I’ve been absent, as y’all know. But I’ve not died. I’ve not been sent away to a nunnery. I’ve not been not fucking. I’ve been looking for a job.
I still don’t have one, not really. I walk a dog. I have a seasonal thing that’ll last through the month, hopefully.
I also have had a shit-ton of interviews, none of which have resulted in anything. I understand that I’m overqualified, but if I assure ‘em I have no interest (or ability) in practicing law in Illinois, why the fuck haven’t I been given even a chance after what I thought were really good interviews?
What I do way better is meet guys in person. I’ve been meeting quite a few from OkC b/c they’ll pay for me to have nice meals and drinks, neither of which I can afford right now. Which is why I need a fucking job.
So I’m looking for work.
The other day one of my regulars came over for a fuck. We’re regulars so I knew what to expect. Except I expected him to come. We fucked. We fucked some more. Before that I had sucked his cock. After that I sucked his cock some more. Really, with the sucking, fucking, thrusting, stroking it must’ve been over an hour. During the fucking I had reached down and rubbed my clit to a small but nonetheless existent orgasm. I know orgasm isn’t everything.
I don’t even think it’s the best thing, but I was working hard and I expected some sort of appreciation/reward. After working and working and working to no avail, I finally gave up and said that orgasms weren’t all that. I still had him drive me to my pet store to by me food and treats for Isis. Actually, after all that work I did, I had him buy Isis way more than I had originally planned.
Then there’s the guy who seems to want company to go to Michelin Starred restaurants. Yes, I will let you buy me fabulous food and great drinks, and let me take home the leftovers. I’ve come a long way since my early 20s when I was embarrassed when someone spent money on me.
I’m not dead. I’m still fucking.
I swear. True story.
I had my first mammogram. They’re suggested/required annually for women 40 and over. As I turned 40 this year, it was “suggested” I get one. I chose the location referred by Planned Parenthood that was close to my house, so I could ride my bike there.
I was told to not wear deodorant but since I do so on a daily basis, and also shower on a somewhat similar schedule, I had deodorant on. The technician at the quite small local hospital’s radiology department gave me a disposable wipe to get rid of the deodorant’s residue, which, according to the technician, can mess with the images – probably having to do with the aluminum (that’s supposed to lead to Alzheimer’s).
After wiping away the deodorant residue, I donned a hospital gown – because modesty is important – and stepped into the mammography room.
My guess is that boobs my size are relatively easy to mammograph because they’re large enough to easily fit between the plates, which sandwich breast material horizontally and vertically, but not too large to be unwieldy. I imagine that very small breasts might be difficult to accurately image.
Everything’s normal. I don’t have a family history of breast cancer and my breasts show no signs of cancerous lumps or bumps. I’ll check again next year.
In the mean time, the literature given to me by the local breast health folk told me I should conduct monthly breast self-exams. By the way, it has been proven that self-exams do little to nothing for early detection of breast cancer, so I don’t bother. The Viking man-handles my boobs at least a couple times a day so if anyone is going to notice a change it’ll be him.
I swear. True story.
Henry wants to fuck Jeff. Shit. I’m jealous as hell even though I know I shouldn’t be. But I think that’s all he wants, a fuck with a guy. Jeff’s my friend and I wouldn’t want him to be fucked and chucked by anyone – especially not Henry. And I would feel totally weird. And Jeff would feel hurt
I’m writing with the pen a rather enamored customer gave to me. He kept staring and then choked out a happy holiday wish. Kind of ego-boosting.
I’ve slept very little. I’ve been thinking about the whole thing. Would he like it if I told him I wanted to fuck Matt? His argument would be that he hasn’t has sex with a guy for about a year and a half and he really wants to. [What i'm having trouble with is the fact that h's kept a whole side of himself secret from me and who knows, there could be more.] It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a girl too.
We need to go out and find him a nice boy. He would fare well at 1970. He said he’d be embarrassed to pick up on a guy in front of me but I wold like to watch. He said one guy he was with juster picked up on him. I can imagine in Helter Skelter some guy going up to him because he thinks he’s cute and asking if he’d go to the bathroom with him and going into a stall to give each other head. It must be depressing to want to do something so badf that you have to sneak around so it turns to something seedy and cheap so you end up feeling guilty – more so than you felt before actually doing it.
Why can’t I make him happy? Why can’t I just fix everything for him – so he doesn’t have to make it so cheap.
Why am I having so much trouble with this whole thing? It got sprung on me about a week ago. I have feelings. He’s had years to work on it, I haven’t. It wasn’t very fair of him to tell me so far into our relationship.
And he’s a chasee – someone who gets chased. Why do I get myself in these situations I don’t want to be angry at him. I don’t want to grow to hate him. I want to like him as a person besides loving him and having him for a lover.
