Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Me Thinks Thou Doth Protest Just a Wee Bit Too Much
Posted on January 19, 2010As I wrote yesterday’s post the Ex’s girlfriend was going on about her pregnancy, about how she may not be able to work with certain chemicals at work (a major oil company in the East Bay) so she doesn’t put her precious cargo in danger. I informed her that one of the things she most definitely should not do whilst pregnant is cocaine.
Because not less than two weeks ago she did just that. No, I did not see her do it, but she and the Ex got home around 8am and then stayed in bed until around 4pm, and then he later admitted what they did.
Then I said something that angered the Ex and his girlfriend and she proceeded to talk about me as if I weren’t in the room – from about ten feet away. I called her passive-aggressive and told her to just fucking talk to me already.
She claimed I was passive-aggressive, a hilarious notion, and I told her she tricked her boyfriend into getting her pregnant.
Apparently that hit a nerve. She got up off the couch and came at me. I remember thinking that it was funny that she was so mad because either it’s true and she just has to admit it to herself, or it’s false and it doesn’t matter what the opinion of the ex-wife of the baby’s daddy is. And I also remember thinking that she’d get to me – sitting in my desk chair, not being threatening in any way – with her fist banished and say something like, “You make me want to hit you.”
Instead, she actually hit me. I don’t remember where or how, but she did. She definitely grabbed and scratched my left arm. Then the Ex pulled me away. I kept yelling, “She came at me.” He eventually got me down on my back on the floor (well, on Isis’ bed), but not before I attempted to kick him in the balls twice and actually tore his t-shirt off him.
She went upstairs from whence she threw down a full-length, leather-handled umbrella, and continued screaming how angry she was. She yelled that he came inside her – a nausea-inducing notion. She yelled that not every child is planned and asked rhetorically how I came into the world. (Much the same way as her shitty kid – my mother planned for me, my father did not.) She screamed that no one has anything nice to say about me. She had the nerve to say that Jesús didn’t like me before he died. She never fucking met Jesús.
I tried to call 911 but the Ex unplugged the phone. I still can’t find one of the phones.
The whole time she was screaming like a banshee I was calmly leaning against the wall, under the loft bedroom so I wouldn’t get hit with any projectiles. Then the Ex went on about how his mother told him I would take advantage of his kindness. This is the same mother who – while we were together and getting along fine – called me a white whore, so I’m not sure that her opinion of me was ever good. I guess now she can gloat.
I told them to get out. He told me to do so. I told him I didn’t trust them in my house with my animals and my stuff. Really, I wouldn’t put it past the girlfriend to hurt the animals or take a knife to my furniture. Poor Isis was so scared. I sat on the couch and tried to comfort her. The Ex and the girlfriend were upstairs where she was telling her tale to her sister on the phone. The tale included something along the lines of it being a good thing the Ex intervened because I’m so much bigger than she is. Yeah, my tits are bigger than her little, creepy areolae pads.
While she talked to her sister I talked on the phone to my friend in the downstairs bathroom. I really was afraid to leave the animals. As I talked to my friend my left arm really began to hurt. I took off my shirt and the entire triceps was bruised and scratched, though not enough to draw blood. My friend told me to get out of there and have my neighbor take pictures.
I went to my neighbor’s place where she took pictures of me looking rather dismal. Then I talked to her and her husband and they suggested I call the police. The police – four officers in all – showed up rather quickly and said the usual – that I could press charges, that she could also press charges, that I could get a restraining order, etc.
The officers then went to talk to them, and returned to tell me that they had a friend picking them up, and that they were advised that any damage to my property would be a felony. I finished watching a movie with my neighbors and then went home.
The Viking (a nickname he both knows about and has approved) came over and spent the night. He was very sweet to be here at a time when I didn’t want to be alone and when I really wasn’t sure of my safety.
I swear. True story.
Fancy Food
Posted on January 17, 2010After a delightful French-themed dinner I had a delightful (French-themed?) threesome. I really do enjoy threesomes. Of course the quality of partners is very important.
Then today I went to the first day of the Winter Fancy Food Show. First I stopped at the store to buy more cough syrup. I still have this horrible cough.
