Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.June 17, 1991: A Diary Entry
Posted on August 24, 201011:51 P.M.
I’m bored. I keep losing at cards. Henry hasn’t called tonight. I have a blister on my finger. Lori’s a fucking cunt. Henry called me at work today. I think my upstairs neighbors deal drugs. They leave at around midnight two nights in a row now. Last night they came back an hour later. I’ll see what they do tonight. Laura might come over with Matt. I do not like being bored at all. My house is clean so I can’t to that. Guess I could eat. But I don’t want to ’cause I’m already fat enough. Lori wrote me up for having too many personal calls. She and K.C. make them too so she can fuck herself – which I’m sure she does ’cause if I were her husband I wouldn’t touch her with someone else’s dick. I want to be alone with Henry and just look at him. I wonder if he even thinks that I think about him so much and I think he’s so good-looking. Does he even suspect? Does he think I’m good-looking? Does he think about me a lot? Does he think about kissing me? Does he want to have sex with me? I want to know, damn it.
Food Fail (Part 3)
Posted on August 23, 2010[Continued from "Food Fail (Part 2)."]
We had reservations that night to go to Bar Tartine. I had been hearing about the restaurant for years. It’s a San Francisco staple of local, seasonal food cooked simply to let the ingredients shine. I had never been before and thought it would be good for the Viking and I to take in before we leave the city. It also happens to be conveniently located in our neighborhood.
Our plan was to go to Bar Tartine and have a leisurely dinner, and then go to see Mike Schmidt doing at one-man show at the Dark Room, also in the Mission. The Mission has a lot of cool shit; I’m going to miss it. Mike Schmidt does a podcast I rather like, “The 40 Year Old Boy.” It’s mostly funny, somewhat tragic, brain sputum. Someone who thinks and talks faster than I do? Yes, I’m in.
Because I listen to the podcast, I had known about the show – just two nights and only in San Francisco – for a long time. I put it into the calendar the Viking and I share. But I never mentioned it to the Viking because we were supposed to have moved by the time of the show. Once it was obvious we would be in town, I suggested we see Mike Schmidt, someone the Viking had never heard.
Bar Tartine was … a bit of a disappointment. (The Viking will eventually post a review on his foodie website.) The appetizers were good – I had some sort of raw fish and he had tempura green beans. The main courses, not so much. Actually, I liked mine main course. It was pork jowls with roasted plums. It was very fatty, very rich, and very tasty. The Viking was a vegan and/or vegetarian for years and because of this has a little trouble with eating a hunk of fat. I don’t have such hang ups.
The Viking’s main course was Gulf prawns. It was a special that night and the Viking loves shrimp, so it sounded like a winner. What we didn’t know until our waiter told the folks at the table next to us when they ordered, was that the prawns would be served head-on. I’d heard that sucking out the “brains” (they’re not so smart as to have actual brains) of prawns, crayfish, etc., was delicious, so I encouraged the Viking to give ‘em a try.
His dish arrived with a trash bowl. His dish also arrived with not only the heads on the prawns, but all of the shells. That meant the Viking had to shell, head, and clean his dinner before he could eat. I sucked out the head material from one of the prawns and was kind of grossed out. The texture, which I figured, considering I had dissected plenty of crayfish in biology classes, was mushy. The texture didn’t bother me so much, but the taste was very … fishy. Good shrimp isn’t fishy, it’s, uh, shrimpy.
The Viking, in his nice shirt and jacket, was expected to shell each of the shrimp, which was no easy – or clean – feat. He gave up and threw all of the prawns into the trash bowl. I fished ‘em out and shelled at least one. He was right, it was frustrating. And annoying. For what he paid for the dish he should not have had to do nearly that much work.
The prawns were mushy, too. Maybe we’re just not that sophisticated. Or maybe what we find unpalatable is just not good. Add to that, shelling the prawns had caused our hands to stink! Both the Viking and I washed our hands at the restaurant. They still stunk.
