Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 3)."]

After the incident with the neighbor I felt very uncomfortable in and around the apartment building; I did not want to run into the guy who was clearly “interested” in me in a very intimate way.  Israel told me he’d talk to the neighbor.

A few days later when I came home from work Israel told me he had talked to the neighbor.  He told me he had smoked a joint with the neighbor.  Uh, my boyfriend thought it was ok to smoke a joint this guy who said he wanted to “get with me”?  Let me remind my dear readers that I was 19.  I had certain ideas about how a boyfriend should be.  And I still have the idea that a guy who claims to be my boyfriend should have understood that if I’m upset at someone the best thing to do is not to smoke a joint with that someone, but rather to defend my honor.

Well, over that joint Israel got to the bottom of why the neighbor held out his wallet to me and said he’d pay to get with me.  Apparently, my evasiveness regarding where I worked at night, by saying I worked “down the street,” had sounded to the neighbor like, “I work on the street.”  He thought I was a streetwalker.  And my boyfriend thought that it was funny.

That was probably the turning point in our relationship.

He traveled to visit an ex-girlfriend and despite repeated assurances that he would not have sex with her, he did.  I cheated on him with a regular Q’s customer.  When we were alone we drank a lot.  I still couldn’t buy alcohol, but Israel could.  He bought me Irish cream – of various brands – which I drank over ice.

But we didn’t spend much time alone together since we were both working a lot and I went to school as well.  On Superbowl Sunday both Israel and I worked waiting shifts.  As I’ve mentioned, I was not a good waitress.  It stressed me out to no end.  On Superbowl Sunday Q’s was packed with people watching the game, drinking, and eating.

For the Superbowl there were food specials.  Only exactly what the food specials were was not communicated to us, the waitstaff.  The management and the kitchen staff had different ideas of the specials.  Those of us who were trying to earn tips didn’t know what the fuck to tell the customers.  After being told one thing by my boss and another by the cook, I was pissed.  My boss caught me just outside the kitchen.

I was mad, he was my boss.  There were words, of the loud and disrespectful nature.  He fired me.  On Superbowl Sunday.  I was actually relieved.  I was doing a shitty job waiting and probably wouldn’t have been tipped all that well anyway.  I handed my open tickets over to another waiter and walked home.

For the next few days I went to school and worried about my next job.  Unbeknown to me, Israel was working on his boss – my former boss.  He asked him to hire me back – because he was tired of having me around our apartment all the time.  Nice.  I went back to work, but no longer took any waiting shifts.

Israel announced one day that he had been to the local sex shop.  Back then the local sex shop was nothing like my local sex shop, Good Vibrations.  Back then the sex shops were dirty and sleazy and of the sort many people would only enter on a lark on drunk.  He showed me his purchases, some skin magazines of the extremely large-breasted variety, and a strap-on harness with a dildo.

I wasn’t even sure what the harness contraption was.  He told me he wanted me to put it on and to fuck his ass.  I was a naive flower at the time.  I’m pretty sure I wasn’t so naive as to think that him wanting something in his ass made him gay, however, I’m definitely didn’t fully comprehend dominance and submission/top and bottom dynamics.  I had already participated in some BDSM activities up to that point (though not with Israel), but I didn’t get much other than I liked being teased a lot.

Well, I tried.  I put the harness on.  I had a cock.  For about two minutes.  I tried, I really did.  I felt fucking ridiculous.  And silly.  I laughed more than anything and I didn’t even get close to fucking him.  Which may have been for the best as I don’t recall him having brought home lube from the porn store.

The strap-on purchase was a last-ditch effort to make our relationship work.  Another gesture that I considered downright ridiculous and silly was him asking me to marry him.  I was all of twenty.  He wasn’t much older.  No matter what, no matter how young and naive I was, I knew that a relationship of six months in which we’d both cheated on each other was most definitely not a solid foundation for a marriage.

He seemed to think differently because he married the girlfriend after me.  I never met her, but he and I continued to be friendly so I learned that she was older than him.  I figured that by age alone she was more ready to be married.  Many years later I know that there is a shit ton more to being married than “maturity.”

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 2)."]

Israel and I both worked and lived together.  Israel and I both worked days, and I also had some shifts at night.  I was a shitty waitress and I knew it.  I didn’t like having to be really nice in hopes of a tip with only minimum wage guaranteed when I made more than minimum wage when I worked at night as a hostess.  The good waiting shifts were taken by people who were actually good at waiting on people.

Around the same time I began going to school in earnest.  Junior college.  Pasadena City College.  I had graduated from high school a year early, but then had taken a bit of time to realize that I did want to go to college.  That I mostly worked nights was convenient not only because I made more money at night, but also because I could attend classes during the days.

