Random Rim Jobs

I don’t think I’ve hidden my love of the uncut cock.  I love all cock, but probably because stupid Americans often have ideas about circumcision or lack thereof based solely on urban myth or outdated ideas, I feel I should champion the rights of the uncut cock.

I used to be one of those stupid Americans.  Well, I still am a stupid American, but not in the area of circumcision.  Not any more.  I had never seen an uncircumcised penis, and certainly hadn’t played with one, when I would espouse such ignorant ideas about uncut penises being dirty, having smegma, smelling, looking gross, and so on.  I was an asshole.

Eventually I fucked a guy who wasn’t circumcised.  And another, and another.  I realized that so long as the person has good hygiene that there’s nothing more dirty about an uncut cock versus a cut cock.  And uncut cocks are easier to give handjobs (though I admittedly lack skills in this area in general).  Then I fucked a few more guys who were uncircumcised, and then I married an uncircumcised cock.  Oh, I mean I married a man who had an uncircumcised cock.

I have been an anti-circumcision advocate for years.  No, not formally, but when the subject came up, and when people said things about uncut cocks being dirty, etc., I felt it my duty to educate the morons.  To be fair, most of the people were just ignorant, like I was in my teens.  Most of the time I was talking to women, and some men, who had never had relations with a penis in its natural state so I could always win the “it’s not clean” arguments with them.

But the stupidest arguments came from talking to people who said they would circumcise their theoretical future sons.  “So his penis looks like his father’s.”  How many father-son pairs bandy about their dicks, comparing notes?  And how many children don’t take, “That’s the way he is, and that’s the way you are; you are different” explanations from their parents?  Contrary to strict Freudians, children aren’t all that obsessed with their parents’ genitalia; they’re more concerned with their own.  I saw both my father’s penis and my mother’s muff (and vagina, but that’s a different story) when I was a kid and they both looked very different from what I had going on, which was explained to me by saying they were adults and I was a child.

Parents really need their children to look like them that much?  Then why don’t they go ahead and dye their hair, get them those nose jobs, provide them with liposuction?  Because kids’ hair tends to be lighter in color than their parents’, their noses cuter and more button-like, and their bodies chubbier.

Or how about the argument that little boys don’t know how to clean themselves properly?  Guess what, future parents?  You have to teach your children – boys and girls and innersexed – how to clean themselves.  Hygiene is important for all children to learn, not just girls because their inherently cleaner, which is utter bullshit anyway.  If a child can figure out how to clean a vulva including inside the labia majora, then a child can figure out how to clean a penis including underneath the foreskin.

Another lame argument I hear is that the incidence of sexually transmissible infections – HIV being the biggie – and certain forms of cancer are lower not only for the circumcised man, but also for his sexual partners.  While it’s laudable for a future parent to be concerned about her son’s health, isn’t it just a little creepy to be that involved in his future sex life?  So involved that you’ll cut off a part of his body now – without his consent – to prevent something that may or may not happen in the future?  To me that’s about as creepy as getting a preventative double mastectomy for your minor daughter because her aunt had breast cancer.

This last argument – lower incidence of STIs – is supported by our very own Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.  However, even the CDC admits that the various studies, especially regarding a much lower transmission of HIV in heterosexual men who were circumcised, were conducted in Sub-Saharan Africa, where education about HIV transmission and prevention is not widespread, where dry sex is commonly practiced, and where unprotected sex with sex workers is the norm.  Supposedly the survey of the studies controlled for all these factors, and that may be true, but provided parents raise their Western children (and everyone with whom I had these discussions was Western) properly, none of these things would be true.  Well-educated, privileged parents would teach their spoiled children about HIV/AIDS and other STIs, and how to use barrier methods for birth control and disease prevention when having relations with sex workers or anyone else.  Chances are the topic of dry sex would not even come up.

Of course I feel like I win each of these arguments with logic.  But my trump card is what actual doctors recommend for babies born in the US.  The American Academy of Pediatrics: Circumcision Policy Statement begins, “Existing scientific evidence demonstrates potential medical benefits of newborn male circumcision; however, these data are not sufficient to recommend routine neonatal circumcision.”  The AAP policy statement goes on to say that the potential benefits and risks of circumcision should be fully explained to parents, taking into account cultural and religious factors.

This is where I again call bullshit.  Really?  A man in the sky told people that cutting off part of their sons’ penises would mean they were chosen by Him and therefore special?  Maybe special because if they lived through such a procedure – considering the lack of sterilization, medication, etc., thousands of years ago – that would mean they were stronger than the boys who hadn’t had to endure such mutilation.  Because we all know there is no man in the sky.  And if there were would he really be all that into cock?  Wouldn’t he want to fuss with pussies too?  Oh, no, because God created man in his image.

So is God circumcised or not?

I swear.  True (logical) story.

[Continued from "Correctional Officer, Part 5."]

I tried to be a “better” wife.  Only the damage was done.  I figured everyone was miserable in their marriage and I was just one of them.  Even my attempt at some naughty, dirty, mind-blowing sex had failed.

The Ex continued to pester me about having “too much” contact with Correctional Officer.  I deleted emails I had sent to and received from Correctional Officer.  I began to use a different email account so the Ex would think CO and I were no longer in contact.

During a fight with the Ex I challenged him to check all of my email accounts.  You know, like they do in the movies.  The scene where the person being accused of cheating says to the suspicious spouse, “If you don’t believe me, go ahead and check” and then the suspicious spouse thinks better of his loved one and doesn’t “check.”  Well, the Ex called my bluff.  He checked.

The Ex knew my email passwords, and he looked at all my accounts.  And he saw that I was still in contact with CO.  I tried to change his password so he couldn’t even check his own email as a way to prevent him from getting to my emails.  I remember being in a panic in my office at work.  I remember the view across Broadway Street in Oakland when I talked on the phone with someone at AT&T/Yahoo in desperation.

One day while walking home from BART after work I got a call.  It was from CO’s area code so I thought it was him calling me from a phone other than his work phone (the number of which was always blocked).  It was a woman.  She introduced herself as CO’s wife.  Uh, hello.  I got dizzy.  I sat down on the sidewalk.  She asked me if it was true that her husband and I had sex.  I was tired of lying, and I figured she had it on good authority that the sex had occurred, so I admitted it.

She then screamed, “Fucking whore!  Fucking whore!”  It took me a little bit to realize I didn’t have to listen to her and I hung up.

Immediately I tried calling CO.  He didn’t answer.  I called his work.  I was told he had just left.  Fuck.  I was going to try to warn him that when he got home he was in store for some serious shit, but I couldn’t.

The next day I called him at work.  He said he couldn’t talk to me and he hung up.  I didn’t push contact with him.  I figured it was best that he work on his marriage without me gumming up the works.  No need to end two marriages.

Because mine was most definitely over.  I had been miserable for years.  Not completely miserable, but I had been telling the Ex that I couldn’t take various behaviors for a long time.  I had turned into a nag.  I hated having to ask the Ex to do things around the house that he should have done simply because we were two people living together.  I felt disrespected and taken for granted and had for a long time.

I felt like I kept giving in to whatever he wanted and got nothing in return.  When he wanted a huge television that we couldn’t really afford, we bought it on the condition that I would no longer have to ask him to unload the dishwasher, his one major kitchen chore.  Of course that didn’t last.  He still has that fucking 50″ tv though.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

[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 ….]