We had dessert, which was a rather tasty peach cobbler with buttermilk ice cream.
After dinner, we had time to go back home before we saw Mike Schmidt. We walked home, where we both washed our hands. After one washing each, our hands still stunk. I washed my hands again, and they were still somewhat stinky.
We saw the one-man show. The Viking, though he had never heard “The 40 Year Old Boy” whispered to me that the show was good. And it was. It was funny, and raw, and tragic, and, even though I’ve been listening to the podcast since the beginning, I heard new Mike Schmidt stories I’d never before heard.
The day was a food fail. But I was with the Viking so the day wasn’t a fail.
I know I’m sappy. But I’m honest.
I swear. True story.
Food Fail (Part 2)
Posted on August 22, 2010[Continued from "Food Fail (Part 1)."]
We walked to St. Francis Fountain through more of the Street Food Festival crowd. It was a warm Saturday with a street festival going on; the sidewalks were full. Once in front of St. Francis Fountain it was obvious we wouldn’t be able to eat any time soon; there was a crowd of hipsters waiting out front.
When confronted by a bunch of people who are clearly cooler than I – or at least think they are – I get nervous. I don’t have enough tattoos and I look horrible in skinny jeans so the hipsters intimidate me. I’ve been rejected by enough hipsters to know that I’m definitely not hip enough to be in their company.
I should have known. I first went to St. Francis Fountain with Ramona, who is most definitely cooler than I even wish I were. She’s heavily tattooed and wears a lot of short skirts with fishnets and has dyed black hair. I’m convinced that if we didn’t happen to like fucking the same guys (she’s referred several to me) that she would have trouble being my friend. I’m just not fashionable enough for her. She’s probably mostly embarrassed to be seen with me in public.
The Viking and I saw that there was a grip of hipsters in front of St. Francis Fountain waiting to eat. Dammit. By this time we were hungry and I was in no mood to feel inferior in my regular clothes with only a couple of tattoos showing. I remember when the fact that I had tattoos at all was edgy ….
Finally, we decided to stop by our corner grocery for supplies so the Viking could make us food. He made eggs with chipotles and other yummy stuff, and quesadillas using thick “homemade” corn tortillas. Yum.
[To be continued ….]
I swear. True story.
Food Fail (Part 1)
Posted on August 21, 2010The Viking and I decided on Friday that we’d check out the 2010 SF Street Food Festival the next day. I had been the year before, but thought we’d already be in Chicago by this time so I didn’t bother to talk it up to the Viking. It was the Viking who said we should check it out since it was close to our place. I agreed, but only because the information about the festival indicated the festival would be covered by more real estate.
When I went last year it was packed. Packed to the point of annoyance. I was with a guy I rather liked, but standing in line just to get $6 worth of snacky food, was annoying, even if the conversation was pleasant. The problem last year was with the lines. The vendors’ booths were arranged in the Mission on Folsom Street in the high 20s, which was closed to traffic. People lined up at each of the booths, straight out to the sidewalks. That meant there were large areas between each of the lines that were not usable for cross traffic. If anyone tried to traverse the street through the lines, there were pissy looks and other expressions of attitude.
I told the Viking all of this. We agreed to go check out the various vendors as early as possible, when the festival opened at 11am. We even printed up a map of the vendors and agreed on which of them we wanted to visit. The Viking was especially interested in tasting the goods from Liba Falafel and Ritual Roasters. I wanted to go to the Nombe and Roli Roti. We both were interested in revisiting Kung Fu Tacos – which we had tasted at the last Exploratorium AfterDark – and both Kika’s Treats and Claresquares – local (to San Francisco) purveyors of yummy shortbread-based sweets we dig, a lot.
I woke up around 11:15am, well after the time I should have gotten up if we wanted to make it to the festival by its opening, at 11. Dammit. The Viking says I look sweet when I sleep so he is loathe to wake me. I dressed quickly and one of us took Isis out for a final potty break before our outing.