During the course of the day my cough continued, and I continued to treat it with cough syrup. I’m getting really tired of the taste of cough syrup. However, since I was at the Fancy Food Show I was able to quickly mask the cough syrup taste with some tasty morsels.
I actually got tired of chocolate, and foie gras, and pâté, and cheese, but I kept on eating. I kept on taking samples, too. I took a lot of samples of things that I don’t particularly like but that I knew my roommates would like because we recently agreed to keep our food separate. I can be petty as shit.
At one point during the day I got dizzy and had to leave the convention hall to sit down to get some air. It was when I was sitting on the floor catching my breath that I saw some interesting-looking people. Some very fat people. Some people dressed poorly. Some of the fat people were dressed in such a way that their fat was highlighted and made to look odd.
I felt a little better and continued on my journey of eating and taking samples. It was quite a day. Eventually I lost most of my hearing in my right ear. Clearly I’m not getting better, but quite a bit sicker.
Then I got a text message from the Ex asking for the password to my computer. It is my computer and I don’t want him or his girlfriend using it when I’m not home. Like I said, I can be petty as shit.
The reason he wanted to use the computer? To look something up because his girlfriend is pregnant and he was “freaking out.” Rightfully so. I explained to him that that is what happens when birth control isn’t used – pregnancy. He claimed they sometimes used condoms. It only takes one, moron.
After I got home and dumped out my take from the Fancy Food Show on the kitchen counter the girlfriend was very interested and threw out that it wasn’t her idea that we keep our food separate. That’s fine, but I have no problem with keeping our food separate as I am currently the one with the “better” food. She then said that I had to be nice to her because she is pregnant. To which I responded that I did not get her pregnant and that I know how to use birth control so no, I do not have to be nice to her.
She was incredulous. Did I mean to be that bitchy? Absolutely. It’s pretty fucking easy not to get pregnant. She informed me that she obviously was not trying not to get pregnant.
I did not say, because it really isn’t worth my breath, was that it was pretty shitty of her not to tell her boyfriend – her underemployed, broke boyfriend – that she was trying to get pregnant. That she’s a fucking moron if she thinks a child is going to change him or make him grow up in any way. That she is sad and pathetic to trick a guy into fathering her child because her lame-ass biological clock is ticking.
She liked the Fancy Food Show booty quite a bit. She wanted some. She asked nicely. I told her it was all for sale. She took a few things and she gave me $2. I can be very petty indeed.
I swear. True story.
Meth Boy
Posted on January 03, 2010I didn’t know he was Meth Boy right away. Maybe because I’m naive or ignorant or lame, but what I thought at first was that he was an adult child.
He was a spazzy guy who couldn’t stop moving. He always had a skateboard with him. We met in a bar. I knew right away I wanted to fuck him but he was with friends. So we exchanged numbers and parted ways.
Then on Halloween 2009 we got together. I hate wearing costumes but there he was in a fairly detailed devil mask. We had a couple of drinks. He talked about how much he wanted to fuck me. Great, let’s fuck.
We went to Kinky Salon. It being Halloween it was packed, but we found a place to lounge in the back room. There were people sexing it up all around us. I took off my shirt and then my bra. I kept on my skirt, but I wasn’t wearing any panties. We kissed. He had a nice mouth. He took off his shirt. He pulled out his dick.
There it sat, a sad limp thing. He pulled on it. A lot. Nothing happened, though it did appear to be quite flexible. He told me that he had too much speed. Yeah, any amount of anything that prevents erections is too much.
We were taking up valuable real estate in the back room of a sex club just chit-chatting since there wasn’t a dick that was useful. Of course there are other things, but I didn’t have any with me, and I didn’t trust his hands to go near my pussy. He was sweating a lot and those hands were all over the place, running through his hair, pulling on his clothes, and generally picking up the kind of bacteria that throws the properly balanced pussy environment out of whack.
We left the sex club and went to the Tenderloin so he could get some food. We finally parted ways well after 3am.
