In Which We Revisit Ancient History

 

I was looking back at some of my old posts because I was trying to remember this particular post.  I thought it had happened around this time 16 years ago (16 YEARS AGO! My god.)  Turns out I was a week late for the actual anniversary, but considering how vague my memory is, I think this is pretty good. Anyway, here is my own little way back machine moment:

Nov. 9, 2007

I've had my share of odd days, but today may be one of the strangest. For one thing, today is the anniversary of mrpeenee and R Man. Twenty-six years ago tonight we hooked-up, as the youngsters say, in the backroom of a bar in New Orleans and started the complex navigation to the lovely happy life we have now. Coincidentally, I was 26 years old, so tomorrow morning, I will will have had him in my life longer than I lived without him. In all those years, I have never had any hesitation in saying he is the center of my universe, the joy of my life, the cream in my coffee.

After a late lunch this afternoon (at Chow, of course. I recommend the pear cobbler) we went to shop for tile for our bathroom renovation and then on to R Man's appointment with the cardiologist for an examination. I'd have to say that was the point where the day tipped over into the bizarre because that was the point where the good doctor announced R Man had to go immediately into the hospital for angiogram. An angiogram is where they stick a tube up through the artery in your groin into your heart in order to shoot radioactive dye into you to see if your arteries are blocked. I was well and truly flipped out when they wouldn't let us just walk across the street to the hospital, but made us wait for a wheelchair to transport R Man over there.

It turns out that a regular part of these angiograms includes an angioplasty where they do actual repair work. Once they have a look-see at how badly the pipes are plugged up they can sort of Roter Rooter out the cholesterol crud that's blocking the way and then you go home the next day and subscribe to AARP. Except for R Man who has such severe blockage of two arteries and a major branch that he has to have coronary bypass surgery tomorrow. Maybe Sunday, they're not sure.

My approach to bad news is to just ignore it, to stick my fingers in me ears and sing "Lalalalala, don't hear no lesbian subplot" until it's over. Having disaster strike like a brick falling on one's head is better suited to that system than a growing problem one should be planning for. Still, even for me, this is all pretty breathtaking while I think R Man is sort of numbed. Three hours after standing around admiring expensive Italian glass mosaic tiles, they're prepping R Man for surgery and and hour later the cardiologist starts off his little talk to me with the phrase "The good news is...." There is no sentence in the world that starts off with those four words that is ever going to go in a direction you want it to.

Everyone at the hospital seems somber, but not worried (except me and R Man) so maybe coronary bypass surgery is not such a big deal, but that seems sort of unlikely.

Anyway, so, once upon a time, R Man and I had our first night of wild weasel sex under his roommate's fur bedspread (I believe the fur was shaved rat, but it was very romantic, nevertheless) and 26 years later, tonight, I was cutting up shrimp with artichoke hearts from his hospital tray to feed him his dinner. That was sort of romantic, too, and R man said it was very tasty, but you know, it's just not the same.

And now, back to Nov 17, 2023.  It all turned out OK, fucking terrifying, but OK.  R Man lasted another  4 years, and I was plenty glad to have them.  And now I live around the corner form where Chow, the restaurant I mentioned in the first paragraph, used to be.  

Anyway, here's some naked guys:

Somebody is enjoying himself.

I know I promised naked men, but isn't this guy cute?  He reminds me of R Man when I first met him.

Dillon Roman and his great big pocket rocket.

Dwain LeLand, titstitstits

I ran across this and the next few shots over at Sicko Ricko's blog listed as "Random Dick."  OK. 

I started this evening off listening to Bette Midler's album from 2014 It's the Girls, which is mostly sort of MoTown hits genius, and then Pandora wandered off eventually landing on Sonique's Sky (which I love) through the ancient disco offerings of Jackie Moore and This Time Baby and now we have somehow landed in the inevitable 80s and Don't Go by Yaz.   I expect Cher to drop by any minute.  All that's OK with me.   So is this Random Dick.

I am not usually sentimental, but the combo of remembering scary days gone by with an all-too-appropriate soundtrack has won out.  Old disco does that.

In Which We Can Host

 

Secret agent Fred's apartment building is doing some work on his place so he and his terribly sweet cat, Toby, have decamped over here. It's always a pleasure being able to hang out with Fred and it's very amusing to have a kitty back in the place.

This week's special guest star, Toby.

