This one, left, is pretty and pink and seems to have something dirty and phallic coming out of it.  Another of nature’s butt holes.

The pink flowers in particular remind me of flushed body parts.  Of blood-engorged dicks and clits and lips, both facial and nether.  This flower to the right reminds me of lips of all sorts.

On the other hand, this bud that’s just barely opening looks like a cock head.  That looks like a pee hole with a nice, pointy head.  That looks like something I could literally get my mouth around.

The flower in this last pic seems to be hiding something.  Something mysterious down in there.  Maybe it’s warm and wet and squishy.  Oh, sorry, it’s just a flower, it’s not an ass.

Derrick and his new iPhone are taking some lovely photos around San Francisco.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I always waited for Charles to contact me before we got together.  Jules Verne I scheduled.  I suggested he become my regular Monday guy and he complied.  He was amazingly regular and reliable.  On the Mondays when I just didn’t hear from him he always apologized for being hard to reach.

Which he was usually because he’d lost his phone.  Or had it “stolen.”  The one time his phone was “stolen,” I assured him it was just lost.  He was in Tahoe on what sounded like an alcohol-fueled trip of debauchery when he left his phone somewhere whilst he frolicked in a hot tub.  Amazingly, his phone was not where he left it when he emerged from his sous-vide bath.

He had wooed me via Twitter, and I had also ranked him highly on OkCupid.  The two were completely coincidental, but when he saw that I had ranked him on OkCupid he took the opportunity to inform me that we should most definitely meet.  I agreed.

We met at a busy bar/restaurant.  I was annoyed by the bridge and tunnel crowd, and his assertion that he was “wearing a jacket” didn’t do much to assuage my annoyance.  The place was packed.  There were several guys wearing jackets.  I understood he meant a blazer vs. any other kind of jacket, but his description still didn’t allow me to pick him out of the big crowd.

We met out front.  Pretty quickly we were drinking margaritas, which helped get me out of my shit mood.  We drank.  We ate.  We talked.  He was young – only 24 – and had gotten out of college recently enough that both his Twitter name and conversation were related to his alma mater.  He talked about college in a way that made it clear the experience was both recent and beloved.

He was wearing a jacket.  With a pocket square.  He was preppy.  It was as if he saw the J. Crew catalog back in the 90s and dressed from it.  Only he wasn’t old enough to dress himself back in the 90s.

He was also blond haired and blue eyed.  Not my type.  Not that I have much of a type, but generally light hair and eyes do little for me, and especially not in a silly preppy package.

He had asked if I was Jewish, which has not been an uncommon question in my adulthood.  From what I’ve sussed, people think I’m Jewish by a combination of my nose and my attitude.  The nose is big and Native American.  The attitude, while honed completely in California, the only place I’ve ever lived, seems to be New York.  Usually it’s goyim who ask, presumably because members of the Tribe can recognize their own.

Which is why it was a bit of a surprise when Jules Verne told me the reason he wouldn’t get any tattoos was so he could be buried in his family cemetery.  So he, a Jew, thought I was a Jew?  That was unusual.  I suppose if I had been asked I wouldn’t have supposed that he was Jewish, considering his WASP-y looks.  Well, I already knew something about his cock.

I did not find out that his cock was not only circumcised but also thick and very hard that night.  That didn’t happen until the Day of Fuck.

After that we had semi-regular trysts ….

I swear true story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Derrick D is one of my closest friends.  I’m going to miss him a lot when I move.  We’ve thus far bonded in person.  We met and immediately hit it off.  Then we began hanging out a lot.  I’d make dinner; he’d bring wine.  We’d talk and talk and talk.  We’d pick up on guys.  Well, we’d try.

Recently, DD and the Viking met.  DD volunteered to take the Viking shopping for “nice” clothes.  I know little about men’s clothes; I know what I like to look at, but not why it looks good.  Derrick, on the other hand, knows his stuff, being a fabulous gay and all.

When we met we had both recently come out of long term relationships and were in the throes of singledom.  So lots of talk about sex including our latest conquests.  Talk of penises and mouths and butts.

So when Derrick showed me pictures of flowers he’d taken with his new phone I couldn’t help but think of dirty body parts.  Well, not dirty, but sexy.  Of course I’m not the first one to see it; everyone thought that’s what Georgia O’Keefe painted, but throughout herprofessional life  she claimed she just painted flowers, not pussies.