It was too late; by the time we walked the few blocks down Treat Street, the Street Food Festival was inundated with local hipsters, stroller-laden families from Noe Valley, and bridge and tunnel hopefuls. It was not our scene. At all.
We walked through a block of the festival, but not before I saw a guy I had all but fucked. I said a quick hello and then walked on. The Viking and I were holding hands and I figured it would have been beyond awkward to do much more than that.
We had already planned to go to a local hardware store after we’d gotten our fill of food at the festival; the fill just happened well after we had planned. We walked past the food festival and to the hardware store where we bought a power strip. Why did we need a power strip? Because I’d had trouble plugging in my bedside light, my new iPhone (courtesy of the Viking’s need to have all the latest Apple products), and my Hitachi Magic Wand all in one outlet.
We bought a power strip and laundry detergent. Considering we’d left our place planning to eat at the food festival and had not eaten anything, we were both hungry. We decided to go to St. Francis Fountain. The Viking liked that they had waffles.
We’ve agreed that once we move we’ll get a waffle iron. We both love waffles, maybe I more than him, and agree they’re better than pancakes. The Viking is so sweet that he wants to make me happy with waffles.
To be continued ….
I swear. True story.
Senioritis
Posted on August 20, 2010I’m ready to move. READY. I’ve lived in my apartment nearly seven years and in San Francisco for ten. It is time to move the fuck on.
I look around my apartment and see things I’m tired of seeing. I look around San Francisco and see things I’ve been seeing for ten years. I like what I see for the most part, and it will be great to visit a city I know so well, but I’m ready to say I’m from San Francisco rather than I live in San Francisco.
I’m not “from” San Francisco, but that’s what I’ll say when people ask once I’ve moved. It’s certainly easier to say I’m from San Francisco than that I’m from all over California, that I’ve lived in northern California, southern California, thankfully not central California.
I have senioritis. You know that feeling, when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel and you want to get there already. I want to move already. Change will be very welcome in my life. This year started off kind of shitty and has gotten better and better and better. I feel like if I stay here things will only stagnate, and I want them to continue to get better.
The last time I had senioritis so badly I was a senior – in high school. At the end of my sophomore year my guidance counselor sat down with my father and me and told me there was a chance I could graduate early if I wanted to do so. Did I!
I had heard about people at my high school graduating a semester early, which is what I hoped for. However, because my high school had very few requirements for graduation, including only three years of English, and because I had begun taking high school-level classes in junior high, I was told I could graduate a full year before my classmates.
Fuck yeah! I would have to jump through a few hoops, but I could do it. I had to get special permission to sign up for classes that were normally only open to seniors. My guidance counselor took care of that. And because there were only so many class periods in a day, I had to put in time to get additional units at the continuation high school in my district.
On Wednesday nights my father drove me to the continuation high school. For those not in the know, a “continuation” high school is for the pregnant girls, the behavior problems, and those with learning disabilities. It’s a last step before dropping out for most of the students who go. On Wednesday nights the local continuation high school had supervised study that allowed students to catch up on classwork.
I was to earn a few units on the Wednesday nights, and take a full course of classes during school days, and I could graduate a year early. I could do that. The first few Wednesday evenings, the supervising teacher had me read stories and answer comprehension questions. She always seemed surprised when I finished, and usually let me go before the study period was over because I had completed all my work.
The work was mindless and silly, but I wanted to do whatever it took to graduate early. After a few Wednesdays of attendance, the supervising teacher didn’t have any work left for me to do; I had done everything that was normally given to students who needed extra units. The teacher asked me to act as a tutor and help any of the other students who needed it. Whatever it took, I did. Finally, the teacher made it clear that I was wasting my time, and set me free, with more units than I had requested or needed for the early graduation. Thankyouverymuch.