The next day I was planning on going to the California Academy of Sciences as it was free for people in my zip code. He texted me, claiming he was fully capable of getting his dick hard. That was nice, but I had plans that did not involve his dick. He went with me to the museum.
We had a nice time, after which we walked to the Park Chalet where we had a couple of drinks. It was a nice day so it was packed. We ended up sitting in the wooded area beyond the Park Chalet’s grassy area. He told me where he was the night before, after we parted ways: In a porn booth pulling his pud.
We took the bus back to my house. My roommates were gone for the evening so we had the place to ourselves. First was a shower for him. He had been sweating continuously since the night before and he did not smell nice at all. Smell is very important to me.
Once out of the shower he smelled good and looked cute and clean. His dick found its way into my mouth. But it still wasn’t hard. We hung out some more. Then I sucked on his dick some more while we were on the couch. His cock was starting to get hard. Yes, finally.
And then my roommates came home. The roommates grabbed the dog and walked her around the block while we dressed. So that was that.
I told my friend Ramona about him. She asked if he seemed surprised that he couldn’t get it up. No, actually, it seemed par for the course. She said that’s because that kind of guy can never get it up. He never had a hard dick. Ever. I didn’t want to believe it. I gave him two more chances.
We saw each other again about a month later. He came over and crawled in bed with me. It felt nice but he didn’t even try to fuck me. I’m pretty sure that’s because his dick wouldn’t get hard. Then he asked to take a shower. He had arrived early in the morning and should have showered beforehand. I was irritated. Then something came up so I didn’t have the whole day to spend with him, for which I was grateful.
Our final meeting involved drinks and dinner. But I could tell right away that he was again spazzy. He couldn’t hold still. And over a rather tasty dinner it became clear that chances were very high that he would once again not be able to get it up. I told him I liked him a lot, that his mouth really was lovely, but that I couldn’t handle hanging out with someone who was so much of a mess. I left him in the restaurant.
He was not my first meth boy, however. The “adventure” reminded me that a while back I’d been up and horny well into the night. I resorted to Craig’s List. I did not think that the most of the other people up at that time were not night people like me but high. The guy who showed up was very young. He arrived on his bicycle. Not a bicycle that most people use for getting around town, but a BMX-style bike for doing tricks and such. What is it with guys who do meth and their childish modes of transportation? Anyway, he was most definitely able to get it up. He had very soft skin, but when he offered to go get me some meth I declined.
I swear. True story.
Phone Sex? (Part 2)
Posted on October 10, 2009[Continued from "Phone Sex? (Part 1)."]
Months later I emailed the phone sex company woman to inquire about working 
for her. Eventually I submitted a bio, a list of WILLs and WON’Ts, and photos. I used my real name and my real photos, including the one here.
My WILLs and WON’Ts weren’t honored at all, and I ended up role playing incest and age play despite my wishes. I found I actually didn’t mind so much because the men on the phone weren’t real to me, and I figured it was better they talk about their fantasies, which were for the most part out of the realm of possibility.
I did a little girl voice when my “brother” was fucking me and we feared getting caught by our parents. One guy told me that when he was younger he got into the trash after his mother banged some guy and ate the come out of the used condom. That guy worried me a bit because he also told me he thought his teen daughter was hot, but I had no clue where he was, who he was, or if he’d done any more than think about his daughter.
Some of the guys just wanted to hear me come, some were nervous. I kept records of the guys’ names, what we talked about, and how long the calls lasted. The latter because I wanted to make sure I was paid properly for my calls.
Once I was in the company’s chat room along with some other girls who were also available for calls when the creepy, nebbishy guy came in and in the chat room fired one of the girls. That was uncomfortable and very unprofessional.
One day I tried to log in but my password wouldn’t work. I IMd the dorky guy, I emailed him. I DMd the woman on Twitter. I received no responses at all. I checked the company Website. My bio and photos were gone, but my name and blog posts (of the “I’m hot and horny and want you to call” variety) were still up.
I DMd the woman and emailed the guy, asking both to remove my name and any of my writing from their site. She tweeted this, “Unprofessional- telling your boss to fuck off. Stupid- then expecting a quick response to demands. Especially when you SUCK on the phone.” I believe it was directed at me. Or maybe not.
