Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Happy Fucking Anniversary
Posted on December 08, 2011On my fifth wedding anniversary my then-husband and I went to a very fancy restaurant for dinner. The restaurant’s chef had been lauded in all the local and national food magazines and by word-of-mouth. Part of that word-of-mouth was from a friend of ours (Well, mine now that we’re out the other end.) who had recently completed culinary school and who was working as a pastry chef in said fancy restaurant. The meal wasn’t going to be inexpensive but it was our anniversary so we decided to go for not only the chef’s tasting menu but also the wine parings with each of the eight or so courses.
We dressed up. I wore a vintage dress that was figure-flattering. The Ex wore a button-down shirt and a tie and jacket – the same combination thereof he had worn to our wedding. The jacket was still somewhat ill fitting, but not much can be expected from the young men’s equivalent of Express when pressed for time and money.
First we had a drink at the bar and then we were shown to our table in the plushly carpeted, heavy curtained, dimly lit room. Once we settled into our seats we were brought a bottle of champagne along with a note. The friend who worked at the restaurant – who was off that night – and his partner – with whom I’d gone to law school – had arranged for the champagne as an anniversary present, which was incredibly sweet.
With champagne flutes in hand our wait staff went to work telling us about our meals. Though we had both ordered the chef’s tasting menu, our meals would be different from one another’s, as would our wine, since it was paired with our particular dishes. I was very exited, and I liked that we would have the opportunity to taste twice as many dishes and wines since we could share.
I’m not sure exactly when it happened – if it was before the first course or between the first and second courses – but at the time there was no food on the table. We were sipping our champagne. We toasted. We smiled. He got a serious look on his face.
I don’t know what I expected. I know I hoped for something along the lines of, “I hope we have five more wonderful years together,” or some other clichè bullshit. If we weren’t blissfully married – and we were not, after all we’d been married for five years – then I thought the reason for the extravagant anniversary dinner was to acknowledge that there had been some good and some bad in the prior five years and to move forward in a positive fashion.
My then-husband and I had very different ideas of what it was to move forward in a positive fashion. His idea was not to start anew with hope. Or maybe he did think he was being hopeful when he said, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you.” Then he said some other things that probably related to having once been so happy to be with me and those feelings fading over the years and wanting a fresh start, or something like that.
Truthfully, I didn’t hear much of anything beyond, “I love you, but I’m not in love with you,” and I’m not sure who at the receiving end of that sentence would. I calmly placed my napkin on the table, got up, and walked away.
I went to the bathroom where I thought about how fucking much the meal was costing us – a meal that we couldn’t afford and that we wouldn’t have planned except for the “special” occasion that he ruined with his shitty timing – and how I wasn’t about to let the insensitive idiot put that money to waste. I freshened up and returned to the table.
He told me he thought I had left. Suddenly he was concerned about my feelings. The rest of the several courses were tasty but icy, at least on my part. We did not taste each other’s courses – I had no interest in sharing with him nor in asking him to share with me.
Since we had wine with each course, by the end of the meal I felt almost happy. Well, my belly was full and my mind was intoxicated, both things that can feel like “happy” to someone who had no clue what she was feeling. Was I supposed to “make” my husband fall in love with me again? Life isn’t some fucking lame romantic comedy about how a couple can find love again.
So because I felt “happy” and because my then-husband didn’t want to be alone with me and hadn’t for some time – when we were home there was television and, except for that dinner, when we were out it was with a group – I agreed to go with him to meet up with some friends. At a dive bar. In the Tenderloin.
We had just dropped over $500 on what was supposed to be a romantic anniversary dinner but instead of spending some quality time together, he wanted to be around other people. Even after we broke up he wouldn’t fucking admit that we did so much socializing for the last few years of our relationship so we didn’t have to deal one-on-one with each other.
Sure, we were close to the Tenderloin so it would be easy to take a walk, or to be fancy and hop in a cab considering our attire, to hang out with some mutual friends. (“Friends” with whom I’ve had little to no contact since the final breakup.) And it was our anniversary so I didn’t want to go home alone, something I would have had to do since he was set on going out. So we went to the kind of Tenderloin dive bar that opens at 6am and has the kind of regulars that show up upon opening – daily.