This first one looks like a lovely butt hole, doesn’t it?  These two flowers look like a set of boobies.  And lest you, dear readers think I’ve forgotten about pussies, doesn’t this rose look the pretty, delicate, intricate folds of voluminous labia?

DD takes some very pretty photos.  There are more I’ll be showing off.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Some time later I went to Litquake‘s culminating event, LitCrawl.  I went for to see one of the events, which was billed as literary smut.  I like dirty stories.  Since I was out for that, I figured I might as well go see Charles Gatewood, that guy I had met with Ramona.  It all took place in my neighborhood, and at the time I needed little reason to get out of the house.

Charles Gatewood read a story about taking pictures of serious blood play, which angered some local folks.  Very San Francisco.  After the event ended I said hi to Charles Gatewood.  I really didn’t want to return home too soon and I thought it’d be nice to tell him I enjoyed his story.  He very sweetly invited me to sit and chat with him for a bit.  We had a nice conversation and I learned that he lived very close to me.  He said I should go over to his place some time to see his photos.

The first time I went over Charles showed me around his apartment, which was also his studio.  There were many, many things to look at, and Charles and I had very pleasant conversation.  I stayed for hours, and Charles was nice enough to make me dinner.  He was very nice to make me dinner, but it was apparent to me that he didn’t know how to boil pasta.  He didn’t boil it, he simmered it until it was waterlogged and mushy.  I didn’t hold that against him though.

Ramona and I went over another time.  The three of us looked at photos from Folsom Street Fair; both Charles and Ramona had taken a ton.  We thumbed through Charles’ prints, and through the files on Ramona’s laptop.  We looked through some photography and art books, and discussed various things.  Charles called such events “Gatewood Salons” since they were intellectual.

I’m not sure when the sexy times between Charles and I started, but I began going over to his place every couple of weeks or so.  I’d go over, make something to eat, we’d discuss what was going on in our lives, and then I’d blow him.  Sometimes we fucked, too.

He suggested I start going shopping before going to his place so I could make tasty food.  I love to cook, and it’s always nice to have an appreciative audience.  Thanksgiving week I went to Whole Foods and bought up a shit ton of food.  I bought enough for a small dinner party, not just two people having a light dinner before what is always a heavy meal.  Charles had plenty of leftovers, but did kind of balk at how much everything cost.  I promised that in the future I’d spend his money more modestly.

Charles and I spent Christmas Day together.  It was a great day that was unfortunately marred by some not-so-great food.  I felt bad, I did, but Charles really wasn’t a very good cook.  He cooked mostly for himself, and he got proper nutrition, but except for his scalloped potatoes, nothing I’d eaten of his was very good.  On Christmas we had some of the most overcooked and leathery steak I’d had since my childhood, when people were overly concerned about undercooked meat.  Let me reiterate:  Charles is great, his food is not.

I decided that from then on I’d be doing all the cooking.  He would email me asking when I was available, we’d schedule a date, and I’d ask him what kind of food he was in the mood for.  It worked out rather well because it gave me a chance to plan a menu with some constraints – not spicy, low fat, within a budget, etc. – and to eat food that I knew was good.  I introduced the crazy concept of olive oil to him.  I cooked a turkey breast fillet, which he had never had.  We had quinoa when I wanted to show him some non-meat protein options.

Every time I went over we had a great time that usually culminated in a blow job.  Sometimes he took pictures of me.  Because he took pictures the old fashioned way, on film, and wasn’t too hip on scanning photos, I was confident that photos of me would not find their way onto the internet.  Also, I trusted him.

There were several other guys in my stable.  Guys I had fun fucking and hanging out with.  Guys I’ll miss.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I had used OkCupid to build up a nice group of regulars whom I was fucking.  OkCupid and Twitter.  I’m all about social fuckworking.  I had gone through a period of meeting a lot of new guys via these venues.  It wasn’t always directly; I met Ramon via Twitter who introduced me to a number of guys, including Charles.

Charles is Charles Gatewood.  I know he’s fine with me “outing” him as one of the guys I fuck.  I’d never heard of Charles until Ramona told me about him at the Zine Fest back in 2009.  She and I had met initially via Twitter, and I’d fucked one of her, uh, suggestions, before we met in person at Dolores Park for a picnic.  I do like picnics.

When we met she told me she had children, which I tried heartily to not hold against her.  She said she had a 17-year-old daughter and a 6-year-old son.  She said her daughter didn’t live with her but her son did.  I figured neither child was all that present in her life.  I figured that based solely on our first meeting, which happened to be when her son was visiting her mother.