I NEVER told anyone to fuck off, but when my repeated attempts to contact either owner of the company were ignored, and when it was obvious from the company’s Website that they no longer wished to utilize my services, I didn’t want my actual name, my actual face, or my actual written words anywhere near them.
Anything having to do with me was removed from their site. I checked back periodically and noticed that the number of girls available for calls was dwindling, and fast. There was a strange blog post on the company’s site that I can only describe as nutty: The nebbish wrote that several of the girls, myself included, were no longer associated with the company, that the company’s clients were “high minded assholes,” that some of the girls’ photos were not really them (which is common for phone sex), and that if the clients were “helping” out any of the girls they were being duped. [I would have a complete and direct quote if WordPress hadn't inexplicably deleted this story the first time I wrote it.]
The company is now down to one phone sex worker, the woman who owns the company.
I have not been paid at all.
I told a clean version of the story in my Examiner column.
I swear. True story.
Michael: He Thought He Was a Poet Only I Didn’t Know It
Posted on September 30, 2009My sister suggested I use Adult Friend Finder to find people to fuck. Yes, my sister and I do tell each other about our casual sex pursuits. I had not been having bad luck with Craig’s List, it’s just that San Francisco is a small town for a big city, and the population of people who use Craig’s List for casual sex is even smaller. I had been getting responses to my ads from guys I had no interest in seeing again, much less fuck again.
I posted a profile on Adult Fried Finder and waited. I got several responses, mostly from creepy old couples far out in the East Bay. I made the mistake of being honest by saying that I was a single bisexual woman willing to participate in threesomes, what I’ve since learned is referred to as a unicorn because my kind is so rare.
One guy I met turned out to be a very nice guy. I’ve dubbed him Lunch Guy because we usually go to lunch, have a couple of drinks, and then fuck. Sometimes we fuck first, but we always have a nice lunch in my neighborhood. He looks like an unassuming regular guy, but is fun and dirty in bed. Before his cock ever went in my pussy, it went in my ass.
Another guy I initially didn’t want to meet. When a guy is too eager, I get creeped out. In this case, I was right.
Michael (his real name) came into my life when I was at a very low place.
We began hanging out whenever he wasn’t working. We played a Filipino card game, the name of which I never fully understood. We fucked, badly.
The first time we had sex it was horrible. Really quite shitty. We both agreed that it was bad. Why either one of us bothered to fuck one another again I do not know. Since I’ve had amazing sex with plenty of people, I’ll have to blame the low quality of the fucking on him.
He was the laziest fuck I have ever had. He just laid there. On a positive note, I feel like I’m better on top now because I had to be on top if I wanted cock in me at all. Well, not “cock,” as I think of something big when that word is used. He had a peter, a small little thing.
He thought his penis was average in size. It was not. It was small. Small.
There was something about my depression that made this guy appealing to me. He was tall, which I suppose is something that is considered attractive, but I generally don’t care how tall a guy is. He had kind of cool hair, but I can work with most hair styles so long as they’re short; I don’t like long hair on guys.
I was drawn to his smell. When he wasn’t wearing too much cologne he had a clean smell that made me loopy. So loopy that I told him he could demand a blow job from me once per visit to my house. I told him we could be watching tv or playing cards or having dinner and he could demand a blow job and I’d do it.
Pretty sweet deal, huh? Well, he rarely took me up on it. I still had to ask if I could please give him a blow job. Often. Why I wanted to suck that little thing so much I’ll never know unless I’m again that depressed.
He thought he was sexually skillful with his hands. He was not. When he fingered me I gave him plenty of feedback of the “yes, right there” and “keep doing that” sort. Yet, he would move from right there and he would stop doing that. It was extremely frustrating because I wanted to come, dammit. And apparently it was frustrating to him too, because he would get mad at me for not coming, dammit. I don’t know that he ever made me come.
Gentlemen, the last thing you should say to a woman who is taking a long time to come is, “You take a really long time to come.” That just makes it take longer. And it makes you an asshole.