I honestly don’t remember if it was that anniversary or the next one, or the next one, that a group of us ended up at our place after hours. I remember anniversary toasts from our friends. I remember a lot of drinking. I remember a lot of years of avoiding any difficult conversations by being too busy, by there being too many people around, by drinking too much, by wanting to enjoy a fucking anniversary meal (which is not the place or time for a difficult conversation, something my dolt of an ex-husband probably still doesn’t realize).
I swear. True story.
My Fucking Fault
Posted on September 09, 2011I chose to get married on September 9, 1999 – 9/9/99. It was an easy date to remember. I even went so far as to get the date engraved in the inside of our wedding bands along with some stupid Latin phrase that meant something at the time but which I have no interest in recalling.
We had been broken up for a while when he told me he had thrown his wedding ring over the side of the Golden Gate Bridge. Just like a dramatic bitch. It wasn’t until later, when he and his girlfriend were living with me, that something fell out of the pocket of his dirty pants and I found that ring that had supposedly been committed to suicide like so many others off the Bridge. What a dramatic bitch.
September 9, 1999 happened to be a Thursday. I had informed my family I was getting married that day via wedding invitation; I’d not bothered to send them “save the date cards.” His mother didn’t show up; my mother pissed me off.
It wasn’t until later that my step-mother told me that my choice to get married on a weekday had been a hardship for her and her husband, my father. My wedding, which took place at absolutely no cost to anyone but us was a hardship to her?! They didn’t have to go, except that my step-mother cared very much for how things were supposed to be. Yeah, my step-mother’s a cunt.
It’s my fucking fault that the date’s so fucking easy to remember since I’m the one who chose it.
I think I still have my wedding ring; it has diamonds in it. I don’t know or care if he still has his ring, if he finally threw it off a bridge, or if he shoved it up his ass.
I’m so glad I’m not married. Marriage ruined that relationship and has, I’m sure, ruined countless others.
I swear. True story.
It Seemed Promising (Part 4)
Posted on August 16, 2011[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 3)."]
He was not only manhandling me, someone who had consented to it, but he was being mean to his dogs. He argued that taking them out every 12 hours was sufficient. I’ve seen a dog after an 8-hour day of being inside really, really need to go to the bathroom; 12 hours was ridiculous unless they were dehydrated. I told him that unless he took his dogs out I was leaving.
He was incredulous. I wasn’t kidding. Even if a guy is slapping me around I have to know he’s a nice guy. I think he thought I’d change my mind. I did not. I’m stubborn.
Then, as if it was his idea, he told me to get the fuck out. He told me he’d give me $50 for a cab. Stupidly, I refused his money and asked that he just point me in a direction where I’d be able to catch a cab easily. I was used to San Francisco, where it can be very difficult to catch a cab in most parts of town; Chicago has plenty of cabs.
I might have been crying at that point. The plight of his dogs – especially the old one – had gotten to me. There’s a reason I don’t have fun outings to animal shelters, or any outings at all to animal shelters.
I was able to get a cab right in front of his building. No, he didn’t bother making sure. I told the cab driver my address and began to sob. The cab driver kept wanting to know if I was ok. In that horrible, high-pitched crying voice that all women have, I tried to assure him that I was find.
I texted the Viking that I was on my way home and not in the best shape. By the time the cab pulled up in front of our building the Viking was outside with Isis waiting for me.
The cab driver told me I didn’t have to pay. I said I wanted to pay but that I only had $4. I gave him the $4 but had forgotten about my emergency $20. My emergency $20 is in secret spot and with me at all times. The Viking made me begin carrying it when I started meeting people in Chicago if I got into situations just like the one I was in – having to take a cab to get home and away from an asshole.
Ladies, if you want to get out of paying your cab driver, might I suggest crying like a little girl. That was not a serious suggestion. Actually, I wish I had gotten the cabbie’s name so I could pay him properly and tip him accordingly.
The Viking took me inside and listened to my version of the story through my sobs. He’s comforted me a few times when I’ve been a crying mess, and he’s always been perfect with a hand gently rubbing my back and a soothing voice.
I felt especially bad that my date had gone so poorly because his date went well. At the time that was all I could hear, that his date went well. I was happy for him, but at the moment I was really busy feeling sorry for myself.
