the most wonderful day.  I hope you all did too, because I am a giving and loving type.  It certainly didn't start out as as a wonderful anything.  I woke up with a terrible neck and shoulder ache, the result, no doubt, of being too giving and loving.  Or probably from sleeping in a weird Z shape because of Saki.  Fucking cat.

Anyway, I decided to take some extra Vicodin, which I try not to do since I take so much regularly, it seems excessive.   Possibly because it IS excessive.  Still, desperate times call for desperate Vicodin dosages, so I knocked back a couple and climbed on top of my Cold Pack.  Do you know of the wonders of Cold Packs?  It's a little pillow filed with antifreeze you keep in the freezer and when your back aches, you lie on it.  Heaven. It's the best thing for bad backs since, I don't know, ever.

And then as I was lying there I suddenly realized "Man, am I LOADED."  Vicodin wins again.

But wait, it gets better.  "How can it get better?" you ask.  Impertinent dog.  It got itself better because after floating around in a drug and anti-freeze induced haze, I decided to go to the Kabuki Spa and have a massage.  One of my favorite masseurs, Gabriel, who is large and vigorous and does this foot thing that is the besty thing your feet will ever have, ever, was available, so I was set.

In the steam room there was this charming tiny Asian man with the most perfectly proportioned muscles.  Take your left hand and curve it as if you were describing the circumference of a coconut.  Now take your right hand and do the same thing.  Now put your thumbs together.  Amazing, you just made his ass!  Mmm baby.   Making it even more flagrant was the crisply drawn tan line of a eensy little Speedo. Where someone so small would find one is beyond me.  One assumes he either shops in the boys' department or ladies wear, and I'm not sure which possibility is more alluring.  Luridly alluring.

Better than this.  Imagine.

Also, the Latino guy with hair like black silk cascading in a ponytail down to the small of his very muscular back.  Yes, it's true.

So, to recap, drugs, ice packs, cute naked guys and a great massage.  It's a wonderful life.

The Spa Life, or Gravity Wins

I decided to celebrate my escape from civil service servitude with an afternoon at Kabuki Spa. It's been cold and rainy here; a spell in the steam room seemed immensely appealing. Turns out many of the patrons were, too.

Considering how firmly the management frowns on sexual shenanigans at the spa, there certainly were a lot of stiffy and semi-stiffy bits on parade. Of course, mrpeenee averted my eyes, but even if you don't look, you can't help but see.

Especially notable were two smallish, but well-built boys complete with charming treasure trails and the cutest, roundest, perky little bottoms ever. In a word, spankable. Every time they would enter the steam room. you could sense every geezer antennae spring into action. Beepbeepbeepbeep. Of course the boys were resolutely oblivious. That is their role in life.

And I speak from deep within the geezer camp. Life happens. You start out all skinny and smooth and stuff and one day you look down and realize you have a paunch. The fuck? Threeway mirrors become the enemy when you see your ass has started to sag. "I didn't even have an ass," you think. "How is this possible?" I'll tell you how - gravity wins. Gravity always wins.

Still it was a lovely day at the spa.

Also, I spent hours tonight looking for a photo illustrating "treasure trail" with no luck. Again, the fuck? This is the closest I came, the always estimable Mike Timber and his fairly faint trail.

I blame manscaping.

Rub It In

What is truly one of the foods of the gods? Peanut butter sandwich with orange juice, of course, especially that rare alignment when all the components are at the freshest, most deliciousest.

I was in the mood for a little god snack (and please, without jelly tainting the peanut butter. Aren’t we all adults here?) after yet another fabulous massage at the Kabuki Springs Spa. I know combining my sluttish reputation and massage just leads to an inevitable oohlalala reaction, but, in fact, I don’t like sex with my massage, much like jelly with peanut butter. Too distracting, I think. I want to pay attention to having a thumb dig into my shoulder and not worry about if we’re both going to fit on that little bitty table. The only Happy Endings I’ve had have been neither good massage nor good booty. And twice, they came as a surprise. I was there for a massage and suddenly there was friskiness. Unfortunate friskiness.

So tonight’s round at Kabuki with the talented Eban was just what I wanted. NO misbehaving, just serious shiatsu. And then peanut butter. Heaven.

Therapeutic Kindness

It turns out the yard work won after all. I woke up Monday morning feeling like I had been in a rough fight and had lost. Parts of my body that weren’t even supposed to move were creaking and the parts that should have been moving refused to. You need an imitation of Quasimodo in the old folk’s home? I got it ready for you.

Obviously, the only recourse was a night at the spa. Off to the glorious Kabuki Springs for a round of steam, hot baths and a shiatsu massage. It was truly heaven and I am a better man today for it.

Did I mention the steam room? Did I mention the gentleman therein who so strongly resembled a sleazy Santa Claus (do you know what Santa looks like naked? Do you want to know? No, I didn’t think you did.) and who was touching himself? Fiddling with the string section, so to speak. Maybe he had simply stumbled on a way to insure himself plenty of personal space; if so, it was working. Even in a crowded steam room he pretty much had a bench all to himself. I was reminded of the Hefty Hideaway’s Fatgirl Fashion Tips number one rule: do not draw attention to your flaws.

Much, much more appealing was the lithe beauty doing yoga in the hot tub. I’m a big fan of cute guys and graceful stretchy poses are one of my favorite was to appreciate them. So much better than nasty Saint Nick.

Being all warmed up and relaxed, I turned myself over to Armand, master of the Shiatsu, for a fabulous pummeling. Armand’s a very sweet-faced guy whom you would never suspect of packing Mighty Thumbs O’ Steel, but he does. A fabulous, fabulous massage.

And then, on the way home, I was longing for pizza at Escape From New York, but knew how impossible parking in the heart of the Castro late in the evening would be. And yet, lo, there right in front, a big ass spot calling to me, promising thin crusts and sun dried tomatoes with feta.


What could have been better? Well, as Muscato would point out, a naked John Abraham massaging me in the hot tub as I was eating pizza.


But you can’t have everything.