Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.You Call That Advice? (Part 7)
Posted on April 23, 2010[Continued from "You Call That Advice? (Part 6)."]
John’s blog, which is trying blatantly to whip up excitement for a book that doesn’t exist, as well as garner clients who want his style of “marriage coaching,” had a post offering advice to single women regarding sex. The gist, of course, is to not have sex until the man makes a commitment. He even offered some scripture and advised single women to place the scripture in their online dating profiles. [PUKE!] He thinks that men can offer good advice on sex and love to women and doesn’t understand why there are no nationally syndicated male advice columnists.
By the time I read that I was irritated beyond compare. I wrote a comment to the post. I said he was ignorant and said that Dan Savage, a male (and man), has an advice column, Savage Love, that is nationally syndicated. The following is what transpired.
_______________
From: John
To: shazamsf@sbcglobal.net
Sent: Sun, April 4, 2010 10:24:48 PM
Subject: Shaming statements
We have transcended the dialogue phase and now you have devolved into judging and name calling. It is always the same when I engage in dialogue with liberals. They ALWAYS devolve into name calling.
You profess freedom of speech but you don’t want to allow it for conservatives.
I have had enough, don’t contact me again. You have made it quite clear your opinion of me, I don’t have to put up with continued verbal abuse.
John
_______________
Subject: Re: Shaming statements
To: John
Date: Monday, April 5, 2010, 6:49 AM
John,
You are the one who hadn’t heard of dialogue other than from Catholics, dear. I have not called you names.
Once again you make assumptions. You don’t know that I’m a liberal, and you certainly don’t know that I don’t believe that the First Amendment should apply to everyone in the United States.
And, by the way, since you have never heard me speak, you have most certainly not be subjected to “verbal” abuse.
Frankly, I’m a tad confused as to what happened between my last response, that indicated I’d write more later, and this latest email of yours, which was a full three emails since then. You seem to be a bit irrational.
Sincerely,
Suzanne White Montiel
_______________
From: John
To: S M
Sent: Mon, April 5, 2010 7:05:27 AM
Subject: Re: Shaming statements
You made the comment on my blog that I am “so ignorant.” It was insulting and demeaning. Your tone throughout has been condescending and that you come across as a teacher who is trying to reach a recalcitrant student. You have made continuous shaming statements, have not recognized any worth for what I do. You ignored a previous comment praising my article about Sexual advice for single women by a woman. I played along with you just waiting for the name calling that invariably comes when dealing with liberals. You embrace liberal ideas which is your right to do and then criticize me for being conservative. I knew as soon as I gave you my blog address that you would go on there and find fault with my articles. You did not surprise me. Then you lectured me about clinical terms for female anatomy. I was studying medical text books on OB Gyn when I was 14.
For the record I have a genius IQ and am extremely widely read. I got a BA with a double major, attended grad school for Clinical Psych and attended nursing school as well. I was on winning debate teams in school and understand logic quite well. I have won awards in public speaking. I have excelled at everything that I have attempted.
We are both in the helping professions, we just are at opposites sides. I have made continuous statements that people are free to accept or reject my advice, but you continue to try and educate me and bring me into your fold of liberal ideas. I played along until you started making insulting statements for which I am free to reject and do.
If you really want to help, how about lobbying insurance companies to stop limiting psych help to one hour once a week. If they want to place a total cap on services, that is one thing, but to tell clinicians how they can offer services and limit them to one hour once a week, it contributes to overall failure of services.
As a clinician, you are ethically enjoined to treat people with unconditional positive regard, something that you have totally ignored with me. You come across as extremely arrogant and condescending. I choose to rid poisonous people from my life.
John
_______________
John,
Ignorance isn’t stupidity, but those who mistake the two are defensive nonetheless. When making statements such as, “The problem is, is that there are no nationally published male advice columnists” then you open yourself up to criticism. I have the same problem with that statement that I have with much of your advice, that you state things definitively that are simply not true. There is at least one nationally syndicated male advice columnist, and his name is Dan Savage. When you state patent untruths you appear to be ignorant and uneducated.