Because Michael thought he had an average-sized penis and thought he was sexually skillful, he wanted us to have sex with other women. More than once he requested we place an ad on Craig’s List to find a woman for a threesome. Knowing that finding a woman for a threesome is a long and arduous process that is usually unsuccessful, I indulged him, but in reality I was embarrassed that I was fucking this guy, and didn’t want to have to see anyone’s reaction to his shitty skills, tiny penis, and looks.
He had horrible skin. Very bad acne. Being an acne sufferer myself I know the value of a good dermatologist and don’t understand why an adult with a job would not avail himself of the opportunity to see one.
He was fat. Not hugely obese, but he definitely had a gut. I suspect this gut, and the jiggling it did on the few occasions he was on top of me while fucking, was one of the reasons he wanted to be flat on his back most of the times we had sex. Also, having to be active wore him out very quickly.
Michael had written a book of “poetry.” There is nothing worse than a pretentious ass who thinks he’s so deep he can write poetry. The book was dedicated to some chick with whom he’d supposedly been in love. She had been married and broke off their affair to go back to her husband, thereby breaking Michael’s heart and causing him to pour out his emotions in poetry form. I read some of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to read the whole thing; I wasn’t that self-destructive.
Most of Michael’s relationships had been with married women. I was technically married during the time we saw each other, but the Ex and I were most definitely not going to get back together, and since I lived alone Michael and I didn’t have to sneak around to have sex. Which occurred to me was the problem; I was too sexually available to him. He liked his sex to be naughty and furtive and I was offering him a blow job whenever he wanted. I think if I had told him I didn’t want to suck him off he would have wanted me to.
He seemed to think we had some sort of connection and often claimed we’d be friends even after we stopped seeing each other. Even at my most depressed I was not stupid enough to think that. I didn’t even like the guy. He was a whiny asshole who blamed everyone else for his problems and who was deluded about his sexual prowess. No thank you.
I don’t recall what finally ended things, only that they ended and I didn’t have to deal with him any more. It was a relief. Not having him around was the beginning of me getting better.
Several months after we stopped seeing each other he called me and asked me to go to his hotel to fuck him. Apparently he had been evicted from his apartment and was living in a hotel. Nice.
I reminded him that we had had shitty sex, and that he had refused many, many offers to suck his pee-pee back when we were seeing each other. I told him that I had no interest in fucking him. He was generous enough to offer to let me give him head. No, I didn’t want to do that either.
He told me he was a hotel gigolo. What the fuck? He said he entertains ladies at the hotel. Who? What? Huh? I didn’t even want to know the details of what that meant, or what kind of hotel. I did, however, feel compelled to express my incredulity at his assertion.
I stopped short of saying he had a small penis and was shitty in bed, but I think he got the message because I’ve not heard from him in a long time.
I no longer have a profile up on Adult Friend Finder.
I swear. True story.
Really?!
Posted on September 24, 2009
A few weeks ago I placed an ad on Craig’s List. The content of the ad is irrelevant for our purposes. One guy I met at Precita Park we’ll call Allen. I knew the moment I saw him that I did not want to fuck him. He looked like a young Eugene Levy complete with Brillo Pad hair and eyebrows in dire need of a proper grooming.
And his teeth. His teeth looked, uh, British, in an Austin Powers way. I really was surprised that a person around my age who clearly could afford orthodontia (he told me he was gainfully employed and had time, and presumably money, for various hobbies) would let himself walk around with mismatched gravestones for teeth.
He looked like Eugene Levy but wasn’t nearly as funny or interesting. His voice had that typical stoner tone to it. I was trying to be polite so we chatted for a while while Isis frolicked in the park.
Then Allen told me that while I was cool I was most definitely not his type. He said he should have asked for a full-body picture before meeting. I am a typical fat girl with a bit of a chip on my shoulder. I said I understood if he wasn’t attracted to me because I’m not thin. And I did understand it, but I was still hurt. Which is the silliest thing ever since I already knew I found this guy’s looks and personality unappealing.
I was both relieved and hurt. Relieved because while I didn’t find Allen attractive in any way, I have, in the past, fucked people I didn’t find attractive because I didn’t know how to tell them I didn’t want to. Lame. Hurt because dammit, everyone should want to fuck me. We went our separate ways.