Because of my silly assumption, it was kind of a surprise when we met to go to the Zine Fest and she had her son with her.  We met at the Van Ness Muni station.  There was Ramona with a small man.  He was cute; he had a blue faux hawk on what was otherwise blond hair, twinkly bright blue eyes, and a very outgoing personality.

We took Muni to the San Francisco County Fair Building.  I’d never been to anything in the building before, and every other county fair building to which I’d been was huge.  San Francisco’s county fair building, at the edge of Golden Gate Park, is a modest affair; from the front door of the building we could see every exhibitor.

Ramona told her son that he had $5 to spend, which, sadly, was significantly more than I had.  I wasn’t really sure what a zine fest was, but I figured it’d be just a bunch of people selling their angsty, anarchist, homemade magazines.  I was wrong.  There was a variety of exhibitors, from yo-yo demonstrations, to hand-drawn sexy comic books, to notebooks, to collages with found papers, to photography books.  It was so cool; I was sorry I didn’t have any money to spend.

The yo-yo demonstrator I’d blown in the past.  I wasn’t sure he remembered me, and it certainly would have been awkward to say hi if he didn’t, so I avoided him.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but the Vegan was also there, though I didn’t realize until later.  There was a strong vegan contingent; I think there might have been a vegan food demonstration some time over the course of the two day fest.

Ramona, her son, and I walked around, looking at the various exhibitors.  When we got to the Flash Publications table, Ramona went nuts.  She said that Charles Gatewood was the reason she was at the Zine Fest.  She said she had wanted to meet him for a long time.  She began talking to an older man behind the table.  I had no idea who he was.

As Ramona was talking, and clearly wanting to get into a deeper conversation about photography, her son was getting impatient.  I offered to take him outside for a bit.

I am not a kid person.  I do not foresee having children, ever.  I did in the past, but no longer.  I’ve not been around children for the most part.  I didn’t live with my younger step-brother until he was seven, and since I was a kid at the time, it was a whole lot of teasing him and scaring him.  A few years ago he told me he was still angry at me for the scaring part.

So when Ramona’s son and I went outside I wasn’t sure what to do.  We used sticks to “fight” each other.  For a bit I thought it was cute that he kept changing the rules that governed the battles.  Then I got tired and bored.  He was not tired, and if I had kept playing, he would not have been bored.  Finally, he walked back into the building and screamed for his mother.

While not a parent, I know that a screaming child in a public place is extremely inappropriate.  I grabbed him and brought him back outside.  We then had a battle of wills.  I held his wrists so he didn’t run back in the building; he screamed that I was hurting him.  I made it clear that as soon as he calmed the fuck down and behaved in a civilized manner that we’d go back in to see his mother.  The calming down took a while.

Eventually Ramona came outside with the older man to whom she’d been talking, the one she called Charles Gatewood.  He had his camera.  He said he was doing a story for Skin & Ink Magazine about the local tattoo scene.  Ramona has a lot of tattoos.  Charles thought a good photo for the piece would be to show that heavily tattooed people in the Bay Area are parents, too.

He took a few photos of Ramona’s son with her tattooed arms on his shoulders.  I asked about adjusting the lighting later on the computer, and he said he still took pictures on film.  Even my father, a semi-professional photographer, crossed over to digital a few years ago.

He seemed like a nice guy, but it wasn’t until later that he and I would connect.

To be continued …

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I consider blow jobs sex.  (Insert cliched Bill Clinton reference here.)  I consider pussy licking sex.  I consider mutual masturbation sex.

There are two guys n recent memory whom I’ve not fucked, but whom I’ve had sex.  One I’ve been with twice.  The first time I tossed a couple of condoms his way, because I always have condoms.  I jokingly said, “I guess that’s presumptive of me,” to which he didn’t respond other than to not use any condoms because his penis entered neither my pussy nor my ass.  Which is not to say we didn’t have a great time, because we absolutely did.

And that’s why we had a second time.  The second time was a lot of fun, but in a different way.  We didn’t have to do the bother of getting to know each other since we’d already fucked.  When we got back to my place after lunch we went to my room and he fucked me with my njoy Eleven.  That thing kicks ass.

I get a bit – just a bit – of the idea that he’s fascinated by my pussy that will take a lot.  Even if he isn’t, he’s fun, and goes along with the dirty things I do.