One of the other things that makes you appear uneducated is your blanket statements about men, women, liberals, etc. Furthermore, the fact that you majored in “Bible” makes it clear that your “education” took place at what was/is probably an unaccredited institution, the name of which you have neither told me nor publicized anywhere on the internet as far as I can tell. (See that, that was a qualifying clause, rather than a definitive statement. That allows for the possibility that I am wrong, because unlike you, I know I’m not always right.)
Having looked at anatomy books as a teenager hardly makes you knowledgeable about female genitalia. For example, did you know that within the last forty years there have been discoveries regarding the wonder that is the clitoris? It’s not just that little thing “at the top of the vagina.”
That you feel the need to tout your “successes” and your intelligence quotient just shows your insecurity regarding your views. I’m sure you think that if you “prove” that you’re smart that somehow your opinions, no matter how lame and unsupported they are, have more value. Not true. Notice I’ve not bothered to outline my credentials? That’s because I actually write well, with actual facts to support my statements.
I don’t criticize you for being conservative, I criticize you for being dogmatic and unyielding. I criticize you for being inflexible and not open to the possibility that there are points of view other than your own. I criticize you as a white man of privilege who simply cannot comprehend that there are experiences to which you are not privy, pregnancy being just one of them.
Other than the ignorance it spews, your blog is also not well written. You claim to be a writer, so write correctly.
I have never tried to get you to think like me; I, obviously incorrectly, thought that you might be interested in a viewpoint other than your own.
Why you’ve pulled insurance companies’ policies out of the air I’m not quite sure. It is becoming increasingly clear that an intelligent and pointed discussion with you is impossible.
And once again you’ve made an assumption based on the silly things going on inside your head. I am not, and never claimed to be, a clinician.
Sadly, you’ve reinforced my admittedly ignorant view of people in those middle states. Please stay in Indiana. Advise the hicks there with your lame and repetitive Bible-based doctrine.
Happy to be poison to idiots,
Suzanne White Montiel
_______________
And so ends the saga. I thank John for the material, even if he doesn’t know it.
I swear. True story.
Ahh … San Francisco
Posted on April 22, 2010
I love living in San Francisco. Love it. I walk or take the bus most places; I don’t have a car at all. Actually, I rent out my parking space for fun and profit. Well, not really profit, and it’s not all that fun. I rent out my parking space for money.
With my new phone I am able to take photos that actually look good. The best part about the info on the new phone is that to sync it with my computer I have to “mount” it. He he. Yes, I am six years old. I also laugh when I hear “hump” and “dickie.”
The photo above is aptly placed across the street from a rather pretentious vegan raw food place. I think. I’ve never been because from what I’ve been told about the place, I would be thoroughly annoyed if they told me how I felt whilst eating their food. I’m fine with the raw thing and I’m fine with the vegan thing, but to tell me I’ll be a better person if I eat the restaurant’s dishes is just fucking silly. And annoying.
Someone vandalized the vandalism. The graffiti is not about weather or pollution at all. Rather, it is about attitude: “San Francisco. Not smug. Just better.” San Francisco is better. I know it, you know it. Everyone knows it.
I recently talked to a friend who has a child. Actually, she’s my only friend with a child. I like her despite her status as a parent of a young child. When talking to the vice-principal of her son’s school the subject of tucking came up. Tucking in the context of drag queens tucking their “packages.” The friend realized that there was little chance that such a topic would have been broached with a school official in any other city. Just one of the many great things about living in San Francisco – frank talk about genitals and what to do with them.
I swear. True story.
The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 3)
Posted on April 21, 2010[Continued from "The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 2)."]
Cock No. 3 was Jules Verne. No, not the writer of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but nonetheless that’s the nickname this one’s gotten. We had gone out once before. We met at Velvet Cantina, a Mexican restaurant/bar in the Mission. It seemed to be a bit of a bridge and tunnel crowd, but after a couple of strong margaritas and finally getting a table it wasn’t so bad. We had fun even though we didn’t get around to getting me a new tattoo. (Damn San Francisco tattoo parlors for not being open late-night!)
