Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 3)
Posted on July 24, 2010[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 2)."]
I always waited for Charles to contact me before we got together. Jules Verne I scheduled. I suggested he become my regular Monday guy and he complied. He was amazingly regular and reliable. On the Mondays when I just didn’t hear from him he always apologized for being hard to reach.
Which he was usually because he’d lost his phone. Or had it “stolen.” The one time his phone was “stolen,” I assured him it was just lost. He was in Tahoe on what sounded like an alcohol-fueled trip of debauchery when he left his phone somewhere whilst he frolicked in a hot tub. Amazingly, his phone was not where he left it when he emerged from his sous-vide bath.
He had wooed me via Twitter, and I had also ranked him highly on OkCupid. The two were completely coincidental, but when he saw that I had ranked him on OkCupid he took the opportunity to inform me that we should most definitely meet. I agreed.
We met at a busy bar/restaurant. I was annoyed by the bridge and tunnel crowd, and his assertion that he was “wearing a jacket” didn’t do much to assuage my annoyance. The place was packed. There were several guys wearing jackets. I understood he meant a blazer vs. any other kind of jacket, but his description still didn’t allow me to pick him out of the big crowd.
We met out front. Pretty quickly we were drinking margaritas, which helped get me out of my shit mood. We drank. We ate. We talked. He was young – only 24 – and had gotten out of college recently enough that both his Twitter name and conversation were related to his alma mater. He talked about college in a way that made it clear the experience was both recent and beloved.
He was wearing a jacket. With a pocket square. He was preppy. It was as if he saw the J. Crew catalog back in the 90s and dressed from it. Only he wasn’t old enough to dress himself back in the 90s.
He was also blond haired and blue eyed. Not my type. Not that I have much of a type, but generally light hair and eyes do little for me, and especially not in a silly preppy package.
He had asked if I was Jewish, which has not been an uncommon question in my adulthood. From what I’ve sussed, people think I’m Jewish by a combination of my nose and my attitude. The nose is big and Native American. The attitude, while honed completely in California, the only place I’ve ever lived, seems to be New York. Usually it’s goyim who ask, presumably because members of the Tribe can recognize their own.
Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when Jules Verne told me the reason he wouldn’t get any tattoos was so he could be buried in his family cemetery. So he, a Jew, thought I was a Jew? That was unusual. I suppose if I had been asked I wouldn’t have supposed that he was Jewish, considering his WASP-y looks. Well, I already knew something about his cock.
I did not find out that his cock was not only circumcised but also thick and very hard that night. That didn’t happen until the Day of Fuck.
After that we had semi-regular trysts ….
I swear true story.
Flower Pussies. Pussy Flowers?
Posted on July 23, 2010
My friend Derrick D has a new iPhone. I’m no technophile; he claims his new phone has allowed him to take some great photos. I think his keen eye has a lot to do with it.
Derrick D is one of my closest friends. I’m going to miss him a lot when I move. We’ve thus far bonded in person. We met and immediately hit it off. Then we began hanging out a lot. I’d make dinner; he’d bring wine. We’d talk and talk and talk. We’d pick up on guys. Well, we’d try.
Recently, DD and the Viking met. DD volunteered to take the Viking shopping for “nice” clothes. I know little about men’s clothes; I know what I like to look at, but not why it looks good. Derrick, on the other hand, knows his stuff, being a 
fabulous gay and all.
When we met we had both recently come out of long term relationships and were in the throes of singledom. So lots of talk about sex including our latest conquests. Talk of penises and mouths and butts.
So when Derrick showed me pictures of flowers he’d taken with his new phone I couldn’t help but think of dirty body parts. Well, not dirty, but sexy. Of course I’m not the first one to see it; everyone thought that’s what Georgia O’Keefe painted, but throughout herprofessional life she claimed she just painted flowers, not pussies.
This first one looks like a lovely butt hole, doesn’t it? These two flowers look like a set of boobies. And lest you, dear readers think I’ve forgotten about pussies, doesn’t this rose look the pretty, delicate, intricate folds of voluminous labia?