The same Craig’s List ad allowed me to meet the Vegan, whom I knew immediately I did want to fuck. Nice teeth, great smile, pretty curly eyelashes. We had great sex. The Vegan is a biter and left me delightfully covered in bruises after our first session together.
I told Allen and the Vegan’s story at Bawdy Storytelling on September 16, 2009. At least I think I told the story. I was so fucking nervous that I don’t remember what I said. Afterwords people were nice enough to tell me I did a good job, but I suspect they could see what a wreck I was and were just being nice.
Then, on September 22, 2009, I received an email:
Hi,
Not sure if this is a complete blast from the not too distant past but I have been reading your blog and must admit I enjoy it quite a bit. I also realize how much you love sucking cock and wonder how amazingly well you are at that skill you have perfected.Using my cock would you be interested in showing me sometime how good of a cocksucker you are?Hope all is well.-[Allen]
I didn’t at first know who the fuck had sent the email, but a quick email search revealed that it was the guy from the park with the teeth. I responded that I do, in fact, give glorious blow jobs. I definitely had no interest in sucking that guy’s cock and thought it a tad strange that he wanted me to do so. I did, though, want him to regret that he didn’t find me attractive.
Later in the evening I received a text message from a number that I didn’t recognize:
Sarah, this is [Allen] I replied to yur email but wanted to expedite the process with a text. Do you want to come to my place this evening and wrap your lips around my nice Jewish cock?
To which I responded that my name is not Sarah, because, well, it’s not. Though he told me his name, I did not make the connection between the email I had received earlier in the day and the text to which I had just responded. I wasn’t all that offended that he had gotten my name wrong because names are not that important to me anyway, which is why I didn’t notice that the email and the text had the same name. I’d also been corresponding via text only with a guy, also named Allen. (Well, not really, but with the same real name as “Allen.”)
[Any grammar or punctuation errors in any quotes from "Allen" are not typos on my part, but have been transcribed exactly as received.]
Then I got another text:
I have no idea why I just called you Sarah! I’m looking at the letter “s” in shazam (part of yur email address.) Weird
And another a minute later:
I’m actually sitting here taking some bong ripsbeing very lazy. I apologize about the completely retarded screw up
An additional email came through:
Plans tomorrow afternoon?Better yet want to come over my place tonight; hang out, smoke some weed and swallow a load or two of my nice Jewish sperm?-[Allen]
I did not respond to that email. I was beginning to figure out that the texts were from the same person as the emails. The same person with whom I had no interest in hanging out. And what was his fucking obsession with “nice Jewish” things?
A text arrived in my phone’s in box:
Are you interested in having the back of your lovely throat put to some use this evening?
Also during this time I was having me a few drinks. I get very horny when I drink and I do like to suck cock. So I made the mistake of responding to his text that we’d have to meet in public and he’d have to foot my drink and cab bill. Obviously, the vodka was doing it’s job a little too well because I had forgotten that we had already met in public. He kept wanting me to just go to his place. I guess he was really stoned and lazy and horny.
Allen called me. And in my inebriated state I got right to negotiating a location for us to meet. Then it really dawned on me. I had met this guy. He didn’t find me attractive. Asshole.
He wanted me to suck his cock even though he wasn’t attracted to me?! What the fuck?! So I told him that he must be quite stupid if he thought I’d want to give him head. I hung up.
My phone vibrated with another text:
Sorry I didn’t mean to offend you when I first said that and I’m feel bad that it got brought up again. I thought you were nice and fun to talk and into smoking weed and just kicking it so i figured even with me saying that to you at you would be into sucking my cock cause I know you also like it a lot etc…
By this time I was worked up into a lather. I think I called him back to tell him all the reasons why he was a fucking stupid, ugly, asshole. I brought up that he didn’t even know my name (as if I cared) and that he didn’t find me physically attractive, neither of which translates into me wanting to be generous with my mouth. I told him he should perhaps try some 22-year-old girls with low self-esteem because I am too fucking old to give a guy head in hopes that he’ll like me.