On the Day of Fuck Jules Verne picked me up and we went to dim sum. I hadn’t had dim sum since I dated Ms. Absinthe, and she had a slight allergy to shrimp so we could have very few of the dishes. She did, however, introduce me to chicken feet. Yum. I told Jules Verne I liked chicken feet on the drive over. He agreed to try them, but I could tell he thought I was a little gross. He did try the chicken feet, barely. Lucky me, I got to eat the majority of them.
Lunch was very nice, though not without its problems. Jules Verne’s credit card was declined so we had to wait while he called the card company. Apparently the card, which was in his hand, had been stolen. After that was resolved, we went to the parking garage to get his car, stopping on the way to pay for parking at a machine. The machine ate the parking ticket, so we had to wait for an attendant to open up the machine to retrieve it.
Jules Verne was afraid to do anything else for fear that something would go wrong, again. We drove to his house in the Oakland Hills. Well, his parents’ house. His parents’ house that was well-stocked with wine. The parents, conveniently, weren’t home. The day was gorgeous so Jules Verne and I sat on the patio sipping wine and enjoying the view.
Of course we got to talking about sex. Of course. A large duffel bag appeared from which he pulled a huge dildo. Huge, not “super” at all, SUPER. I’m not sure if he asked, but I told him I could take it. Perhaps I can, but that was not for the Day of Fuck.
What the huge dildo in Jules Verne’s possession told me was that he was a size queen. No, he’s not a queen. But he likes to see big things going in pussies. Isn’t that was a lot of porn is all about anyway? Well, he clearly wanted to see it live.
That Jules Verne and I were going to fuck eventually became inevitable. I wanted to go upstairs and fuck but he refused me. What?! I could tell he wanted to fuck me, I was offering myself to him, I was wanting his cock in me, so why was I being refused, dammit? He was worried the maid would show up. Uh, we’ll just tell her not to clean the room in which we’re fucking.
Only “maid” wasn’t quite the right term for her. She was apparently Jules Verne’s nanny when he was a kid so he felt an affinity to her as a child for a mother. He wanted to keep the illusion between them that he was not a sexual being. Fine, whatever, but I wanted to fuck.
Into the car to drive back across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco. To my building where my neighbors’ apartment was still an option for fucking. I deposited him there and then had to, for the second time of the day, go to my apartment for my Magic Wand, the Pure Wand, lube, and condoms. And for the second time of the day it was clear that I needed a Doctor of Fuck bag always at the ready.
For the next couple of hours Jules Verne fucked me in my pussy and ass with his cock, the Pure Wand, and his hand. I lost track of where went what and I didn’t care because it all felt good. It was clear that both Jules Verne and I liked fucking pretty damn hard.
At one point both of us could tell that I was going to squirt or gush or whatever – I was going to female ejaculate. And I really wanted to, I did, but I was on my neighbors’ bed and I was worried about the state of their bedding. Worrying does not a huge orgasm make. By the time I decided, “Fuck it, I’ll wash everything anyway,” it was too late, the moment had passed.
My pussy still felt fucking great. We were having a lot of fun … until I looked at the clock. Fuck, it was late. I had another date that night, and I don’t like to spring a threesome on a guy without warning, so Jules Verne had to go.
I sent Jules Verne on his way and realized my pussy was quite sore. I was a bit worried, as the next fuck of the day was the Russian. The Russian had a delightfully huge cock …
[To be continued ….]
I swear. True story.
First Date (Part 3)
Posted on April 20, 2010[Continued from guest writer Dick Cramden's "First Date (Part 2)."]
When I returned, I had a bag into which I had put the instruments of further pleasure. The first thing I removed was a long satin scarf. I love silk, but satin is cool and smooth, and heavier than silk. Lightly, I let the edge of the scarf graze your skin from your left foot, slowly up your left leg, down between your thighs and over your pussy, over your tummy, over your right breast then over your left, then down and up between them, over your neck, over your chin, over your mouth, your nose, your eyes.
I folded the scarf length wise once. Then again. Then I used it to blindfold you. Covering your forehead, eyes, and half your nose, I tied the scarf on the side of your head.