I first had sex outside when I was 16.  I was seeing a girl, Erica, about whom I’ve written in my “A Diary Entry” posts.  We fucked in a small cemetery in a field outside our work, a Round Table Pizza in Cameron Park, California.  For whatever reason, the cemetery had been fenced off, and “preserved.”  There were maybe four graves in the “cemetery.”  I can’t imagine that with all the development that must’ve occurred in that area that that cemetery hasn’t been forgotten except by the few of us who fucked there.

When I was around 20 years old, I fucked on the roof of a building and was subsequently caught by one of the building’s security guards.  The building was the Pasadena Civic Auditorium.  The Emmy Awards were held there for a while, including the year I fucked on its roof.

When I was in Bangkok for the second time, I fucked on the roof of my apartment building.  It was hot as fuck so we sought shelter in the rooftop laundry room.  It was still hot, but at least there was a breeze and a view.

I’ve been propositioned on a roof:  There’s something about the fresh air and expansive view that makes a guy want to pull out his cock.

I’ve “lost” my pants on a beach:  There’s something about the fresh air and sound of crashing waves that makes me want to expose my ass, and run to allow the sea air to tickle my clit and tease my pussy. I’ve fucked on a beach, being careful not to let sand get anywhere it could cause irritation and damage.

Right now I have someone “after” me to get it on on my roof.  He and I have fucked plenty, just not on my roof, yet.  Maybe soon ….

When I was in sixth grade I moved in with my father and his family, my sister, my step-mother, step-sister, and step-brother in Palo Cedro, California.  In our back yard was a creek in which, on at a very few occasions, us kids skinny dipped.

There’s a naughtiness to being naked outside.  Having sex outside is not only naughty, but it’s also clean, and fresh, and free.  It’s pure.  Outdoor sex is not dirty, or nasty, or rough, or wrong; it’s natural and right.

I look forward to camping with the Viking at the end of this month.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

There were a total of eight courses, all delicious.  Over the course of the meal we talked to Liz and Michael a bit.  They had been to a few other such events.  Liz said the previous month’s meal included locally foraged artichokes that were apparently mostly choke.  Liz seemed very displeased with that meal, and said she only booked the current one because artichokes were not on the menu.

Liz was still not in a very good mood when what could be called the main course arrived:  roasted bone marrow with some greens and toast.  She didn’t seem too into the bone marrow.  Neither did most of the people at our end of the table.  I scooped up that marrow, spread it on toast, and gobbled up all it’s yummy richness.  The Viking tried it, but I ended up eating most of his marrow after I got more toast to spread it on.

Michael and I, though, were really digging the marrow.  It’s so gooey and good and wrong.  Michael asked me where I was from that I was so into marrow.  I’m from the place where all things pleasurable are good, and that marrow was quite pleasurable to eat.  He was from some place with a strong bar-be-queue tradition that valued not only the meat, but also the bones.

I realized that Isis would love the bones, even after the marrow was gone.  I asked for a box so I could take some bones home to my dog.  I was given a huge box and then all the bones from the people at our end of the table.  I was shocked to see that many of the bones were still full of their marrow.  The guy sitting next to me was too afraid to eat the marrow.  Meat on the outside of bones was ok, but not the meat inside bones?  Whatever, more for me and Isis.  When we got home Isis got the first of many bones she’ll get as a result of that dinner.

I used the bathroom, the walls of which were covered with record albums.  The vinyl had even been bent to fit snugly in the corners.  When I returned to our table I told the Viking that he had to take a look, that the bathroom was similar to, but not quite on par with the disco bathroom at Triptych.

When the Viking was in the bathroom I sat quietly.  It was between courses so I didn’t have much to do; I didn’t bother bringing my phone.  The group of six was engaged in conversation, as were Liz and Michael.  I couldn’t help but hear Liz and Michael.  They were having a political conversation, of sorts.  Liz seemed to be incredulous that Michael purported to be a Republican.  I heard “Sara Palin.”  I looked for the Viking … he sure was taking a long time in the bathroom.  Finally, as I saw him walking toward his seat I heard Liz say to Michael, “We have nothing in common.”

Some people revel in discomfort and awkwardness.  I do not.  Sometimes I wish I did.  It might have been fun to pretend I was completely clueless about her anger, his fuck up, the fact that they were not having a good time, and ask a barrage of questions that would have worsened the situation.  For them.  I would have been having a great time.  I would have asked how they met.  I would have asked when they’re getting married.  What about kids?  Any number of nosy questions that would have made it even more obvious to her that they needed to break up, and badly.

Instead, I chose to focus on the food and the wine and the Viking.  He and I were having a lovely time.  The food was really delicious.  The wine was doing its job.  There was music playing and candles along the tables.  It was all rather romantic – to the Viking and me, not Liz and Michael.