I told him that while he may not have found me attractive, I certainly did not find him to be much a prize. I think he didn’t believe me, and it did sound like something a hurt little kid would say: “Oh, you don’t like me? Well, I didn’t like you first.” To make my point I mentioned Eugene Levy and British teeth. He claimed not to know what British teeth were, so I said something about gravestones and suggested he find an orthodontist.
The whole time he just didn’t fucking get it. I honestly believe he truly and really couldn’t comprehend why if I like giving blow jobs I wouldn’t like to give one to him. He said it made sense to him that he’d want a blow job from me but wouldn’t want to fuck me. He didn’t understand that I don’t want to suck the cock of a guy who doesn’t think I’m good enough to fuck. I called him stupid a few more times and hung up on him again.
He called me back! When I’m that pissed (angry) and pissed (drunk) it is nearly impossible for anyone else to talk. I interrupt more than usual. I talk louder than usual. I make some pretty fucking cogent arguments. He wanted to apologize for getting my name wrong, and to again explain that he didn’t see the problem with hanging out (with his cock down my throat) since he thought I was cool. I suppose I was to be flattered in some way, but I was not. I think I hung up on him again.
But of course I got another text:
Well, I’m glad we didnt meet somewhere or you didn’t just show up at my place that would have been really awkward:)
To which I responded that I agreed and that he needed to lose my number.
But of course he had to get in the last word:
Done. And you can say whatever you want about this experience but please do not use my name or image in your blog. Thank you
No, thank you.
I swear. True story.
New York City! (Part 2)
Posted on July 02, 2009[Catch up: Part 1.]
The next day, Saturday, we walked around Manhattan (Midtown maybe) where Mr. Schwartz patiently waited outside while I shopped. Before I entered each store he handed me some cash–not much, usually $40 per store.
I went into my first Urban Outfitters, where I bought a cute dress I still own (only now I don’t look nearly as cute in it). I went to the perfume counter of a high-end, only-in-New-York (at the time) department store (Saks Fifth Avenue maybe) and did some sniffing. I settled on Byblos, a scent I still wear on occasion, and which I got for my mother-in-law one year for Christmas when the Ex and I were still together.
Mr. Schwartz showed me the usual sites–I think we even went into FAO Schwarz and other touristy crap in that area. Eventually we made our way back to his place. Once in his apartment he pulled out a wad of cash. He asked me how much weight I had lost and paid me accordingly. We also had at least one other agreement that garnered me some more cash.
I believe I went in to “my” bedroom to get ready for dinner when Mr. Schwartz followed me in and fondled my breast (the left one, I think). I told him that I didn’t want him doing that and he implied that he could do whatever he wanted since he had paid for my trip and so on.
I left his apartment. I walked around for a little while. It was early evening and not too cold so I was fine. When I calmed down a bit I called him from a pay phone (you might have heard of them, kids). I asked if he had realized the errors of his ways, to which he responded that I needed to apologize to him.
I went back to his place, packed up my stuff, and left. I was not about to let ol’ Saggy Schwartz do whatever he wanted to me without my explicit consent just for a place to stay for the night.
I walked around Manhattan with the little luggage I had for just the weekend trip. I was trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do until my flight back to California the next afternoon. I went to a B. Dalton Books and told the clerk that I worked in the Santa Anita Fashion Park store. I also told him that I didn’t have a place to stay for the night. He didn’t give a shit about either.
I could have gone back, but I didn’t want to humiliate myself by either apologizing or touching his pendulous friends again. I also didn’t know if he would have required me to fuck him as a form of punishment/payment. At the time I was still scared of penises–I’d probably only had two or three in me by that time, inclusive of my disastrous loss of virginity. Thinking back, I don’t recall that his penis was ever hard the night before. Maybe his age combined with his diabetes affected his erectile function. This, of course, was the days of yore, when Viagra and it’s brethren pharmaceuticals were mere fantasies of the limp-dicked oldsters.