The next day I felt like an idiot. But also glad that I had left when I did because who knows what could have happened with a guy who had so much trouble turning off his “dom.”
I checked my OkCupid messages and had not one, but two from him. The first:
Look. I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. You might have a different opinion how I treat them, but I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. I take care if take care of my pets. Fuck you and anyone else if they think I dhttp://www.okcupid.com/messages?readmsg=true&threadid=12555606849807570162&folder=1#sendon’t take care of my own. I do my own.
That URL in the middle there was to our OkCupid message exchange; I have no idea why it’s there other than that he was definitely drunk when he sent it, about 20 minutes after I left his place. Clearly I had hit a nerve. If anyone accused me of abusing my pets, I would laugh because I know I don’t, whereas this guy got defensive, kicked what was sure to be a great lay out of his house, and then sent this message. Sadly, I fear his dogs got the worst end of the deal since in his mind he probably felt like they cock-blocked him.
The second message, sent a full hour later, “Congrats on you being a lawyer. It means very little to me.” I don’t know why he thought of that after stewing in his juices for an hour. By that time I wasn’t thinking about him, I was sleeping.
The only reason I thought about him at all was so I could write this. And now I’m done. Good riddance.
The woman I was supposed to meet ended up having to babysit her over-drunk friend. We both had kind of shitty nights. We’re supposed to meet eventually.
I swear. True story.
Hag Looking for a Fag (Part 2)
Posted on August 09, 2011[Continued from "Hag Looking for a Fag (Part 1)."]
So potential fag no. 1 turned out to be a dud. A dumb, moronic dud.
Potential fag no. 2 was still a possibility. Looking back now, maybe I should have known better …
In response to my ad, he sent no words, just two photos of himself. Why the fuck does it matter what he looked like if we were to be friends? I’m not deep, but I’m not so shallow as to want only a certain caliber of looks next to me at a bar.
Then he told me his birthday is 4/20. Why the fuck would I care about that? Everyone intelligent knows astrology is bullshit. Oh, because of the supposed pot connection? Lame. I responded that he shared his birthday with Hitler.
He asked if there was information about me somewhere on the internet. Sure, what the fuck. I referred him here, to lovely Random Rim Jobs.
Then he told me that he preferred to meet in public. Of course we should meet in public for the first time. Gay people aren’t any less likely than the general population to be nutters.
There was some more scheduling bullshit until I finally told him where I’d be at a certain time and that if he showed up, great. I said I’d be there around 5:30pm. He responded that he’d see me at 6pm. Uh, not quite, but whatever.
At 5:30pm I texted him exactly where I’d be and what I was wearing so it’d be easy to spot me. At 6:04pm I asked what his eta was. Six fucking forty was his response. Fuck that. By that time I was already home. I told him he could meet me at Local Option if he still wanted to meet.
Yes, Local Option is becoming my go-to place to meet people. If it has a flaw it’s that the music is just a little too loud to have a decent conversation. Oh, and that the well vodka sodas aren’t $4 like in a good dive bar. They’re $6, probably because of the high rent in the fancy neighborhood.
I should have paid more attention to one of the text messages he sent me. I read it, sure, but I quickly brushed off what was a big clue. It said that he read, here, about me being stood up on a date and he didn’t want to do that. I brushed off that he seemed to think we were meeting for a date.
I should not have. I met him and was clued in pretty quickly that he wasn’t gay. I have decent gaydar. Frankly, the only reason I held on to the thought that he might be gay for any amount of time was because he had responded to my ad, the one where I was looking for a fag.
We talked over a few drinks. He joked about his penis being too small to get an erection. I pointed out that it would be easier for a smaller member to become erect because it would require less blood. I think the joke was his go-to to let women know he wasn’t threatening. I suppose a small, limp dick wouldn’t be threatening in the least so he was on the right path.
Something I said made him ask, “You thought I was gay?” with a laugh. No, I knew he wasn’t gay, but he was supposed to be gay. He claimed he didn’t know what a fag was because English wasn’t his first language.
The guy spoke English very well. As in we had no other language-related misunderstandings. Anyone who has spoken English in the US for any amount of time will run into the word fag, right?
If he didn’t know what a fag was, then why the fuck had he responded to an ad titled, “Hag Looking for a Fag”?! Maybe he thought there was a possibility he could be a fag, whatever the fuck that was.