I think I need serious help. I just want to have someone read stuff I’ve written and tell me I’m obsessive and to stop it. But that costs money and I’m poor and always will be. OK. So I sound full of self-pity
I tend to reserve my weekends for the Viking. After all, I can meet the OkC idiots at any time. So it was unusual that I had a date on a Saturday.
I had a Saturday date because I had moved it from Friday, the only daytime weekday that one of the guys I’d been fucking could meet. See, I give priority to guys who’ve already proven to be decent to hang out with and good lays over guys who seem nice enough but who have yet to prove themselves in the sack.
So I had a Saturday date and the Viking understood. I woke up early – for a Saturday – and got ready to take the two busses to meet the guy at a restaurant of his choosing – one I later found out was both new to him and close to his place.
We had agreed there would be sex. On our initial meeting we had had some frank discussion of sex, and then in our negotiations about what became the Saturday date, I said I’d need condoms and lube. We even discussed my lube of choice and he went out and got a tiny bottle of the stuff.
I did not guarantee sex. Good thing.
The restaurant of his choice turned out to be a small café without any alcohol. No, I don’t need to drink alcohol all the time, but it sure goes well with brunch (or any meal, really). Besides, this guy was supposed to be getting me in the mood to use lube he’d gone out of his way to purchase. We order our meals – me some breakfast enchilada thing with some sort of hybrid name like frijoladas or some other Taco Bell-sounding (or, in this case, probably TexMex) bull shit, and him chilaquiles topped with steak.
During the way-too-long-considering-the-mediocre-quality-of-the-result wait for our food, we talked. Sort of. I asked very open-ended questions that would have allowed him to talk about what is likely a very interesting job, but he just said nothing good had happened recently. Ok, then give me something good/interesting that happened not-so recently. Give me something! I spent a good portion of the wait looking out the front window, something I had to turn my head a full 90 degrees away from him to do.
His conversation starter consisted of, “I went to the zoo,” because he knew I volunteer there. And what did you see at the zoo, little boy? I suppose he wanted me to ask him, because that’s all he said, “I went to the zoo.” Great. Now what do we say.
The food finally arrived after a period of time where I drank probably six glasses of water just to have something to do. The food was a bed of flavorless, watery refried beans holding scrambled egg-filled corn tortillas topped with squeeze bottle-created swaths of sour cream and something slightly spicy. Very much blah, but since eating was something to do I concentrated on getting every boring bite into my mouth. I may have concentrated too hard, because I finished my entire meal by the time he was about half done with his.
I was bored. I attempted to begin a conversation with, “I don’t have cancer.” Folks, when you get to be an old, old person like me, conversations can start like that – IF other people in the conversation participate. That’s an opening to make fun of my age, to make fun of cancer, make fun of my shitty conversation starter, to SAY SOMETHING other than, “Oh, did you go to the doctor?”
He said his food was really, really good. Bull shit, he just didn’t know good food.
A few nights before I had left my umbrella at a wine bar in the neighborhood. When I figured out that I was meeting the guy in the same neighborhood I took it as a good sign – that I wouldn’t have to take a special trip to retrieve the umbrella. After lunch, dude and I walked to the wine bar under the auspices of getting my formerly forgotten rainy day accessory. I thought it would be a good opportunity to sit down to a bottle of wine – or something in the relaxing, alcoholic family – and try to get him talking and me less irritated/more likely to want the dude to go down on me.
He had other ideas, likely led by the part of his simple brain that just wanted a body in his bed. I could have been flattered the guy was so eager, but since his desire had little to nothing to do with getting me in his bed, I wasn’t. We’d barely had a conversation over a lame meal, how could that have put him in any sort of mood? Because guys will fuck anything? 1) That’s bull shit. 2) That’s not something that should be either encouraged or desired.
For the most part I don’t jaywalk. While living in Chicago has definitely changed that, since most pedestrians jaywalk and most drivers are inconsiderate asses, when there’s a crosswalk in sight, I will use it. When we were across a six-lane avenue from the wine bar, guy decided to jaywalk; I opted to walk the “extra” 100 yards in toto to lawfully cross the street.
By the time I walked and waited for the light, he was already in the wine bar asking them to fork over my umbrella. By the time I was near the establishment’s front door, he was coming out with my umbrella in hand. I know it’s only an umbrella, but why didn’t they make sure the guy was actually with me before handing it to him?
Sure, I could have told the dude to turn around and reenter the wine bar so we could have some drinks, but I shouldn’t have to tell a grown-ass man how to behave on a date. Just like I shouldn’t have had to be in charge of all the conversation. Both (or all) parties to a date need to put forth an effort.