School during the day and working both days and nights meant I did a lot of coming and going from my apartment, sometimes at “odd” hours.  For the most part this didn’t bother or have any effect at all on my neighbors.  One neighbor, however, noticed.  We’d often run into each other in the lobby of the building, or in the back yard where he smoked and I took my puppy, or in the front yard.  When he saw me in the front yard it was usually because I was on my way to my car to go to school.

Because I was on my way to school I was usually in a hurry.  The neighbor was not in a hurry at all; he didn’t seem to do much more than hang out in or near our apartment building.  So he walked me to my car on a number of occasions, and attempted to engage me in conversation.  I had been working at a bar for a while and had begun to see the lame signs that I guy was “interested” in me.  Lame because the guys would pretend to care about what I did with my time when they really wanted to know, “You wanna fuck me?”

My neighbor was interested in me for sure, and pretended to care about my comings and goings.  He asked me where I was going in my car.  “To school.”  He asked me where I go at night.  “To work.”  He asked me where I worked.  I did not want him to come to the bar where I worked to talk to me.  There, I had to be nice to the customers and I was trapped at my hostessing station.  So, I told him I worked down the street.  It wasn’t a lie, and he had seen me come and go to work by foot, so I figured that would be enough for him.

And it was, sort of.  The neighbor continued to be overly solicitous whenever he saw me.  One day he knocked on my apartment door and held out, like a proud child, a rather scraggly looking potted plant.  I thanked him, but I really don’t think I was particularly encouraging.  I still have the plant.

I tried my best to keep our interactions short but sometimes when I was out with my puppy I had to talk to him until she was done doing her thing.  It was dark one evening when he found me in the building’s front yard with my puppy.  It must have been a rare night that I had off from work, and I was not in the mood to deal with him, but my puppy was taking her time.  I wanted to go.

Finally, I began walking up the building’s stairs to my apartment when the neighbor yelled after me, “I wanna get with you.”  I certainly would find that refreshing now, but 19-year-old me was freaked the fuck out.  It didn’t help that I found the man repulsive.  Then, as I was retreating further up the stairs, he held up his wallet and said, “I’ll pay!”

I picked up the puppy and ran to my apartment, where Israel was home.  He could see that I was upset when I told him what had just happened to me.  He thought it was funny.  I did not.

I swear.  True story

[To be continued ….]

Well, pregnancy erotica.  I stole this image from someone’s Tumblr.  Can’t remember who or which, sorry.

Thing is, it is the rare pregnant woman who looks like this.  Assuming Photoshop was not heavily used, this woman’s body is fucking amazing.  She was clearly very thin prior to her pregnancy.  She’s thin pregnant.  Her breasts, which I assume are engorged, are cute and perky.  She must be very young.  Her ass is tiny.  Pregnant women do not look like this.  Except for her.

I could have a lot of fun with this woman in its pregnant state.  I’d rub my face all over that belly.  I would not be freaked out by the fact that there’s a kid in there.  So much fun ….

I swear.  True story.

I would proudly wear this necklace, or this pin.  The word cunt should not be a bad one.  Actually, it’s silly that there are bad words at all.  It’s the way it’s used that makes it bad, not the word itself.   Words have connotations, and “cunt” has a negative one on Urban Dictionary.  But I like it.  Because it’s only one syllable with very short, clipped sounds it can sound harsh.  And it can sound dirty.  I like it.

I also like that some people don’t like it.  I like that it’s a shocking word to say in public.  Every once in a while I like to throw out a good “cunt” when I think people are listening in on my conversation.  Serves them right, the nosy fuckers.

Finally, I like that I have a cunt.  A cunt that can take a lot.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 1)."

Staying with my mother turned out to be a disaster.  When I worked at the bar on the weekends I was often too amped to go right to bed.  When I lived alone this was not a problem; I'd invite coworkers over to hang out.  When I stayed with my mother, one night I invited one coworker, a close friend, Laura, over and my mother threw a fit.  Apparently, we made too much noise heating up food and talking.  My mother and I got into a huge shouting match right there in front of Laura.  I think she began to understand why I lived on my own when my mother lived so close and had an extra room.  That night I called my mother a cunt.  I called her a cunt because I knew she hated the word.  My mother and I knew how to push each others' buttons.