Especially not Liz, who during the later part of the meal had tears streaming down her face.  I, however, didn’t notice the tears.  I was trying really, really hard to not let the fact that Liz was having a shitty time harsh my mellow.  The Viking noticed the tears and noticed Liz using Michael’s napkin to dab them.  I figure she didn’t use her own napkin to make sure he knew she was crying, and to give him a bit of a guilt trip.

We had our last course, a trio of sorbets, and almost immediately Liz and Michael stood to leave.  Michael put on his jacket.  The Viking noticed a Google logo on the jacket and just couldn’t help but ask Michael if he worked for Google.  He did.  Then the Viking had to know what department.  Then Michael had to know what the Viking did when he worked for Google.  All while Liz just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

And get the fuck out of there she did.  She walked toward the door and Michael gave the Viking one of those, “Eh, what can you do?” looks before following behind.  I promised the Viking that Michael was most definitely not getting laid that night – at least not by Liz.

The the box of marrow-filled bones in hand the Viking and I walked home.  Our night was certainly better than either Liz’s or Michael’s.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I had received information about a dinner that consisted of several courses of mostly foraged local food.  The Viking was interested and booked us a couple of spots.  The deal with the dinner was that we’d find out the location just before the dinner.  I’m pretty sure the “dinner clubs,” of which there are plenty in San Francisco, are illegal.  There are all sorts of regulations regarding serving food in San Francisco, most of which involve a professional kitchen.  So a meal for which money is accepted served in anything but a restaurant kitchen is “illegal.”  Nonetheless, they continue.  Thankfully.

The Viking was informed of the location of the meal, which was conveniently within walking distance from our place.  Our dinner was at Chicken John‘s place on Cesar Chavez, though we didn’t learn that until later.

We arrived on time, 6pm.  The Viking and I are usually on time, sometimes to our detriment.  We have, in the past, had to wait outside a restaurant until it opened.  On the night of the forageSF dinner we arrived on time.  That meant we had our choice of seats at one of the two long communal tables.  We chose two seats at the end of one of the tables.

We brought two bottles of wine and had them opened right away.  We sat and chatted whilst sipping wine as the other guests streamed in.  A woman who sat near us was worried that she’d been stood up by her entire party, five other people.  Another woman had brought not only wine but also her own corkscrew; she seemed to know the deal.

Everything about the event had to do with found items.  The tables were decorated with dried foliage placed in repurposed glass bottles.  Water was provided in glass milk bottles.  Each setting had two mason jars for drinking glasses.  When the food came out, each of the dishes was slightly different, both the vessels on which the food was served as well as the plating.  Both the Viking and I liked that everything wasn’t perfect; it was homier than a formal restaurant.

Eventually all five of the one lady’s friends showed up.  The man in her party who sat next to me immediately introduced himself to me and then the Viking.  The date of the woman with the corkscrew finally showed up, but not until after she stomped out of the building in a huff, presumably to meet him on Cesar Chavez.  The two of them settled into the seats across the table from us.  They introduced themselves to us as Liz and Michael.

I noticed a few things about Liz and Michael right away.  Liz was not happy.  It made sense to me that she was bored and irritated before he showed up, but even after he arrived, she was not happy to see him.  She did not smile – at all.  My guess is that the late thing was a common occurrence in their relationship and she was tired of it.

Michael appeared to be younger and cuter than Liz.  Not quite out of her league, but younger and cuter nonetheless.  He also seemed more at ease than Liz, which was probably due to his laissez-faire attitude about not only being prompt, but other areas of his life.

The chef stood on the stage and told us about the first two courses, an amuse bouche of bay butter on toast, and wild nettle soup.  Both were tasty.  Then there was polenta with heirloom tomatoes, basil, porchini mushrooms, and creme fraiche.  Yum.  Michael made a negative comment about the texture of the polenta, which was perfect and creamy so he was just wrong.

Every couple of courses the chef would get on the stage to talk about what was coming up.  He was so passionate about food, and foraging for it.  He was also pretty cute, with a well-trimmed full beard, and what appeared to be a slim, fit body.  I announced to the Viking that for sure that guy gets laid.  A hot looking guy who is excited about his work?  Yes, please.  That is sexy.

[Continued.]

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I taught English most mornings and worked in the law office most afternoons.  “Teaching” English to about 15 18-year-olds who could easily communicate in a remedial, passable way with me and any other understanding English speaker was hardly a feat of mental acrobatics, and since my French boss was not in the law office, I had very little to do.