I walked around, but after all the stories of rape and murder I’d heard about New York I was scared to wander too far from where I’d already been. Knowing what I know now, Times Square was still a sleazy, dirty place in the early 1990s. If I had found it I may have been turned out by a nice pimp daddy. (Instead I opted for the straight life of formal education.)
I hung out in Central Park for a bit. This was before I’d ever watched Law & Order, but I knew stories of horrific events that took place in Central Park. My step-sister had been obsessed with Robert Chambers (she thought he was hot). I was not about to roam into the bowels of the park, so I stayed on the periphery and sat on a bench to observe rats boldly going through rubbish that was overflowing out of a trash can. I had never seen rats that weren’t pets (the step-sister and I had had pet rats when we were in seventh grade) so I was entranced.
Also in Central Park I saw fireflies for the first time. Having lived in California my entire life fireflies were something I’d only observed in movies, and I suspected their wonder was exaggerated. It was not. Fireflies are fucking cool. Years later, a visit to Indiana showed me how artistic their illuminated bodies look when sacrificing themselves on a windshield.
It was cooling down significantly and had already gotten dark. I needed a place to stay. I had only the cash that Mr. Schwartz had given me. At the time I had no credit cards at all, and my bank was only found on the West Coast so I had no way to get more. This was before independently-owned ATMs could be found in abundance so I couldn’t access my bank account at all.
I hailed a cab. I told the cabbie my sob story because I certainly couldn’t tell him where I wanted to go–I had no fucking clue. He drove me around for a while. He offered to take me to the Russian Tea Room. I decided I should make my way to the airport and declined his generous invitation.
I don’t remember where that cabbie dropped me off, but it was somewhere in Manhattan. I hadn’t gotten very far. I took another cab to Queens with the intent to go to the airport. Again, I told the cab driver my lament.
I was nineteen and dumb. I had no clue about getting on a flight on stand-by. But neither did the cabbie apparently, or he didn’t care to share the information with me. I was prepared to wait at the airport all night until my flight was scheduled to leave. The information the cab driver did share with me was that the airport would close at night.
Obviously, I was quite naive at the time. I’m now sure that the cab driver got a kick-back from the motel at which I ultimately stayed for the night, but in all my retellings of this story over the years, NO ONE ever pointed out that major airports don’t fucking close, ever.
The cab driver took me to at least three motels that were relatively close to the airport. I was looking for the cheapest one that didn’t require a credit card. I ended up staying at a motel that charged by the hour. Amazingly, I was able to sleep.
The next morning I took my final taxicab in New York City–from the shitty pay-per-hour motel in Queens to La Guardia Airport. I recall hearing someone with a heavy New York accent in an elevator in the airport. I almost laughed in the guy’s face because he really did sound like he was putting on the accent. To my West Coast ears he sounded like he was playing the part of a typical New Yorker; I had always thought those characteristics were exaggerated. Apparently they were not.
I immediately went to the bar closest to my gate. In the hours I waited I had several margaritas. I was prepared to show my older sister’s driver’s license, which I had become accustomed to using to buy alcohol since I was seventeen. However, I was never carded.
I made it home without incident. I told everyone my harrowing adventure. I didn’t spare any details for anyone, including my mother. If anyone expressed concern for my personal safety I’d point out that there I was, telling the tale, so obviously I was fine. Ahh, the arrogance of youth, how I miss you.
I never spoke to Mr. Schwartz again.
Before this whole adventure Mr. Schwartz had already planned a trip to LA for later in the year. He wanted to further “audition” me as well as a friend of mine, Rachael. Rachael and I had gone to high school in northern California together, but at the time she lived in Albuquerque. He had bought her a round-trip plane ticket, the schedule of which coincided with his LA trip.
I was so dense that it really didn’t occur to me that what he really wanted was a threesome with two nubile young ladies. I was nineteen, but Rachel was even younger, probably barely eighteen at the time (she had definitely finished high school).
Rachel’s plane ticket was in my possession. I thought I was so clever by changing the dates so Rachel could come visit me. I mailed her the ticket. Unfortunately, I was not clever enough to write Rachel’s zip code on the envelope correctly, so by the time the ticket arrived, the date of travel on the ticket had passed.
I swear. True story.