That fight made me realize that I could not stay with my mother for much longer.  My trip to Prague was not for a few more weeks; I hadn't finished paying for my plane ticket yet.  But I had to get the fuck out of my mother's place.  Laura had been talking to me about how crazy it was for me to go to Prague with Israel, a guy I'd only met (and fucked) once.  I know now that Laura wasn't and would never be an adventurous person; to this day she's never lived more than 20 miles from her parents and "long distance" travel – from LA to Hawaii – is a harrowing experience for her.  But I didn't know that then; at the time what she said made sense.

I got an apartment in Pasadena.  It was a cute studio apartment with hardwood floors, a separate kitchen complete with a milk door into the building's hallway, and a Murphy bed (in which I did not sleep).  Though it was a studio apartment it was much larger than the tiny place I'd been living in for years.  I felt like I was moving up.

Israel and I kept in touch.  He made it to Prague.  He said it was fucking cold.  He said it was damn cheap.  He told me he was getting a lot of writing done.  We sent each other post cards.  The ones I received had photos of beautiful buildings and bridges; the ones I sent were written with dirty things I wanted to do with him if we ever again saw each other.

I quit working at the book store.  I was really tired of the idiots who shopped in the mall.  I began working as many hours as I could in the bar.  Before I had a chance to worry about paying my new, higher rent, Israel returned to Pasadena.

He had tired of the cold, and had had his share of beer, and freaked the fuck out when he saw a dead body on the street.  He had also run out of money.  I'm not sure if we bothered to discuss it, but he moved in with me.  He picked up shifts waiting tables at Q's.  After all, he was the favored son there.  So favored that he got me some shifts waiting tables.

The day shifts were not particularly hot commodities.  I had to ask the cook what the specials were, and write them on the board we posted in front of the place.  While Q's was open for lunch, it really was a bar and a pool hall and did much better business at night; it just happened to be open during the day.  Any bartenders the boss was trying out would be given a few day shifts to see if they could cut it, and if they could put up with making no fucking money.

It was working one of the day shifts that I saw John Ritter.  He played pool but I don't think he bothered to try to choke down the mediocre bar food.

So Israel and I lived together.  He was the first guy with whom I attempted to live.  Since we hadn't discussed that we would be living together, we had no idea what our expectations of each other were.  At such a tender age I certainly didn't know what to expect.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

When I was 18 or 19 I met Israel.  His reputation had preceded him.  People at work had been talking about him for some time.  “Israel’s in France.”  “Israel will be back soon.”  The general consensus was that he was a great guy.

He was charming and cute and tall and had just gotten back from France.  That meant he was interesting.  That meant he had more to talk about than acting and LA.  At the time I lived and worked in Pasadena.  A good portion of the staff at Q’s – a bar/pool hall/restaurant – was trying to be in the entertainment industry in some way.  It was true, they were actors by day and waitresses, bartenders, and bouncers by night.  We had a soft-core porn actress, a bikini model, a few Groundlings wannabes, a screenwriter, someone who had been in Platoon, and of course “musicians.”

Israel, however, was an aspiring writer of deep, meaningful stuff – books, not movies.  He was well-read.  He knew things.

The night we met he went with me back to my tiny studio apartment.  We fucked.  But before we fucked he licked my armpit.  It was the most unusual and hottest thing anyone had ever done to me up to that point in my life.  I was smitten.

Only Israel was not back from France for long.  Within the week he went to the East Coast.  He had a plan to go there to visit some distant family member and save up money (or possibly get some money from the family member) while spending time writing.  He was then going to go to Prague.  It was the early 1990s; there was still this country called Czechoslovakia.  Communism was in the very recent past there and the city was supposed to be super-cheap and beautiful, both of which made Prague a very attractive destination for artistic types.

Israel wanted to go to Prague to have new experiences about which he could write.  But before he made his way there he invited me.

We had been talking on the phone since he left.  We had been having phone sex.  This was way back in the day before the Internet or the ubiquitous use of cell phones so we had to talk on land line phones, and for money.  Kids, there used to be this thing called long-distance charges, back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Israel talked to me about Prague, about how interesting it would be.  At the time I had not ventured out of North America.  I don’t think I had been to Mexico yet.  I had been to British Columbia and Alberta with my family when I was a kid.  I had lived in California my whole life.  I was ready for something different.  I wanted an adventure.

He said I should go to Prague with him.  He said I should move to Prague with him.

I began the transition.  At the time I was making a lot of cash at work.  I was not an official tipped employee so all of my “tips” were tax-free and under-the-table.  I got tips for racking balls – pool balls, get your minds out of the gutter.  I was tipped – well, bribed – for moving people up on the waiting list for the best pool tables.  On Friday and Saturday nights it was not unusual for me to make $100 in cash.  On the way home from work I’d stop at an ATM and deposit my tips so I wasn’t tempted to spend the cash.

