Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Sometimes Excess is … Excessive
Posted on May 24, 2010
This photo has GOT to be doctored, right? There appears to be a condom at the base of the cock but not at the bit going into her pussy. And, well, it’s just fucking huge.
Penises don’t come like that, do they? While I’m a size queen, I do think there’s such thing as too big. If this penis is real, it is too big. Poor guy has no clue what it’s like to get deepthroated. He’d have better luck at getting the entire length of his cock into the ass of someone who was very experienced in the art of anally receptive sex, as the rectum is quite long.
Again assuming this picture wasn’t doctored, I wonder if he’s a grower or a shower. If he’s a shower, where the fuck does he put it when it’s not hard? What kind of underwear does he wear? If there’s really a condom on his cock, where the fuck does he get condoms that fit from tip to base?
Why is he trying to fuck this tiny woman? I can’t imagine his cock will get in her much farther since vaginas aren’t much deeper than four inches on average when fully aroused. Surely her cervix will take a serious pounding from this cock.
I swear. True story.
May 18, 1991: A Diary Entry
Posted on May 23, 201010:22 AM
I have dreams about holding Henry’s hand. About us being out together and holding hands. That’s very sweet but I don’t see how it could happen. He’s so cool and unapproachable – I’d just feel like a geek if I did or said something. Of course if he didn’t like it he’d still say he “didn’t particularly care for it.” But my dreams are so nice. Last night I almost got routed by a boar that actually looked more like a pig. And I went into a room that looked like the upstairs at the Sweet Potato in Santa Rosa. The band was playing and I accidentally told a girl that I was with the drummer. Imagining, even making lame mistakes in my dreams – a true geek. I got blown off by Henry last night – apparently a friend called him. Mom says I need more than one man in my life so when one blows me off, I can call the other/others. I know that but that’s just not the way I am. I should go grocery shopping. I think I’ll go to Pavillions instead of Vons – I like it better for some odd reason. They have 1/2 dozen cartons of eggs, maybe that’s why. But then maybe I should go work out. Laura wants me to bring her her tennis shoes and a tank top. But she already has a lot of my clothes including my black skirt that I wanted back before I even lent it to her.
Party, Frat Style (Part 4)
Posted on May 22, 2010[Continued from "Party, Frat Style (Part 3)."]
I wanted very desperately to go home. I was in no condition to ride my scooter home. My boyfriend wasn’t scheduled to get off work until 2am. I was stuck for several hours.
Once on the frat house’s first floor I found a vacant couch and sat down. The room stopped spinning for a bit. However, I did not have control of my head. It bobbed around baby-like and finally came to a rest on the back of the couch. Had I opened my eyes I would have been staring at the ceiling. I did not open my eyes, though, until someone sat down next to me.
I still couldn’t hold my head up so I rolled it to the side to bring my couch mate into my field of vision. It was a guy. He began talking to me. Obviously he didn’t think my conversational skills were important because he continued to talk to me despite my lack of coherent response. The guy kept scooting closer to me, too.
Even in my blotto state I could tell the guy was hitting on me. I could also tell that I was most definitely not interested. Back in college when the Ex and I were living together, before we got married, I didn’t cheat on him, not even in my mind. I had no interest in anyone other than the Ex. Who was, of course not yet the Ex.
I had to get away from the guy on the couch. I checked my watch. I still had a long time before I could call home and actually reach my boyfriend. This was before everyone had cell phones, which is why I was both wearing a watch and had to wait until the Ex got home to call him. I gathered my strength, balanced myself, and got off the couch. I didn’t bother to politely excuse myself; I just walked away. Well, I probably stumbled away.
I was afraid to sit down anywhere for fear I’d be called upon to carry on a conversation. I had some time to kill before I could call home. I walked up to the house’s second floor.
The second floor consisted of bedrooms and communal bathrooms. Each of the bedrooms had a locked door and its own phone line. In my drunken/stoned stupor I knocked on every door I encountered. Most of the doors went unanswered. I think I even knocked on a bathroom door. Finally, someone answered his door. They were all guys, it was a frat house.
He let me in his room. I don’t know if the guy thought he might have had a chance with me, but as soon as I told him I needed to use his phone to call my boyfriend he resigned himself to playing video games while I called home. Or maybe I called the Emeryville Trader Joe’s and asked to have the Ex paged. I was desperate to talk to him so he could pick me up as soon as was humanly possible.