Walking to his place, I asked if he had any alcohol at home. Yes, he had beer. I don’t drink beer. Oh, he had some wine. I can work with that. I would have preferred to work with the wine available in the wine bar – something about which I would feel much more strongly when I saw the interior of his apartment. I asked about vodka and he said he had some kind of flavored vodka that I probably wouldn’t like, it was a Polish thing.
Again, an opportunity to talk about something. I like vodka. I know very little about Polish vodka flavored with buffalo grass. Well, I think that’s what he said. My response was that “buffalo grass” sounded like “buffalo piss” since that’s where buffalos piss, in the grass. Sure, I may have in a wee negative by this point, but he could have told me what this vodka was and/or said that I should taste it and/or tell me that I’m an ass for making fun of a culturally important beverage. He did none of those things. He also didn’t offer to make a pit stop at a liquor store before going back to his place.
We had planned our date for a while. He knew I was coming over. Until Tuesday night he thought I’d be over on Friday – not Saturday – afternoon. Dude had time to make his apartment look like a human with opposable thumbs lived in the joint.
Living room was a random hodgepodge of futon, love seat, cat-shredded upholstered rocking chair, TV trays, and trash. Also, a desk that was clearly masturbation headquarters. When I asked where he sat to watch TV he pointed to the not-quite-as-ratty-as-the-chair love seat on which a kitty was perched. I pet the kitty, who didn’t know his papa was a world-class slob, and pointed out that the view to the TV was blocked by a TV tray and box. There were a lot of boxes around, which he explained were there because he’d only been in the place for three months. (We had everything at least out of boxes in under a week after our last move.)
What I assumed was kitchen counter was absolutely covered with dirty dishes, loose change, a pile of about 30 ties, and random crap. How random? A 2011 dated Mickey Mouse snow globe in its original packaging. When I inquired about this item he said he could sell it to Disney freaks. Ok, so sell it, don’t let it take up precious kitchen counter space. He made a point to tell me not to look in the kitchen sink, advice I was glad to heed after I saw his bathroom.
I’ve seen worse bathrooms, much worse. I’ve fucked guys with worse bathrooms. Guys who had ways of making me not care what their bathrooms looked like – alcohol, good conversation, sex appeal – got some leeway. This guy was already having to work his way out of some negatives that a clean apartment might have made up for. But when he said the bathroom wasn’t that bad, and I saw that it was pretty gross, I knew that there was a chance nothing in his apartment “wasn’t that bad.”
Walking through his bedroom to get to the bathroom, I noticed his bed was made. Well, at least there was that. But a merely made bed, the vintage of the sheets I was not aware, amongst a messy and dirty apartment is not enough for me at this point in my life. Why should I spend time in an uncomfortably filthy apartment with a guy who doesn’t have the forethought to do anything for a date other than pick a crappy café he’s been wanting to try?
I’m not looking for a whole day filled with romantic activities, fancy meals, and expensive bottles of wine. Actually, spending that much time with one person sounds fucking horrible. No, I would have settled for a good meal, a $20 bottle of wine, and an apartment that didn’t make me wonder about cockroaches or, much worse, bedbugs.
He showed me a selection of bottles of inexpensive (not a negative), heavy red (a negative) wines. It was a clear, sunny day in the 80s, why did he think I’d want to drink a heavy red wine? I opted for none of them. He didn’t even offer water.
I was giving him shit about the state of his apartment, the fact that he knew I was coming over. I asked if he brought other women there. After a bit of telling him what a mess his apartment was, he admitted that he was a mess. Oh, shit. I was not there to hear about his sad life, if he had one. I like these casual relationships so I don’t have to talk about feelings and shit. I assured him that it was unclear to me whether he was a mess, but his apartment most definitely was.
Then he went into bargaining mode. Was it fair that I return the following week, after he had a chance to clean up his place? Uh, fair, I guess, but that didn’t mean anything. I told him I wouldn’t promise him anything, and that it depended how I felt. The more I think about it, the less I like the “is it fair” tactic. Just because something is fair doesn’t mean I am in any way required, obligated, or compelled to do it. When it comes to sex, the “is it far” seems even more manipulative.
I didn’t sit down for more than about 30 seconds. I just wanted to leave. He could tell I just wanted to leave, which meant he wasn’t completely devoid of the ability to read social cues. Not completely.
Should I see this guy again?
I swear. True story.
We all need a summer break. I took one. Get over it.
I swear. True story.
We can joke about it and talk about who he thinks is cute. Apparently he’s been keeping his eye on some guy who goes to their shows. I imagine watching him give head to some guy on my bed. And to be able to go out and rate guys and girls – now that’s fun. But how do you go about asking someone to join you and your boyfriend for an evening o’ fun? ”Hi, I’m Suzanne and this is Henry. We think you’re real cute. Wanna fuck?” Some people would like that but I probably wouldn’t want to if they said yes right away.