I was also still working at B. Dalton Books during the days.  The bookstore job covered my regular expenses, and the bar job’s earnings went toward my move to Prague.  I ordered a heavy coat from J. Crew.  That it was damn cold in Prague was one of my biggest fears.  I contacted a travel agency and set up a payment plan to buy the plane ticket to Prague.  (I didn’t have any credit cards at the time.)  I began selling off my cassettes to my friends.  I gave away other things.  I stored my stuff at my mother’s.  I stayed with my mother for a short time just before I was to leave.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

[Continued from "I'm Merely a Tool Here for Your Pleasure, Part 1."]

With his hand guiding me I eventually got all of my fingers into her pussy.  Then the tough part, the base of my thumb, went in.  Pussies feel so fucking wonderful enveloping my hand.  We gave her time to get used to my hand, then he grabbed my wrist and we fist fucked her pussy, hard.  She was screaming.  He and I were grunting with our effort, because though it was my hand in her cunt she was being fucked with the force of both him and me.

I was amazed that she could take such a pounding.  But she was taking it.  And it looked fucking hot.  My right hand was fucking her while I supported myself on my left elbow so I could have a view of my hand going into, and out of, and into, and out of her pussy.

She was still screaming.  We were still pounding.  And then she squirted.  A lot.  All over my face.  It was fucking great.

We were all exhausted.  He let her out of her bondage and she sat at the head of the bed below an open window and smoked a cigarette.  He went to his desk.  I sat at the foot of the bed.  We chatted.  At least he and I chatted; she smoked her cigarette.

Then it was time for round two.  Cool.  She was no longer bound to the bed so there were even more ways for the three of us to become entangled – without his cock going into my pussy, of course.  I licked his ass while he fucked her.  I licked her pussy while he fingered me.  I sucked his cock while she sat on his face.  It was all fun.

I had the most fun, however, when he was fucking her.  She was on her hands and knees.  He was on his knees pounding her from behind.  My head was below them.  I licked her clit while his cock was sliding in and out of her cunt.  While I was down there I also licked the shaft of his cock.  I sucked on his balls, because that’s just fun.  My mouth was all over their parts while he fucked her.  Then he came – on my face.

Yes!  I love come on my face and that night I got both girl come and boy come all over it.  I was a very happy girl.  I left in a sex daze.  I walked home as the sun was coming up.

A few weeks later they again requested my presence.  On the second visit I fell off the bed.  Theirs was the highest bed I’ve ever encountered.  It came up to my waist when I stood next to it.  I had to make a running start to get on it.  So falling off the bed was rather a big deal.  Luckily, there was a wall for me to hit before my body impacted the floor.  I came away with multiple bruises.

He showed me how to find a man’s prostate.  Well, he didn’t really show me so much as let me know by moaning when I located his.  That was fun, but overall the second visit wasn’t nearly as hot as the first.  I think they requested my presence a few more times but I was never available and I’ve not seen them since.

A friend, however, has seen them.  Based on my description of the couple (which I’ve not included here), my friend picked them out at a local sex club.  San Francisco is such a small city.

On neither one of the visits did she ever say a word to me.

I swear.  True story.

Back when I used Craig’s List, I used it a lot.  I both placed ads and responded to ads.  One to which I responded was placed by a couple who wanted a lady to participate in threesomes with them.  Actually, I responded to several such ads.  This couple, however, I actually fucked.

The guy and I exchanged emails.  He told me they were a professional couple.  They all say they’re a “professional” couple.  Frankly, I don’t give a shit what the people I fuck do for a living, but in the Online casual sex world “professional” seems to mean “not creepy.”  Or at least that’s what it’s supposed to mean.

I don’t know if this couple was creepy per se, but I certainly didn’t see them do anything professional.  In the emails I exchanged with the guy he said their only rule was that his penis could not go into my vagina.  Other things could go into my vagina, and all sorts of things could go into my mouth, but him fucking me was off-limits.  I don’t recall us discussing anal sex at all prior to our first meeting.

Our first meeting wasn’t planned.  I was home alone late one night when I received an email from the guy.  He requested my presence that night.  They lived relatively close and he assured me that my cab fare would be covered.  Usually it’s best to meet in public first to see if there’s chemistry, but I’d gotten a decent vibe from the guy via email and, well, I was horny and up for an adventure.

I got dressed and called a cab.  I was a tad worried when I arrived at the address he had given me, since it was definitely not a house or apartment building.  But there was a man waiting out front, and he paid the cabbie, so I assumed he was the guy.  He was tall and blond with some facial hair.