DD takes some very pretty photos. There are more I’ll be showing off.
I swear. True story.
Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 2)
Posted on July 22, 2010[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 1)."]
Some time later I went to Litquake‘s culminating event, LitCrawl. I went for to see one of the events, which was billed as literary smut. I like dirty stories. Since I was out for that, I figured I might as well go see Charles Gatewood, that guy I had met with Ramona. It all took place in my neighborhood, and at the time I needed little reason to get out of the house.
Charles Gatewood read a story about taking pictures of serious blood play, which angered some local folks. Very San Francisco. After the event ended I said hi to Charles Gatewood. I really didn’t want to return home too soon and I thought it’d be nice to tell him I enjoyed his story. He very sweetly invited me to sit and chat with him for a bit. We had a nice conversation and I learned that he lived very close to me. He said I should go over to his place some time to see his photos.
The first time I went over Charles showed me around his apartment, which was also his studio. There were many, many things to look at, and Charles and I had very pleasant conversation. I stayed for hours, and Charles was nice enough to make me dinner. He was very nice to make me dinner, but it was apparent to me that he didn’t know how to boil pasta. He didn’t boil it, he simmered it until it was waterlogged and mushy. I didn’t hold that against him though.
Ramona and I went over another time. The three of us looked at photos from Folsom Street Fair; both Charles and Ramona had taken a ton. We thumbed through Charles’ prints, and through the files on Ramona’s laptop. We looked through some photography and art books, and discussed various things. Charles called such events “Gatewood Salons” since they were intellectual.
I’m not sure when the sexy times between Charles and I started, but I began going over to his place every couple of weeks or so. I’d go over, make something to eat, we’d discuss what was going on in our lives, and then I’d blow him. Sometimes we fucked, too.
He suggested I start going shopping before going to his place so I could make tasty food. I love to cook, and it’s always nice to have an appreciative audience. Thanksgiving week I went to Whole Foods and bought up a shit ton of food. I bought enough for a small dinner party, not just two people having a light dinner before what is always a heavy meal. Charles had plenty of leftovers, but did kind of balk at how much everything cost. I promised that in the future I’d spend his money more modestly.
Charles and I spent Christmas Day together. It was a great day that was unfortunately marred by some not-so-great food. I felt bad, I did, but Charles really wasn’t a very good cook. He cooked mostly for himself, and he got proper nutrition, but except for his scalloped potatoes, nothing I’d eaten of his was very good. On Christmas we had some of the most overcooked and leathery steak I’d had since my childhood, when people were overly concerned about undercooked meat. Let me reiterate: Charles is great, his food is not.
I decided that from then on I’d be doing all the cooking. He would email me asking when I was available, we’d schedule a date, and I’d ask him what kind of food he was in the mood for. It worked out rather well because it gave me a chance to plan a menu with some constraints – not spicy, low fat, within a budget, etc. – and to eat food that I knew was good. I introduced the crazy concept of olive oil to him. I cooked a turkey breast fillet, which he had never had. We had quinoa when I wanted to show him some non-meat protein options.
Every time I went over we had a great time that usually culminated in a blow job. Sometimes he took pictures of me. Because he took pictures the old fashioned way, on film, and wasn’t too hip on scanning photos, I was confident that photos of me would not find their way onto the internet. Also, I trusted him.
There were several other guys in my stable. Guys I had fun fucking and hanging out with. Guys I’ll miss.
To be continued ….
I swear. True story.
Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 1)
Posted on July 21, 2010It takes a long time to build up a proper “stable” of guys one wants to fuck. Not just guys one wants to fuck, but also guys one wants to fuck whom are reliable to fuck. It takes work. It takes some serious weeding out.
I had used OkCupid to build up a nice group of regulars whom I was fucking. OkCupid and Twitter. I’m all about social fuckworking. I had gone through a period of meeting a lot of new guys via these venues. It wasn’t always directly; I met Ramon via Twitter who introduced me to a number of guys, including Charles.