Fred has had a very rough year, his cancer keeps hanging around like an unwelcome guest, chemo and radiation were both an important part of his schedule, he wound up with anemia and was so beaten down by it all that he was one of the few people I know who spend more time in bed than I do.

At the end of the summer though, he suddenly bounced back, energetic and in good mood and interested in hanging out with us.  It was an enormous relief; this time last year, I was very worried that we would be looking at a fredless future quite soon.

So I have been really enjoying having my old friend back and when he wanted to spend some time up, I was all for it.  We had a very amusing couple of days and went out to dinner, things are going great.  Until they weren't.  On the way home from the restaurant, Fred sort of collapsed and wound up puking all over the sidewalk and staggering back to the apartment.  I thought I would have to carry him and wondered if instead I should just call for an ambulance.  The whole gastrointestinal storm blew up in just a moment, but had real lasting power.

The poor old thing spent all day in bed yesterday and most of today.  My nursing prowess tends towards asking "how are you feeling?" over and over as if I could harang the patient into feeling better.  I try to imply that they are letting me down by not recuperating fast enough.  Knowing that that is, oddly enough, not helpful, I restrain myself instead and just ask what they need and occasionally offer aspirin or tea or ginger ale or plain rice.  Late this afternoon, Fred got up and accepted my rice idea and is now ensconced on the living room couch.

Having gone through these peaks and valleys several times with R Man, I know there's really not much for those of us on the sidelines to do other than just hold on and hope for the best.  When you're sick there's just not a lot anyone can do for you.  Anyway, at the moment Fred is doing better so I'm just going to enjoy a dinner of rice with him.

Guys:

I love big ol' hardons that just pop out.

The most popular guy on the work site.

Daniel Osgood.  Cause sometimes you just want to be pretty.

A new favorite of ours here at mrpeenee, inc., Juan Hortoneda.

 A peek o' cheek.

Paride Spaziano, the beautiful.

My Halloween post included a bunch of cop love pictures, this is just a leftover.

I forget this guy's name.  Sorry.

In Which We Consider a Legend

What started the whole sorry thing.

 

Our dear chum Mikey (perhaps you might remember him from Chaturbate here) announced he had considered being a cop for Halloween but wasn't in the mood for it.  A shame for both him and everyone who would be so very glad to see Mikey tarted up like a peacekeeper.

That reminded me of a sort of involved bit of gay history.  I'll get to that in a minute but first let's talk about the complicated relationship gay men have with cops.  Typically, police are in an adversarial relationship with the gay world; we want to have sex like rutting dogs with each other, but until very recently and in some places even now, doing so was illegal.  And so, cops often were instrumental in breaking up the good times.  ACAB.

Also queers very often have daddy issues.  Lots of daddy issues.  Maybe they never had one and would like to fill that void, maybe they didn't like the one they started with and are shopping for a replacement, whatever: daddy issues.  And what could symbolize daddy better than the instrument and deliverer of oppression, the fuzz.  Look I didn't make the rules, gay men are both the benefactors and the victims of the patriarchy.  Ya get a little ying, ya get a little yang.  So ACAB, but also, Oh Daddy.

Into this complicated naughty world, in 1978, Colt Studios delivered the perfect product, a short video eloquently called Hot Cop.  It starred one of their classic massive muscle men posing and flexing and most importantly sneering.  At the time porn was typically short on info and so the video burst onto the scene with no cast lists.  The cop never takes off his sunglasses so you can't ever really see his face.  And thus a mystery was born.

Fans of the video rabidly scoured sources looking for the name of the beefy beauty. For decades nobody knew, but there was lots of theories.  It was the Zapruder film of gay smut.  Ferocious arguments blazed on chat boards comparing the mustaches of various candidates.

Then 2022, I stumbled across the answer in one of my favorite odd little blogs, BJ's Gay Porno Crazed Ramblings, where the author calmly presented not just the name of the model but all of his other appearances in different films and for different studios under his many noms d'smut.

The answer to the great hot cop mystery?  It was a fairly frequent cold studio model called Brutus (naturally.) I remember him but only vaguely.  I had no idea he had appeared so frequently in the police end of the porn spectrum.  I remember vividly that Drummer cover he did, but I didn't realize who he was.  I also remember the editor of the magazine commenting on the photo shoot.  He said Brutus was really into verbal accompaniment for the photography, to the point where one of the assistants had to leave.  The big bad brute had just overwhelmed the poor little teacup.  Well.