He let me in their place, which had been converted from a less residential use.  It was dimly lit but I could tell the place had some serious square footage.  While San Francisco isn’t quite like Manhattan, real estate is definitely pricey, so a big place is unusual.

We walked to the back of the building where there was a living room area set up.  I sat on the couch, which was facing a rather large television, which was not on, and a curtain.  While I still sat on the couch he went through the curtain.  I heard that he was talking, but not what he was saying.  I figured he was talking to her, but wasn’t at all sure.

Eventually, he bid me behind the curtain.  Beyond the curtain was a “bedroom.”  The bedroom had a large office area with a very large, multi-winged desk.  He and I sat at the desk while he said all the things we’d do to her.  I heard not a peep from her, and began to wonder if “she” existed.  But then I peeked over and sure enough, there was a woman bound spread-eagle to the bed.

We made our way over to the bed.  He kept up a constant chatter about what was going on.  After all, she couldn’t see so he had to keep her updated.

He directed me to do various things to her.  I was fine; I follow direction well and I was having fun.  I licked her pussy.  I fingered her pussy.  I sucked his cock.  I watched him fuck her.  I do so like watching couples fuck.

The whole time she made clear she was enjoying herself.  She didn’t talk, but she did moan.  He interpreted.  He assured me that she liked what was going on.  I, too, liked what was happening.  We continued with our ministrations, focusing mostly on her pussy, as there it was open for us.

I did whatever he told me.  I licked.  I sucked.  I fingered.  Then he grabbed my wrist.  He whispered in my ear that he wanted to fist her but that his hands were too big.  He said my hands were just the right size.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued, of course.]

This is our drawer of sexy toys and goods.  See what you can pick out.  What’s that in the bottom right corner?  How about those MEDTEXX things?  Why do we have a paint stirrer?  What’s up with those neon things?

This drawer is not a night stand drawer.  Oh no!  It’s a dresser drawer.  Clothes can go anywhere but sex toys need to be close to the bed.  When sitting on the edge of my side of the bed it is very easy to access the entire contents of the drawer o’ sex.  Drawer o’ fun.

I swear.  True story.

[This is a submission from a hottie guest writer.  I've met her, she's hot and a whole lotta fun.]

My first threesome came as a surprise. ‘Twas my 25th birthday, to which I was not looking forward given I had been recently abandoned by not only the best sex of my life but also my last great love (two different men, mind you). I still had a few very good friends and, trying to be optimistic, I ventured out to a fave bar to celebrate.

After about two whiskeys, I declared that since it was my birthday, everyone should kiss me. This would be the catalyst that led to my premiere sexual experience with threesomes and with women (but not the last).

A group of firemen from Modesto or some equally central California city were sitting close to our group and conversation began. One took a liking to me and before his group left we took a trip outside and made out for a bit. Thankfully I didn’t really mind voyeurs because a certain couple took a particular interest in our little tongue session. They became even more interested when they saw the fireman’s hand try to go up my skirt, which I deflected in the midst of still keeping the kissing hot. This move turned them on apparently; when they saw me walk back inside the bar without the fireman, they followed.

They stopped me before I got back to my group. They bought me more whiskey and asked me what was going with the fireman. I answered that it was my birthday and I was kissing everybody. So they both kissed me. We went back to the table and conversed while I got drunker (but with whiskey, I rarely get sloppy). Last call came and they invited me back to their place. I excitedly and curiously accepted.

Back at her apartment they showed me around, told me about a new dot com idea they had (something about networking via your sexual partners), introduced me to her cat, and then led me to the bedroom.

Sheepishly, I declared that I was a virgin when it came to women. With a little giggle, my first girl – a beautiful blonde with wonderful breasts and creamy skin – told me to go with my instincts and she would direct me from there. After a little bit of kissing, the whiskey seemed to fully permeate into my bloodstream and stripped away my remaining inhibitions.

I ventured towards her breasts and my happy explorations there made her moan, encouraging me to go farther south. I hesitated for just a moment before I put my tongue on her clit, tasting something indescribable but oh so amazing. I used my fingers to penetrate her pussy while I continued licking her clit and her boyfriend, who had been watching while I popped my “girl cherry,” began to go to work on me. He finally started fucking me from behind while I went to town on his girlfriend. Eventually he got his share of attention but I loved being in the middle of them; getting it from him while giving it to her.

We fell asleep after much orgiastic behavior and when I woke up in the morning and tried to sneak out, I was dragged back to bed for more and given the many orgasms that the whiskey had denied me the night before (the only real negative I get from the malted grains).

I have done a fair amount of memorable bisexual exploring since this experience and hope to do much much more but I would say that my first threesome was the best birthday present to myself ever.