If he didn’t know what a fag was, why didn’t he look it the fuck up? Was he that dumb? Or had he just been lying about not knowing like he lied about not being able to get it up? It didn’t matter to me because I don’t want to be friends with people who lie about lame shit or who are too dumb to look up a word.
My Craig’s List foray into friend finding was a complete failure.
I swear. True story.
OkStupid, Part 2
Posted on February 17, 2010[Continued from "OkStupid, Part 1."]
I had another OkCupid date scheduled. The guy told me that he was going on a long trip so I’d better get to him beforehand. Ok, whatever. The day of the date we confirmed the location, Herbivore on Valencia, and the time, 7pm. It’s always nice when the date is confirmed in writing. And because we had confirmed in writing, when I dreaded leaving the house that evening, the shame of flaking forced me to go.
I stood in front of the restaurant for a bit. I walked into the restaurant and asked if there was anyone there alone. No. I went back outside and waited. And waited. Finally, at 7:27 I began walking home. I was very glad I’d not bothered to get dressed up or makeuped. When I was a few blocks from my house I received a text from a number that wasn’t programmed into my phone. I figured out pretty quickly who it was, since the text indicated the sender was three minutes away and then had to find parking.
Yeah, I’m the stupid one. I walked back to the restaurant. See why I make them come to me? I sent a text saying that we had agreed to meet at 7pm. He apologized via text and then called to explain that he really and truly did think our date was at 7:30. We had confirmed earlier that day. For 7pm. He said to make up for it he’d buy me dinner. I assured him that he was already going to buy me dinner.
He scoffed a bit, but I made it clear that he was most definitely buying. We sat down. We ordered. We talked. I said my usual charming things. My dinner was tasty – grilled veggies and fake chicken over quinoa. He ate oddly – with his hands but didn’t use a napkin.
He asked if I wanted to play a game wherein if I won he’d owe me double of whatever it was that he owed me, and if he won he’d buy me dinner and nothing else. Fine. He’d ask me five questions and I had to answer each of them falsely. The first three questions were easy to answer incorrectly, but then he got lost and asked me if the last question was the third or the fourth. I completely fell for it and told him that that was the third question, meaning I answered that question correctly, thereby losing the little bet.
He claimed that that indicated that I was helpful and trusting of others. I told him that I didn’t like the game, but if he wanted to get out of making up for being over a half an hour late by tricking me then that was his prerogative.
The bill came and he – I so wish I was kidding – said, “I forgot my wallet.” I told him to empty his pockets. He was sure it was in his car, or at home in San Rafael. I had my wallet. I paid. I paid money I don’t have. I paid for a meal, that while tasty, was not worth my $50. It certainly was worth his $50 though.
He asked if I’d go back to San Rafael with him so he could pay me back. When I asked how I’d get home he promised to drive me home – in the morning. I told him I had a dog to care for; he offered to bring her along. I declined.
He promised over and over that he did not do it on purpose. He also promised to mail me a check. Yeah, right. I gave him my PO Box address. I don’t think I’ll ever see a check and I told him as much. He promised again. He said he was telling the truth and that his was an honest face from which only truth emerged. Whatever.
He then pulled a couple off the street. He wanted to ask them if he looked honest. Jesus Christ, guy, get over it. I told them to run away while they could. I told him not to get them involved. But they got involved. He told them the story; that he forgot his wallet. The guy said that they were in a similar situation because he didn’t know the restaurant they went to was cash only so she had to pay.
I looked at her. Yeah, I could tell. I said, “You two have already fucked though, right?” She blushed. Yeah, they had. “And he’s got a big dick, doesn’t he?” She wanted to get the fuck out of there. “I told you you didn’t want to get involved,” I yelled.
My date told me he had a big dick. I suggested he take a picture of it and include it with the check to cover dinner. He never asked how much dinner was.
My date walked toward his car. I walked the opposite way only so I didn’t have to walk with him.
I’ve not yet checked my PO Box. I don’t hold out much hope. I’m the stupid one.
I swear. True story.
My First Threesome
Posted on January 27, 2010I had my first threesome with two guys. I was 18. Or maybe 17. Either way, it was when I lived in my first apartment alone, a very small studio.