Charles is Charles Gatewood. I know he’s fine with me “outing” him as one of the guys I fuck. I’d never heard of Charles until Ramona told me about him at the Zine Fest back in 2009. She and I had met initially via Twitter, and I’d fucked one of her, uh, suggestions, before we met in person at Dolores Park for a picnic. I do like picnics.
When we met she told me she had children, which I tried heartily to not hold against her. She said she had a 17-year-old daughter and a 6-year-old son. She said her daughter didn’t live with her but her son did. I figured neither child was all that present in her life. I figured that based solely on our first meeting, which happened to be when her son was visiting her mother.
Because of my silly assumption, it was kind of a surprise when we met to go to the Zine Fest and she had her son with her. We met at the Van Ness Muni station. There was Ramona with a small man. He was cute; he had a blue faux hawk on what was otherwise blond hair, twinkly bright blue eyes, and a very outgoing personality.
We took Muni to the San Francisco County Fair Building. I’d never been to anything in the building before, and every other county fair building to which I’d been was huge. San Francisco’s county fair building, at the edge of Golden Gate Park, is a modest affair; from the front door of the building we could see every exhibitor.
Ramona told her son that he had $5 to spend, which, sadly, was significantly more than I had. I wasn’t really sure what a zine fest was, but I figured it’d be just a bunch of people selling their angsty, anarchist, homemade magazines. I was wrong. There was a variety of exhibitors, from yo-yo demonstrations, to hand-drawn sexy comic books, to notebooks, to collages with found papers, to photography books. It was so cool; I was sorry I didn’t have any money to spend.
The yo-yo demonstrator I’d blown in the past. I wasn’t sure he remembered me, and it certainly would have been awkward to say hi if he didn’t, so I avoided him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Vegan was also there, though I didn’t realize until later. There was a strong vegan contingent; I think there might have been a vegan food demonstration some time over the course of the two day fest.
Ramona, her son, and I walked around, looking at the various exhibitors. When we got to the Flash Publications table, Ramona went nuts. She said that Charles Gatewood was the reason she was at the Zine Fest. She said she had wanted to meet him for a long time. She began talking to an older man behind the table. I had no idea who he was.
As Ramona was talking, and clearly wanting to get into a deeper conversation about photography, her son was getting impatient. I offered to take him outside for a bit.
I am not a kid person. I do not foresee having children, ever. I did in the past, but no longer. I’ve not been around children for the most part. I didn’t live with my younger step-brother until he was seven, and since I was a kid at the time, it was a whole lot of teasing him and scaring him. A few years ago he told me he was still angry at me for the scaring part.
So when Ramona’s son and I went outside I wasn’t sure what to do. We used sticks to “fight” each other. For a bit I thought it was cute that he kept changing the rules that governed the battles. Then I got tired and bored. He was not tired, and if I had kept playing, he would not have been bored. Finally, he walked back into the building and screamed for his mother.
While not a parent, I know that a screaming child in a public place is extremely inappropriate. I grabbed him and brought him back outside. We then had a battle of wills. I held his wrists so he didn’t run back in the building; he screamed that I was hurting him. I made it clear that as soon as he calmed the fuck down and behaved in a civilized manner that we’d go back in to see his mother. The calming down took a while.
Eventually Ramona came outside with the older man to whom she’d been talking, the one she called Charles Gatewood. He had his camera. He said he was doing a story for Skin & Ink Magazine about the local tattoo scene. Ramona has a lot of tattoos. Charles thought a good photo for the piece would be to show that heavily tattooed people in the Bay Area are parents, too.
He took a few photos of Ramona’s son with her tattooed arms on his shoulders. I asked about adjusting the lighting later on the computer, and he said he still took pictures on film. Even my father, a semi-professional photographer, crossed over to digital a few years ago.
He seemed like a nice guy, but it wasn’t until later that he and I would connect.
To be continued …
I swear. True story.
