Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 4)."]

Another thing I learned well into our “relationship” was that Jules Verne was a Republican.  Ok, I can deal with that, maybe even have some lively discussions.  When I was growing up, my father was a Democrat and my step-mother was a Republican, so they agreed to not to discuss politics too much.  I was very happy when I learned that my step-mother switched to the Democratic Party when the brouhaha over Bill Clinton getting his cock sucked occurred.  My step-mother didn’t see why anyone gave a shit.  My step-mother, if she weren’t my step-mother, would be a pretty cool person.

So when Jules Verne reminded me that he was a Republican after I said something scathing about a member of the Party, I was hardly surprised or disturbed.  However, I was completely nonplussed when he told me that he was so much of a Republican that he worked for George W. Bush and that he thought George W. Bush was smart.  “Smart?  Really?  He’s smart?  Intelligent?  He couldn’t get into law school in Texas, where his family had significant influence.”

To which Jules Verne responded that W had a great memory, that he always remembered the names of everyone he encountered.  That is certainly a skill I don’t have, but I did get into law school in the state where I grew up, even if my family didn’t have any influence.  True, not the best law school …

I tried to forget these things when Jules Verne and I hung out.  We’d drink.  We’d fuck.  Usually pretty dirty.  We had a lot of fun, including one incident of road head on the Bay Bridge when he was driving me home from his parents’ place in Piedmont.

Then, when I was planning a trip to Chicago, he volunteered to take care of Isis.  I didn’t ask, he volunteered.  He had met her, and saw that she was a very sweet dog.  He also missed his own dog, the custody of which he shared with an ex-girlfriend who lived on the East Coast.  He took very good care of her, and was actually very happy to do so.  A guy who loves dogs gets a lot of points in my book.  Even if he does think George W. Bush is smart.

He bought me an especially nice birthday present, an njoy Eleven.  The store clerk asked me if I thought I could handle it.  I laughed and assured her that I could.  And I can.  The Eleven and I get along very well.  (I may write a post about that toy some day.)

The same day he bought a pussy pump.  To use with me (and other chicks I assumed).  Sure, I’m willing to have my pussy subjected to all sorts of things.  Jules Verne liked seeing pussies do various things, usually of the insertion variety, but if he wanted to see my pussy lips get all puffed up, I was game.  We eventually used it.  It felt interesting to me, but not necessarily all that exciting.  Maybe I’ll have to try again ….

Recently Jules Verne Moved to Manhattan.  He (his parents) have a place just off Central Park in what I’m told (by him) is a very exclusive building – celebrities with penthouses and shit.  So because he was moving and I was moving we had a last hurrah.  Then he came back to the Bay Area and I hadn’t yet moved, we did it again.  Then, because he was collecting his dog and visiting his family, and I still hadn’t moved, we did it again.

He has a nice, thick cock, and he’s interesting.  He says I’m a crazy chick, but in a good way.  Without asking too many questions, I took that as a compliment.  I think he meant that I liked fucking but my fucking isn’t a means to “snag” a guy.  I’ve no interest in being in a traditional relationship with a 25-year-old.  Or any other age for that matter.

To be continued ….  The Vet, Charles, and that guy for whom I don’t yet have a nickname to follow.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 3)."]

Jules Verne and I got together several times.  I learned some interesting things about him; things that if I had known up front might have prevented me from fucking him, much less making him a regular.  But by the time I learned the things I already liked him and already liked fucking him.

He was a frat boy.  Mind you, when we met, Jules Verne was 24, and had only recently gotten out of college.  Where he was in a fraternity.  My one experience with frat parties was unpleasant, though it was a good story.  I wasn’t so much anti-frat boy as anti-frat mentality.  Jules Verne, the frat boy, was an interesting guy.  Jules Verne, dude in a frat, well, I didn’t know him.

Jules Verne and I never socialized with his friends, which, after I found out the only music he liked was clubby dance music and the Rolling Stones (to which we always listened when we were at his place), I thought was a good thing.  He told me he went out to the kinds of clubs where he and his friends could get bottle service.  And that’s when our age difference became apparent, because while I used to do that sort of thing, I don’t have the patience any more for loud dance music, or cover charges, or drunk assholes.

But I knew Jules Verne on a one-on-one basis.  I tried not to hold against him that he drank Coors Light.  And chewed tobacco.  Gross and gross.  I don’t like beer at all, so Coors Light is no different to me than any other kind of beer, but I’ve heard from beer aficionados that Coors Light could barely be considered beer.  Ok, so I “heard” this from the Viking, to whom I’d offered cans of Coors Light Jules Verne left in our fridge.  The Viking wanted nothing to do with it.