You heard me go into the bag. Then you heard nothing for a moment. A long moment.
You heard a few clicks, but nothing else. Then music, and soft sultry singing, a song sung in French covered you like a blanket.
Suddenly you felt the cool touch of another scarf starting on your right foot and moving slowly up your body. It slid over your left breast and across your left arm. A moment later you felt it around your wrist, and your arm was pulled slightly upward as I tied your left arm to the headboard.
Another scarf made its way from your left foot up your body, across your right breast, right arm … and soon your right arm was likewise tied to the headboard.
And there you were, my lover, unable to move, unable to know what the next sensation would be. My sex toy, willfully submitted to let me have my way with you.
I let my fingers slide over your body until my hand came to a rest on your cheek. Your lips sought out my thumb and sucked it into your mouth. I removed my thumb and replaced it with my tongue so we could share a long, lust-filled kiss. You could sense from it that I wanted to fuck you. As we kissed my hand slid down your body. Straight down to your sopping wet pussy. My middle and ring fingers started to encircle your opening. Your hips started to undulate to the rhythm of my fingers.
Suddenly, both fingers plunged into you. Your hips raised up grinding your clit into the palm of my hand. You moaned into my mouth. My fingers rubbed the wet, velvety skin inside you, and you moaned more. I moved my hand so that my thumb could rub back and forth over your clit as I kept rubbing and massaging you from the inside, and you moaned more. Your legs started to move around, and I pulled my hand from your sex and I said, “Don’t move.” You could feel that I left the bed.
There was no sound for a moment. A long moment.
[To be continued ….]
May 11, 1991: A Diary Entry
Posted on April 19, 20101:01 AM
Asked Henry if he thought Madonna was sexy and if he’d like to have sex with her. He said yes to both accounts and said he’d like the challenge to overtake her in bed. Now that doesn’t sound like Henry at all. I mean it doesn’t go along with the previous image I had of him – the sweet Catholic virgin mama’s boy. But I think he’s proven to me that what you see is not what you get. But after I knew he had sex, I thought he’d be really quiet in uniform position, I don’t know, sort of boring. But then I should have remembered the six hours he said. Anyway, he also said the thought of physical force during sex didn’t really excite him – games and domination don’t really have to include physical force. He just surprises me all the time. Now I’m jealous – do I do that to him? Does he want me to? I want to be mysterious and interesting. Now I have to rethink all my fantasies – not that I usually mind. The thing about him liking a challenge – wow. Am I being too easy? Shit. I hate it when it’s too easy for me to get things – I lose interest. I’ll have to ask him if he does. I think they got a bird upstairs or something ’cause I can hear a very loud bird. Oh he said he’d take me to Club Lingerie to see Duchess de Sade . Oh, how sweet, I’m “dating” someone. I’d like to see how he is with Barb (lead singer, ex-stripper, body piercing that Henry has seen), Kirby (bass player, lots of tattoos), and the drummer (forgot her name ’cause he doesn’t talk about her as much). I wonder if he is now or has in the past had sex with them. And of course I couldn’t just come out and ask him for three reasons: 1) I wouldn’t want him to know that I’m that interested in knowing; 2) I would be afraid of the answer – what if he’s fucking them all at every practice? and 3) he wouldn’t tell me anyway. This guy, I don’t know.
The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 2)
Posted on April 18, 2010[Continued from "The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 1)."]
After sleeping for a few hours, I was woken up by Isis’ nails click-clacking on the hardwood floor. I took her out and then went back to bed. After a short time sleeping (re-sleeping?) I got up to take out the other dog in my charge. I was puppy- and kitty-sitting for my neighbors; I had to take out their dog, which was sleeping in his crate in my downstairs bathroom. Sounds mean to some, but he was used to sleeping in his crate in the downstairs bathroom in his own apartment, which looks almost exactly like mine, so he was not uncomfortable.
I took out the other dog and checked my calendar. I had a date! In the morning. Fun. I was a tad sore from the acrobatics with the Viking the night before, but I was up for another good, hard pounding.