I called. I talked to the Ex. He was on his way. I left the house and sat on the curb near my scooter. I sat there for quite some time. I did not, however, puke. Eventually the Ex picked me up and I explained the evening’s sequence of events.
The next day, after I slept off my drunk, I took some sort of public transportation into Berkeley to retrieve my scooter. I took the scooter ride of shame home to my cute Oakland apartment I shared with my boyfriend.
One frat party is enough.
I swear. True story.
Party, Frat Style (Part 3)
Posted on May 21, 2010[Continued from "Party, Frat Style (Part 2)."]
I walked down the hall to the bathroom. It was a large institutional bathroom with several sinks and several stalls. The floor was covered in 1″ square tiles. Nice, cool tiles. The tiles were so cool I laid down on them.
I laid down on the floor of a communal bathroom in a frat house. Obviously, I was not in my right mind. The bathroom was not tilted like the bedroom was, but it was spinning. The floor was not only cool, but being close to it lowered my center of gravity. Or something like that.
There I was, on the cool floor of the bathroom, not puking and minding my own business. I had gone into a stall but the stall provided no privacy since I was on the floor. I’m not sure how long I was there, but I was still and cool and felt reasonably ok considering the rules of physics had been violated – in my mind.
Two guys walked into the bathroom. They saw me there on the floor, of course. They were very nice. They asked if I was ok. I assured them that I was fine. They didn’t believe me, which was completely reasonable considering I was lying on a bathroom floor in a frat house. To further back up my story of me being fine, I stood up. Standing up was a long, slow, arduous process, but I did it without falling.
Once upright I attempted to engage my new buddies in conversation. I failed. They were concerned that this lone chick whom they did not know was camping out on the bathroom floor. I assured them that I was invited, that I wasn’t one of the people who had tried to crash the party earlier. Oh, I was invited, was I? Who invited me?
I’m not sure if what I did next was a mistake. Much like when questioned by the police officer when I had, just moments before, lost my virginity, I formulated in my mind the idea that telling a lie was better than just saying the truth. Only being as incapacitated as I was meant I was not able to articulate a lie. Instead, I repeatedly assured them that I was invited … by my friends. The wacky idea in my head was that I should not tell these two guys, frat brothers of my coworkers, the names of my coworkers because then they would be faulted for inviting this completely shit-faced girl who was lying on the bathroom floor to the party. I thought it would make them look bad, which may have been true.
But because I wouldn’t name the guys who had invited me to the party, my inquisitors didn’t believe that I was actually invited. My assurances didn’t seem to assuage them. So I offered to leave before they had a chance to kick me out.
I mustered up my strength and walked upright out of the bathroom. I made my way down the hall and up the stairs to the first floor of the house.
[To be continued ….]
I swear. True story.
I’m Not Joking, I Really Do Like It
Posted on May 20, 2010
I like licking ass. There’s a good reason I call my site Random Rim Jobs. I did not think of the name, but as soon as I heard it I knew it was the one for me. Well, the one for my blog.
Yes, I lick ass. I have to be in the mood, but if I am I usually take charge and tell my partner to turn over so I can get to his ass. Or her ass, as the case may be. Pointer for ass licking: Your tongue should not be a pointer. Keep it flat and wide, people. And no, the ass needn’t be hair free for rim job purposes. If you’re all that freaked out by naturally occurring body hair you shouldn’t bother having sex … of any kind.
Well, you can have sex with children, but I certainly don’t condone that sort of thing since children cannot consent. I’m all about safe, sane, and consensual, and you should be, too. And fucking children is pretty damn creepy. Don’t do that. Instead, lick consenting adult ass.
I swear. True story.
First Date (Part 5)
Posted on May 19, 2010[Continued from "First Date (Part 4)." Dick Cramden's story is pretty good. You, too, can see your sexy words on Random Rim Jobs. Submit stories to shazamsf@sbcglobal.net.]
You glistened in the candlelight. There was something very lascivious about the way you looked naked, tied down, and shining.
Standing in front of the bed, I pushed each of your feet back, bent your knees, rotated your hips and caused your pussy to open up before me.
My hand was coated with oil and I used it to massage your tender perineum, from your pussy to the tight pucker of your ass.
When I touched you there, you let out a small gasp. I wondered if it was a gasp of pleasure.
With two fingers I started to rub circles around that sensitive spot. Yes, it was a gasp of pleasure. I wondered if anyone had touched you like that before, or if it was a new, enjoyable sensation. Again, I was aware of the trust you had in me. You didn’t recoil, perhaps unable to do so. But I was enjoying how the sensation pleased you, so I continued.