June 8, 1991: A Diary Entry
Posted on July 20, 20108:42 PM
Henry finally called me. We hadn’t talked since Wednesday night. I’m going to an L.A. party with Laura and Vidal. My sweet little baby is so cute. I’ve already had two shots of tequila and I’ll probably have more. We have tickets to Lollapalooza (I don’t think anyone knows how to spell it.) Beth, me, Francie, Roxanne and two other people I don’t know. There went number three. I’m gonna be sloshed. My baby was on my shoulder. She’s very cute. I don’t want to go to work tomorrow and Monday and Tuesday. I was mad at Henry for not calling me but as soon as I heard his voice I couldn’t be angry. That’s not good. I think he was going to ask if he and Dave could come over here or something but he didn’t ask soon enough ’cause I had already said yes to Laura. I’m not going to say no to anyone because Henry might call or Henry might ask me somewhere ’cause he won’t. If he wants my time, he’ll have to ask me ahead of time like he did for Duchess de Sade. He’ll learn not to take advantage of the fact that I have no social life. My baby plays with everything now. She really likes my feet – to attack them because I’m walking. Henry couldn’t remember when he had seen me drunk – he thought it was at his house. So he couldn’t remember but in the background Dave said at Duchess de Sade and I told Henry that Dave was right. But how would Dave know? He wasn’t there. But obviously Henry does talk about me. Yippee. I’d like to talk to Dave to find out what Henry says about me. Or get Laura to when we go camping – if we’re still going.
Tickle My Skin
Posted on July 19, 2010
I’ve had sex outside a few times. Ok, more than a few times. The roof of my current building is a favorite spot for blow jobs.
I consider blow jobs sex. (Insert cliched Bill Clinton reference here.) I consider pussy licking sex. I consider mutual masturbation sex.
There are two guys n recent memory whom I’ve not fucked, but whom I’ve had sex. One I’ve been with twice. The first time I tossed a couple of condoms his way, because I always have condoms. I jokingly said, “I guess that’s presumptive of me,” to which he didn’t respond other than to not use any condoms because his penis entered neither my pussy nor my ass. Which is not to say we didn’t have a great time, because we absolutely did.
And that’s why we had a second time. The second time was a lot of fun, but in a different way. We didn’t have to do the bother of getting to know each other since we’d already fucked. When we got back to my place after lunch we went to my room and he fucked me with my njoy Eleven. That thing kicks ass.
I get a bit – just a bit – of the idea that he’s fascinated by my pussy that will take a lot. Even if he isn’t, he’s fun, and goes along with the dirty things I do.
I first had sex outside when I was 16. I was seeing a girl, Erica, about whom I’ve written in my “A Diary Entry” posts. We fucked in a small cemetery in a 
field outside our work, a Round Table Pizza in Cameron Park, California. For whatever reason, the cemetery had been fenced off, and “preserved.” There were maybe four graves in the “cemetery.” I can’t imagine that with all the development that must’ve occurred in that area that that cemetery hasn’t been forgotten except by the few of us who fucked there.
When I was around 20 years old, I fucked on the roof of a building and was subsequently caught by one of the building’s security guards. The building was the Pasadena Civic Auditorium. The Emmy Awards were held there for a while, including the year I fucked on its roof.
When I was in Bangkok for the second time, I fucked on the roof of my apartment building. It was hot as fuck so we sought shelter in the rooftop laundry room. It was still hot, but at least there was a breeze and a view.
I’ve been propositioned on a roof: There’s something about the fresh air and expansive view that makes a guy want to pull out his cock.
I’ve “lost” my pants on a beach: There’s something about the fresh air and sound of crashing waves that makes me want to expose my ass, and run to allow the sea air to tickle my clit and tease my pussy.
I’ve fucked on a beach, being careful not to let sand get anywhere it could cause irritation and damage.
Right now I have someone “after” me to get it on on my roof. He and I have fucked plenty, just not on my roof, yet. Maybe soon ….
When I was in sixth grade I moved in with my father and his family, my sister, my step-mother, step-sister, and step-brother in Palo Cedro, California. In our back yard was a creek in which, on at a very few occasions, us kids skinny dipped.