He was to arrive at 9am. He was scheduled to arrive not at my place, but at my neighbor’s place, the home of the dog and cat I was caring for. I didn’t bother dressing. After all, we were going to fuck, not go out.
He and I never went out. Let me back up. He and I had only ever seen each other one time before. He was referred to me by a friend. She said he was a great fuck, sent me some photos, and gave us each others’ email addresses. I wanted to meet at a bar, but I didn’t know that 1) he didn’t drink, and 2) that he had a girlfriend who was very not cool with him having relations with people not her.
So the first time we saw each other he came over to my house, we had a great fuck, and then he left. For several months following we exchanged text messages and dirty phone pictures. We tried on several occasions to get together, but his need to be sneaky or my living situation prevented things from actually occurring.
When he actually showed up on the Day of Fuck, I barely recognized him. He was hotter than I remembered. I did recall that he had a lot of tattoos, but I didn’t know that he was such a snazzy dresser. He was wearing a newsboy cap; some guys look really hot in newsboy caps.
We chit-chatted for a bit. I had heard from our mutual friend that he was getting married soon, or that he had recently gotten married, so I asked him. He confirmed that he was getting married soon. Oh, ok. I didn’t push for further explanation. I fuck men, and don’t care much about their lives when we’re not fucking. If he didn’t want to tell me more, that was up to him.
We went up to my neighbor’s bedroom. I asked if he had condoms; he didn’t. Hmmm. Well, that was ok, as all I had to do was walk two floors down in my building and get condoms from my bedroom. Once in my bedroom I figured I might as well grab some toys, too. I got my Hitachi Magic Wand as well as the NJoy Pure Wand, some lube, and condoms.
All of these things I put in a woven plastic bag, the kind sold for hardly anything in developing nations; I got mine in Thailand. It wasn’t the prettiest of bags but then I had to transport my goods from floor two to floor four of my building so it didn’t matter all that much. The ‘Mate commented that I needed a better bag for my sex accoutrement; something like a doctor’s bag.
Yes, I would very much like a bag that always had toys, condoms, and lube, available for me to take off for fucking at a moment’s notice. A Doctor Bag of Fuck because I am a Doctor of Fuck. I am a DF. He he.
With supplies in hand I went to my neighbor’s place; went to their bedroom; plugged in the Magic Wand; showed him the Pure Wand, lube, and condoms; undressed; and got in bed. He took his clothes off and joined me. He had a lot of tattoos. None on his face, but pretty much everywhere else. HOT.
I sucked his cock a bit. But as is inevitable when I suck cock, I wanted to be fucked, so he donned a condom and fucked my pussy. I told him that I’d been fucking a lot recently so he was going to have to be a little gentle. And I meant it, I really did. I meant both that I had been fucking a lot and that he should be gentle.
Only I like fucking when my pussy is kind of sore. Other than using some lube, he really didn’t have to be all that gentle with me. He fucked me nice and hard. Then I grabbed the Magic Wand and used it on my clit while he fucked me flat on my back. He rubbed his cock up against the Magic Wand as well. We were both feeling rather good with cock pounding into my cunt and clit and cock vibrating.
I came, rather loudly and rather hard. The Magic Wand had served its purpose and was tossed aside. Then I turned over so he could fuck me from behind, my favorite way to get my pussy pounded.
I asked him to come on my back. He asked when. Anytime, please. He fucked me for a little while longer and then pulled his cock out, pulled the condom off, and came on my back. A lot of come.
He got up to shower, I stayed on my stomach relishing the feeling of his come cooling on my back. I declined his offer of a towel because I liked the way the come felt. Eventually, I put my t-shirt on, letting it stick to the come.
I looked at the clock and it was only just after 9:30. What? He had arrived at 9am, I had to go get stuff from my apartment, we fucked, and he showered in about a half hour. But it was fucking great fucking. I certainly didn’t complain. He seemed to have a good time. We both came. We both agreed that we shouldn’t again wait so long between fucks.
He went to work and I went home to rest up for my second date of the day.
He got married the next day.
[To be continued … the Day of Fuck was epic.]
I swear. True story.