Herewith we present Brutus.

The shoot where his spoken word slam scarred off some assistant just trying to do his job.  Get HR on the line NOW.

Look, he has a face.  Who knew?

More copshop theatrics.  I remember this guy, I honestly always thought it was someone different from the legendary Hot Cop.

Unfortunate haircuts are nothing new.

Yes sir, officer, sir.  Pig love, whacha gonna do?

If you want to check out the clips from the original video, you can go here  It's worth it for the primitive synth groove alone.

So more gay cops for your Halloween costume inspiration

One of the all time classics, Al Parker in Weekend Lockup.

The massively massive Pete Kuzack.

Another old fave, Leo Ford getting out of a speeding ticket, from Stroke magazine.

I think this is Rick Koch.

Pigs in heat.

In Which We Bake

Quit bragging.

 My dear friend drumstick had his 50th birthday this last weekend.  50!  Can you imagine?  What a baby.  I told his wife, Hotfoot, that I'd make a cake for his birthday because earlier this summer he had said how much he liked my streusel cake.  Hotfoot said that was a great idea and then asked if I could possibly make two because they were going to have a big party and one cake might not be enough.  If anyone else had come up with that idea, I would have said, "Oh you know what? No." But I love them both as if they were my own poorly behaved, not very bright children so I agreed.

Both drumstick and Secret Agent Fred had told me their idea of the definitive birthday cake is chocolate with "white icing." They agreed when I asked them if they maybe were referring to "vanilla" since apparently that's too exotic for either of their tiny little brains.  

Everybody at the party laid into both cakes like some kind of pastry locusts.  I didn't get any of the streusel and only a couple of bites of the chocolate.  I guess such enthusiasm is gratifying, but I wouldn't have minded getting an entire piece.  Also gratifying was two of the guests asking me for the recipe.  Could there be any more flattering response?

Anyway, couple of nights ago I decided to recreate the chocolate cake so I could have as much as I wanted.  Naturally, It did not turn out as well as the party version; the cake is delicious, but for some reason,  the icing refused to cooperate.  It tastes okay but it's a sticky, slaggy mess at the best of times and this time it refused to come together and instead turned into sort of a tasty glue.  

Not pretty, but delicious.

Boys are who might be delicious, they certainly are pretty:

Cute and goofy, what an unbeatable combo.

The meaty appeal of Paulo Victor Melo.

Jett Way was in our last post, but I find him just so darn irresistible. And why is "irresistible" spelled that way anyway?

Speaking of frequent flyers in the mrpeenee photo selection, Marbys Negretti.

Lanky

An absolute landscape of pussy.

Beefiness may not be next to godliness, but it is somewhere close by.

The beach is closed for the season.  Sigh.

Inked up and ready to go.

In Which We Are Eclipsed

 

A solar eclipse, even a partial one, is the kind of nerdy phenomenon that always interests me.  So when this latest one was going to pass Northern California, I was all in.  

Then the morning of it, I set my alarm, spring from my bed, and was confronted with 

the densest overcast you can imagine.  Gray as a landlord's heart, foggy as mrpeenee's attention span.  The weather seemed determined to make a point; it was even more overcast than usual, certainly more than was necessary to foil any attempt at eclipse watching.

I love San Francisco, I do, and the fog here is just part of the package.  An afternoon in Houston was enough to remind me how much I adore our chilly weather.  We just have to accept views of things like meteor showers or fireworks or eclipses are going to have to fight it out with the fog and the fog always wins.

Guys who also always win:

Matthew Cameron, now with extra photoshopped meat.

Sometimes, muscles are enough.  Julian Aryouelo.

Levy Van Wilgen.  I have simply given up trying to avoid the sins of photoshop

The overwhelming Marbys Negretti.  Sometimes he goes by Mr. Kent.

A new favorite here at mrpeenee Enterprises, Jett Wayne.

Jett also frequently poses as the gas station attendant of your dreams.  Cleanup on aisle My Dick.

I think Steven Dehler looks better with longer hair, but who is gonna argue with that ass?

Jon Kale, one of those Bel Ami sluts.  I wish I had a round window.

Marbys Negretti again.  I wanted to mention how much I admire great big muscley guys who are also enthusiastiic bottoms.

Let's end on a classical note, Jake Tanner from Colt Studios.