One night I was home alone and wanted to drink but the corner liquor store was already closed (Who the fuck closes a liquor store at 10:30 pm?!) so I went ahead and drank one of Jules Verne’s Coors Lights.  Uh, no.  I still don’t like beer.

The chewing tobacco thing especially grossed me out.  When I was in sixth grade (grade six to you Canadians) I moved in with my father, step-mother, step-sister, sister, and step-brother in Palo Cedro, California.  Palo Cedro is a rural outlay of Redding.  While attending Junction Middle School, the sixth graders, the class of which both my step-sister and I were members, were treated to some educational videos of the scared straight variety.

Because most of the students were white and rural, the educational videos showed us the dangers of chewing tobacco.  We saw guys – they were always guys – who had parts of their tongues, lips, faces, and jaws removed due to various kinds of cancer, all of which could be attributed to – or at least correlated with (though I didn’t understand the difference at the time) – chew.  The videos focused on the typical kids there at Junction:  White, rural, rodeo-attending, with acres of land on which they could ride their horses, or more likely, ride their all-terrain vehicles.  My family fit only the white part.  We were really suburban who had happened to find an affordable house large enough for each of the four kids to have his or her own bedroom.  We didn’t have any land other than the yard surrounding our rented house.

Nonetheless, the videos worked on me.  Chewing tobacco was fucking gross.  All the spitting.  The wad of yucky stuff.

So when I saw that Jules Verne’s lower lip protruded in an odd way I asked.  Apparently chewing tobacco and drinking Coors Light were leftover from his fraternity days.  I chalked it up to a bunch of spoiled rich kids aping less spoiled, less rich kids.  Jules Verne swore that wasn’t the case, that he really did like Coors Light and chewing tobacco.  Whatever.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

11:51 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 do 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, dam it.

This summer in San Francisco has supposedly been the coolest since before I was born.  The fog, which normally burns off by around noon, has stuck around well into the afternoons and evenings.  Having lived in San Francisco for ten years, I knew summer wouldn’t be an even where layers weren’t necessary.  Nonetheless, this summer has been especially un-summer-like.  There are rumors, which have been refuted, about Mark Twain mentioning a coldest winter he spent in San Francisco.  This year, it may be true.

I never noticed until this year that it gets very cool just after sundown, and then warms up again later in the evening.  That likely has something to do with the fog, air currents, etc.; I don’t know, I’m not a fucking meteorologist.

In my experience, the best time of year here in San Francisco tends to be in September and October.  And since it’s almost September, that’s good, right?  Well, sort of.  I’m not supposed to be in San Francisco anymore.  I was supposed to be gone by mid-August.

And I hope to be gone before winter because it will take me some getting used to winter weather in Chicago – if that’s where we’re going.  The Viking said I needed to get used to the cold weather slowly, like a frog being boiled … only in the opposite fashion.  I will need to go from cool summer, to fall, to winter gradually; otherwise I’ll suffer miserably.

Or maybe from fall/winter to spring/summer ….

And then this week it was record breakingly hot in San Francisco.  What the fuck?  On at least one day it was hotter in San Francisco than in Chicago.  That doesn’t happen, dammit.  It was still more humid in Chicago, of course.

San Francisco isn’t really equipped for extreme heat.  We barely left home, but heard tell of power outages, BART delays, and other heat-related woes.  We tried to hold still.  The Viking was weary from the heat.  There was no cross ventilation.  Joaquin didn’t even try to lay on me, which he has been doing much more recently.

And then the weather dipped down much cooler than usual.  San Francisco weather has multiple personality disorder.

I swear.  True story.

There’s something about a well-constrained but “wild” bush that turns me the fuck on.  A lot of it has to do with the fact that I’ve not encountered a live bushy bush in a long fucking time.  Ever?

I have a craving to grab and pull a tidy bunch of pussy hair.  I know how that would feel, were my pussy hair pulled, and I like the idea of making a pussy feel like that.  I don’t know if there’s an equivalent for men, but I imagine it might be testicle-related; a confident tug at balls has the potential to make genitals feel good.

Just thinking of that is making my pussy tingle.  I want my pussy lips grabbed whilst a tongue is probing my clit.

I swear.  True story.

[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.

[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.