With that cushion of units at my disposal I proceeded to purposefully fail a math class that I didn’t need to graduate and that was more work than I was willing to put in. The last semester of high school I did the bare minimum of work.
I moved out of my parents’ (father and step-mother) house during my last semester of high school, in March of 1990, when I was 16. Some time during that final semester my parents got a call indicating I was “in danger of not graduating.” I heard through DJ that my parents got the call, as I had no interest in talking to them during that time.
I didn’t give a shit that I was in danger of not graduating, because even if I didn’t graduate then, a year early, I could take summer school, or attend another semester, and I still would have graduated early. The teachers looked at me with a wise pity, like they had seen it all before – the formerly good student who was just done.
I still don’t know what my final grades were, but I did graduate from high school a year early. Literally the day after I graduated I moved from the small suburban Sacramento town to the San Gabriel Valley in southern California. DJ helped me with that.
I can’t say this bout of senioritis is as difficult at the one when I was 16 since I now have a bit more maturity. Just a bit.
I swear. True story.
I’m a Squirter! (Part 2)
Posted on August 19, 2010Continued from “I’m a Squirter! (Part 1).”
Then, after an nice rest, the Viking began fingering me. That felt rather good. I pulled out the Magic Wand, which, even after years of use, I keep on low rather than high power.
The Viking doesn’t regularly finger my clit – although he is very good at that. He fingers my pussy. Several fingers. And then his whole hand. However, that night, the Magic Wand was in charge of my clit.
The Viking was in charge of my pussy. He made the executive decision to grab the njoy Pure Wand. I love the Pure Wand. The Viking knows this. He knows that the Magic Wand/Pure Wand combination makes me come very nicely. And very quickly.
That night I had the Magic Wand on my clit and the Viking was attending to my pussy with his fingers and then the Pure Wand. Soon I heard wet noises coming from my pussy. Pussies are wet things, especially after a good fucking, so hearing that wasn’t all that crazy. Only it sounded wet. It sounded wet and dirty. And hot. I was liking the noises coming from between my legs.
The Viking seemed to be enjoying himself too. I came – very hard and very loudly, as per usual. The Viking said I squirted. I had done it a couple of times before, once with the Viking and once with Jules Verne, so I figured the more I do it the more I’m likely to do it.
However, the volume of ejaculate on this occasion by far surpassed anything that had happened before. Anything. We hadn’t bothered to get under the covers, so the urethral fluid that came out of my pussy soaked through two layers of comforter cover, a thin down comforter, a top sheet, a bottom sheet, and down to the mattress pad, which is thankfully waterproof. The “spot” was about the size of a dinner plate. What the hell?! I’m a squirter!
I put the comforter with its cover and the top sheet in the dryer, and we turned a fan on the bed to dry the bottom sheet and mattress pad. I was impressed with my body, and the Viking’s skills.
And lest anyone think I just lost control of my bladder, unknown at the time, I conducted a little experiment. When the Viking and I began our sexy session I had to go to the bathroom. I put it off because I was having so much fun. After everything was done, I again (still) had to go to the bathroom. My bladder had been holding it, and quite a bit it was.
So while the Viking and I are all couple-y, we certainly aren’t boring. We even made a trip to Mr. and Madame S Leather for some new toys. Will be writing about those shortly.
JUNE FUCK I (: A Diary Entry)
Posted on August 18, 2010DON’T KNOW THE DATE OR TIME OR ANYTHING EXCEPTTHIS FUCKING CAT WONT STOP MOVING I THINK I’M DONE. THE CAT MUST BE ON SOMETHING ITS SMOKEY. THIS THING WILL END SOON I HOPE YEST FUCK SHIT
WHEN WILL THIS STOP. JOCELYN HAD A BABY GIRL
7:48 AM
Right now it’s too much bother to explain but I can still feel it sort of I want to sleep but I have to go to work. Lord have mercy my jaw is just so sore I’ve been clenching