That, of course, left me with plenty of free time since I had to do absolutely no prep for either my teaching job or my law office job.  Another thing having two very easy jobs meant was two incomes.  The teaching job paid very generously, and though I was working less at the law office, my salary there was not reduced when I cut back my hours.  Add to that that I didn’t have to worry about paying rent (since that was included with the law office job), and food in Bangkok is extremely cheap, and I had a lot of disposable income.

Lots of time and lots of money.  Hmmm.  The previous year I had become acquainted with various areas of town with cool nightclubs.  This time, though, I tended to stick to the Patpong area of town because it was close to both the law office in the pyramid-shaped building and Eat Me, and a relatively inexpensive, traffic-free cab ride to and from my apartment.  It is certainly not my intent to imply that Patpong isn’t about sex, because it is, but it’s not all about sex.  There are nuances and layers to every place, and Patpong is no exception.

In the mornings I’d take a cab to the university and teach my class.  My students were all around 18 and adorable.  They had to wear school uniforms, which consisted of black pants for boys, black skirts for girls, and white button-down shirts.  Bangkok University wasn’t the most prestigious institution of higher learning in Bangkok.  Actually, according to Daniel (because I didn’t bother doing any research myself), the students who went there were spoiled little rich kids who didn’t do well enough to get into better schools.  To be truthful, anyone who attends university in Thailand is necessarily rich since there are no government-subsidized student loans.

My main job in teaching English was to get my students more comfortable speaking English.  Every day we’d practice typical conversations; I did the same thing in French classes when I was in high school.  Thais tend to be quiet people, and when speaking English, a language in which my students were not proficient, my students were practically inaudible.  Add to that my usual rapid cadence and there wasn’t a whole lot of communicating going on.

There was one student who stood out.  He was very cute.  As has been established, I like Thai boys.  However, he did not stand out just because of his looks.  He also spoke English rather well.  Better than any of the other students.  I asked him why.  He had spent a year in the US when he was in high school.  It was a foreign exchange program where he was placed with a family in Utah.  I tried not to apologize too profusely for his lack of a well-rounded experience in the US considering his host situation, but we were at least able to carry on a real conversation, which was more than I could do with any of the other students.

To that end, I endeavored to speak a lot slower, and to enunciate clearly.  And I tried to make them speak up.  Overall, they were a good group of kids.  They were very solicitous and nice to me.  Often, on the way off campus to go to my law office job, I’d run across some of my students having lunch.  They always invited me to sit with them.  I always declined.  I thought it best that we keep a professional distance with my students.

Not so with Daniel’s students.  I figured I could hang out with students so long as they weren’t my own.  That may have been an arbitrary line, but it was my line, dammit.  Remember, I had already fucked my friend’s boyfriend, so I knew I didn’t have all that much self-control; I thought it best to limit myself somewhat.  I hung out with – and went out with – one of Daniel’s student’s, Bee.

To be continued ….

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

The first category of street art is really just vulgar graffiti.  I’m sure it might have some sort of gang affiliation, but I want a fuck badge.  I would like to think that all around San Francisco there are various places that, if one fucks there, one receives a prize of some sort, a fuck badge, if you will.  This location, a bus stop on Potrero is where one would earn fuck badge #21.  Or not.

I suppose the word “flesh” isn’t necessarily dirty, but it certainly makes me think naughty thoughts.  Or there’s some gangster with the street name of FLESH.  I don’t know how that shit works.

What I’d really, really like is that if someone’s street name was Clit.  Clit would be particularly tough, beating up all the dicks.  I’ve been eying this nice bit o’ graffiti for some years, but until recently I didn’t have a decent camera on my phone.

The next type of street art is modified stickers.  I’m not the creative type at all, but I can pick out what looks cool.  I wonder if this octopus was created with that psychic octopus in mind.  Or maybe just some drugs on the mind.  Whatever the reason he was created and placed on this newspaper vending box, seeing it made me happy.

This swing danc- ing couple also made me happy.  Less the swing danc- ing and more the fact that they’re disguised so we can’t identify them.  I wonder what motivates both the image and for it to be put up, in this case on the plywood of a boarded up building.

I don’t even know what the heck this creature is, but I like the repurposing of the US Postal Service mailing label.

Finally, I love the paint- ed stencils on side- walks street art.  This Tetris one is just damn clever and cute, and the guy with the jackhammer is fun.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.