There’s a naughtiness to being naked outside. Having sex outside is not only naughty, but it’s also clean, and fresh, and free. It’s pure. Outdoor sex is not dirty, or nasty, or rough, or wrong; it’s natural and right.
I look forward to camping with the Viking at the end of this month.
I swear. True story.
Tax Day (Part 1)
Posted on July 18, 2010[Here's a story from a guest writer. You're welcome to submit a sexy story if you'd like. Email shazamsf@sbcglobal.net.]
The phone call came at 11:05 pm on tax day. Of course I had waited until the last minute to file my taxes, and in the haste I forgot to sign the return. “Has to be postmarked by midnight,” my accountant said. “My assistant is making one last run to the post office. Get here ASAP and sign them.”
“FUCK. I don’t want to go fucking driving now; I’m half-asleep.”
“Will you just sign my name? Write it lefty …. Hello? Hello? You there?”
Not a good idea to ask your accountant to forge your signature. She hung up. I threw on some jeans and left my hair the way it was.
By the time I got to her office, the bottle had been popped and everyone was looking a little “above the weather” from the champagne. Another tax season over!
“You’re the last one, ya freakin’ slowpoke,” she grinned. ”Sign these bad boys and have a drink.”
Well, ok; I didn’t want to be rude in a room full of women. Her three assistants choked down their champagne like shooters and split for the parking lot, each with a hand truck full of returns.
“Shouldn’t I help them load the …?”
She interrupted me with a big hug. She no doubt needed to be held after having no physical contact working 15-hour days over the last two months. “Well, this is nice,” she said, her arms around my neck and my arms around her waist.
She started to unwind the hug and said in a blush, “Oh, boy. You smell really good.”
Not cologne though. I have a great natural smell. I know it. It turns me on. It certainly wasn’t my hair, but who knows what things turn a woman on.
Her nipples popped out so they were noticeable; I looked right at them. She saw me looking and swallowed hard. I moved in as if for a kiss but stopped just to get close and to see her reaction. She smiled, gave my upper lip a peck, and licked my lips quickly while looking me in the eye. Now she had me; the taste of her saliva made me swell a little. Swelling in tight jeans makes things interesting very quickly.
One rule I’ve adopted: “If she can’t kiss well, she’s going suck in bed.” And I don’t mean oral sex-wise either. I’m talking no sense of being present and being in the moment.
We kissed slowly and gently. I brushed the backs of my fingers over her blouse right across her right nipple, and she let out a big sigh. Touching her there triggered a deep throb in a very special place. The kissing was really hot, and by now all I could think about was how far I could get my tongue and fingers up inside her. She swung the door to her office closed.
Now I had both hands going on her blouse and she was breathing pretty heavily. She grabbed at my crotch and began grinding her hand on me aggressively. Squeezing all of my cock and balls that she could grab through my jeans. The pushing and squeezing was hot, literally. The friction on my now throbbing cock became very intense from rubbing it against the rough denim of my jeans. Did I mention I was commando? Nothing like my solid cock trapped in tight jeans against the denim.
I had one hand tweeking a nipple and the other gabbing at her pussy. She was panting. I decided it was time for her to cool down – in the time it’d take me to take off her clothes.
Naturally, I had to kiss her belly right near her hip and touch her clit area lightly through her slacks as if I was tapping to a song. The staccato was just a foreshadowing of what I was going to do to her with my face. I admired the quality of the fabric of her pants.
Her pussy area was hot. I was salivating. I undid her belt and pulled her pants and thong down to her ankles. I reached my right hand between her legs and pulled her pussy to my face by cupping her ass. Her pussy was a come-y mess. My sense of manners meant I had to clean up; I was responsible for it after all.
I nuzzled my nose on her clit, which was protruding nicely. The stringy come made webs between my face and her gorgeous, perfectly waxed pussy. I submersed my whole face in her wonderfulness. There was come all over my face, hanging off my chin, and up my nose.
I stood up ….
[To be continued.]