Thoroughly coated with the oil, I slid the tip of my middle finger into the tight hole, one knuckle deep. You moaned.
I withdrew it a little, and you whimpered. I pushed it back in again, and you moaned.
Slow, slow strokes, in and out. Pushing slightly deeper into the tight, slick, sensitive hole. When my finger was almost two knuckles deep, I paused.
“Does this feel good?” I asked.
“Uh huh,” you answered.
“Let’s see what else feels good,” I said.
I withdrew my finger. I looked at your body. One of us needed to come, badly, I thought.
The only drawback of the massage oil was that it had a bitter aftertaste. But that mattered little to me at that moment.
My tongue traced a line up and down your perineum. I tongued your ass. You wriggled with pleasure.
“You want to feel my tongue on your clit?” I asked.
“Yes,” you replied.
“You want me to suck your clit?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask me,” I insisted.
“Please John, suck my clit. Please. I want to feel your mouth on my clit.”
I exposed your swollen clit. My eager mouth was ready. The tip of my tongue touched down on it, hot and firm. I drew tiny tiny circles, very, very slowly over the tip of your hot, swollen clit.
Then I sucked your clit into my mouth where my tongue lavished you with firm, slow licks and swirls. You thrust your hips up, and my closely shaved chin slid between your pussy lips, coating me with your excitement.
I easily slid two fingers into you. They rubbed up against the wall of your pussy, just beneath your clit. Your moans became loud, and your hips bucked and writhed, fucking my face and fingers.
With my other hand I fingered your ass. I held my hand still; your own hip movements made my finger fuck your ass.
You raised your feet, seeking my shoulders, but they came to rest on my biceps.
I knew you were feeling intense pleasure. I knew it. I also knew that I could make you come, if I sucked maybe a little harder, or swirled my tongue a little faster. I knew it. But I wanted the pleasure to last as long as possible.
Your moans got louder.
You gasped for air.
Was that a soft grunt I heard?
You were on the edge. I knew it.
[To be continued. One more part to come.]
Party, Frat Style (Part 2)
Posted on May 18, 2010[Continued from "Party, Frat Style (Part 1)."]
My fraternity buddies and their fraternity buddies and I went to a dark room in the house’s basement. There were a few bunk beds in the room. Someone pulled the mattresses off of the top bunks and put them on the floor so we all had comfortable places to sit. In short order a bong was passed around.
I was on my second drink. I took a couple of hits off the bong. I was experienced both drinking and smoking. I started drinking when I was 14 and smoking pot when I was 16. In the intervening years I had done one or the other pretty much on a daily basis. I had not, however, ever mixed alcohol and pot. Until that night.
That night was the first time in a long time that I had smoked pot. I stopped for a couple of reasons. One, I refused to pay for pot. I figured I was a girl so I didn’t have to. That worked for a while. I had had a friend who was a dealer who gave me his shag, which was more like stems and seeds. Two, I found that when I smoked pot I got headaches and then fell asleep, which was no longer any fun. The headaches were probably due to the fact that I was smoking stems and seeds.
When I moved to Oakland to attend Berkeley I didn’t know anyone, and certainly wasn’t in the position to get pot for free. At the time I went to the frat party I was much more of a drinker. I had worked in a bar for four years, and once in our apartment in Oakland, the Ex and I often made ourselves margaritas. Less than two drinks, even of Aftershock, certainly wouldn’t have done me in.
I did not, however, count on the exponential impact of the alcohol/pot combination. As everyone was stoned, they were talking and joking and laughing. Everyone but me. I sat quietly, listening to everyone else have a good time. I thought to myself that no one was actually funny; there was no reason for anyone to be laughing. Why the fuck were they laughing?
I wanted to get out of that room. I had had enough of these unfunny compulsive laughers. I looked toward the door, which was straight across from me. Well, not quite straight, as the bedroom door appeared to require a climb to get to. It looked to me as though the entire room had tilted up 45º with me at the bottom.
I began the ascent to the front door. First, I had to get off my ass and onto my feet on a soft mattress. Then I had to walk up the very steep grade to the bedroom door. I had to do this without falling and without drawing too much attention to myself. Also without showing anyone my panties under the short and flouncy skirt of my dress. It was a difficult climb, but I finally made it to the door where I let myself out of the bedroom.
I could still hear the idiots laughing as I made my way down the florescent-lit hallway.
[To be continued …..]
I swear. True story.