You Call That Advice? (Part 6)
Posted on April 17, 2010[Continued from "You Call That Advice? (Part 5)."]
John was nice enough to provide me with a link to his blog, which has various pieces that espouse his philosophy that married women are starving their husbands of sex by fucking them once a week or less, and that men should be better in bed so that their wives want to fuck them more often. He claims he can teach men how to be better lovers … in just 800 words. Here are some tidbits:
Kiss and stroke down her belly past her vagina and do all the way down her thighs and calves. Come back the other side all the way back to her vagina. Remember her panties are still on. Put your mouth over her vagina and blow hot breath through her panties over her clitoris. Then insert a finger inside the leg band of her panties and stroke all around without touching her pussy. It will drive her wild.
…
Start licking between her labia up an down. When you get to the top of her vagina , you give her clitoris a quick lick and go back to licking between her pussy lips. Then insert your tongue inside of her pussy. Stroke it in and out.
…
You can gentle pull back the hood of her clitoris and directly lick the clitoris directly. You can then suck the clitoris between your lips and begin to suck on it like a woman performing fellatio on a man. The clitoris will actually become hard like a male penis and achieve an erection. You can give her an orgasm by givi.ng her clitoris a blow job.
…
Finally there is one more thing that you can do for fantastic foreplay. After having given your honey numerous orgasms, she will be begging you to take her. You can give her a real thrill. Hook your hand in the waist band of those panties and give one hard rip and literally rip her panties off. This will simultaneously scare her and excite her. Every woman has a secret rape fantasy. She does not really want to be raped but she wants to be taken forcefully and roughly by a self confident man. The key to using this fantasy, is that you want to make sure that she is highly aroused.
He then goes into a sales pitch for his book, which does not yet exist. Perhaps he’s having trouble finding a publisher as book publishers want to publish books by people who can write. This guy can’t write his way out of a vagina.
Telling men, whom he characterizes as clueless about pleasing their wives, that every woman has a secret rape fantasy is downright dangerous. Also, many women would be pretty pissed off if their panties were getting torn up all the time. But the image of men with pursed lips trying to suck on clits like tiny little cocks is hilarious.
I posted a comment to his post with a link to the Wikipedia page on “vulva” and said it would serve the readers better if he used proper names for anatomy if he wants to actually teach them accurately. While I didn’t tell him this, considering the likelihood that he knows anything about San Francisco geography, saying the clitoris is at the top of the vagina is like saying the Golden Gate Bridge is inside the Broadway Tunnel. (Trust me, that’s funny.) I may have been snarky. I was probably snarky. I had been dealing with the idiot all day and continued to be astounded at his stupidity. He did not post my comment but did email this to me:
I know the clinical terms for female anatomy. I went to nursing school and took anatomy and physiology.
I was speaking to a predominantly male audience and chose to use the slang terms to make the article more readable. I am trying to reach men and convince them not to be so self centered in bed.
You are vehement that women are comfortable with casual sex with no strings attached. I have never met such a woman. Ultimately she quickly becomes frustrated. It is part of the unisex movement foisted upon us by the feminists. Women try and take on male characteristics. Are there exceptions to this rule, I am willing to admit there might be, but the vast majority of women are not happy with this level of sexuality. I try to speak to the majority rather than worrying about the exceptions.
You are frankly the first woman who has taken offense at my suggesting holding out for a committed relationship before engaging in sex.
Best wishes
John
This John guy is funny and doesn’t even know it. He has never met a woman who is comfortable with casual sex because in his world a woman’s sexuality is a means to an end, getting a commitment and fidelity out of a man. I’m sure he’s met many women who are comfortable with casual sex, but his attitude and judgment prevent them from coming out of the slut closet to him. And to say that a woman who is comfortable with casual sex is taking on “male” characteristics is Victorian-era bullshit that hurts both men and women. Men want sex all the time and women need to be in a relationship to have satisfying sex; anything other than that messes with his very antiquated ideas of sex, gender, and sexuality. And if I’m the first woman to take offense to “holding out” it’s only because I have the time to bother to tell him that sex can be just sex.
[To be continued. Just one more.]
I swear. True story.