My boyfriend at the time had finally admitted to me that he found men attractive. Actually, after months of me teasing him he finally acquiesced. I knew he liked guys, I just knew it.
I’m of the opinion that everyone is a little bisexual, pansexual, whatever; everyone likes cock and pussy to a degree. My boyfriend at the time was certainly no exception. He liked guys but had all sorts of shame and guilt about it. I hope I showed him that he needn’t be ashamed about being attracted to someone of the same gender. I was openly bisexual, I told him my mother was an out lesbian, and I had plenty of friends who were gay and/or bi.
One such friend was a bisexual guy with whom I had fooled around previously. As soon as a broached the subject of a threesome he was in.
My boyfriend, on the other hand, had to be talked into it. He was so fucking far into the closet that he was very secretive and constantly scared of being “discovered.” I assured him that the person I had in mind was cool and that he didn’t know anyone my boyfriend knew. I also assured him that he was his type. My boyfriend had admitted he had a crush on his neighbor, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, and – to me – white trash-looking guy. My bisexual boy was blond and blue, but not white trashy.
After much cajoling my boyfriend agreed. But then we had the scheduling issues. One of the most difficult things with threesomes is coordinating the schedules of not two but three people.
Finally, the day of the threesome came. My boyfriend still lived with his mother and the bisexual guy had a roommate so it was agreed that we’d have our threesome at my place. My very tiny place. Really, it must’ve been about 200 square feet. Maybe. The “kitchen” was a corner of the room with a sink and counter, tiny freestanding stove, and college-sized refrigerator. There was also a walk-in closet and a bathroom that wasn’t large enough to accommodate a bathtub, just a shower. I paid $395 per month including utilities. Ahh, the good old days.
The furniture in the apartment/room, other than the stove and refrigerator, consisted of a dining table that served as a tv stand and a desk, three dining chairs, two stacked orange crates that served as a entertainment center – meaning they held my CDs and “stereo,” a boombox – and bookshelf, and a queen-sized futon that was always in bed position. I was a slob at the time so most of the time my floor was covered in dirty clothes, magazines, and other household detritus. At the time I was not the type to clean up for company. It was my first apartment on my own and no one was telling me what to do so I did whatever the fuck I wanted.
The three of us sat on my bed. It was awkward. So my boyfriend pulled out the pot. He smoked a lot of pot. A lot. It was rare that he wasn’t high. The three of us smoked pot. It was still awkward.
Finally I did what I had to do – I kissed the bisexual guy. This was the first of many sexual instances in my life where I knew if I didn’t just fucking go for it that nothing would happen. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I resent it.
Then I kissed my boyfriend. Then I kissed the bisexual guy. It was fun. I definitely liked going back and forth between the two men, noting the contrasts between their kissing styles.
Eventually they kissed each other. And then they forgot about me. Really. From then on I was completely and totally ignored. Ignored.
They kissed. They got naked. They sucked each others’ cocks. Their bodies writhed. I read a magazine. As we were in my apartment and I had no car I had little else to do. As my apartment was so tiny I had little else to go.
I sat on one side of the bed reading my magazine while they went at it. I wasn’t even fascinated enough to watch. I was bored. And annoyed. And irritated. How fucking rude of them not to include me in the threesome that I set up?!
Eventually they finished. I’m pretty sure they didn’t fuck, but they definitely sucked. I have no clue if either or both of them came. I didn’t care.
I never saw the bisexual guy again. My boyfriend and I continued to go out, and thereafter were friendly, for some time. My first threesome was most definitely a disaster.
I swear. True story.
There’s a Strange Fluid Leaking from my Ear
Posted on January 20, 2010
I am extremely sick … still. I’m sure the stress of dealing with the stupid pettiness of the Ex isn’t helping.
This is what the Ex’s stupid cunt of a girlfriend did to me. Nice, huh? The yucky face is just because I’ve been sick for over a week. And now because the Ex is a shithead my mattress isn’t on my bed, which is from where he originally took it, but in my garage. So that’s something fun I get to do tonight before I go to sleep.
But first to Bawdy Storytelling. I’m a unicorn, dammit, and I need to pick the lucky person who gets to go on a date with me. The date will take place after I’m no longer bruised or sick. It’s only fair I give my date a good time since s/he/they will have paid good money for me.
I swear. True (lame) story.
