Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 2)."]

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.

8:42 PM

Henry finally called me. We hadn’t talked since Wednesday night.  I’m going to an L.A. party with Laura and Vidal.  My sweet little baby is so cute.  I’ve already had two shots of tequila and I’ll probably have more.  We have tickets to Lollapalooza (I don’t think anyone knows how to spell it.) Beth, me, Francie, Roxanne and two other people I don’t know.  There went number three.  I’m gonna be sloshed.  My baby was on my shoulder.  She’s very cute.  I don’t want to go to work tomorrow and Monday and Tuesday.  I was mad at Henry for not calling me but as soon as I heard his voice I couldn’t be angry.  That’s not good.  I think he was going to ask if he and Dave could come over here or something but he didn’t ask soon enough ’cause I had already said yes to Laura.  I’m not going to say no to anyone because Henry might call or Henry might ask me somewhere ’cause he won’t.  If he wants my time, he’ll have to ask me ahead of time like he did for Duchess de Sade.  He’ll learn not to take advantage of the fact that I have no social life.  My baby plays with everything now.  She really likes my feet – to attack them because I’m walking.  Henry couldn’t remember when he had seen me drunk – he thought it was at his house.  So he couldn’t remember but in the background Dave said at Duchess de Sade and I told Henry that Dave was right.  But how would Dave know?  He wasn’t there.  But obviously Henry does talk about me.  Yippee.  I’d like to talk to Dave to find out what Henry says about me.  Or get Laura to when we go camping – if we’re still going.

[Continued from "Liz and Michael (Part 1)."]

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.

We went to forageSF‘s dinner.  The Viking and I both love to eat and we love new, interesting food things.  We both subscribe to Tasting Table, which is a daily email newsletter with a food focus.  I think I had heard about forageSF through Tasting Table.  Either way, I had also subscribed to forageSF’s newsletter and had been getting regular updates on their monthly dinners, their Wild Food Walks, and other information about utilizing foraged food from all over the Bay Area.

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.]

[Continued from "Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 4)."]

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 ….

Look at these sexy shoes.  Look at these sexy hose.  I would love to have a wardrobe of each.  Oh, and the skirts are nice, too. I love the fashion nerve to wear things that don’t “match” but that clearly look great together.  I also wish I could wear sexy shoes on a regular basis.

Tonight I wore a skirt and heels out to dinner with the Viking and his friend.  It was the friend’s birthday so the Viking wanted to treat him.  I suggested Range, where I had been on several occasions, mostly because every time I had been I had a great time.

The Viking and I got dressed up all pretty and then walked to the restaurant, which was just a few blocks from our place.  The Viking’s idea of dressing up all pretty included nice shoes, a sharp button-down shirt, and a jacket.  The jacket is a new addition to the Viking’s wardrobe, and he’s had few opportunities to wear it.

Tonight, he wore it with the idea that if I caught a chill he’d be able to offer me his jacket if I got cold.  San Francisco is a very cool city in the summer.  I know that sounds odd to those of you who’ve not been to San Francisco in the “summer.”  It is summer, based on the Northern Hemisphere’s position in relation to the sun, but San Francisco is not hot from Summer Solstice – June 21 – to August.  Instead, it is foggy and windy.  San Francisco is warmest in September and October.  I promise.  I’ve lived here for ten years, I know this shit.

Tonight I wore a black shirt, a black skirt, a black cardigan, a black jacket, and a pair of black kitten-heel slingbacks.  It was cool when we left the house, but I was quite warm by the time we arrived at our destination.  Also by the time we arrived to our destination my feet hurt.  Once we were sat at our table I gave my feet a break beneath the table.

After dinner, which was DELICIOUS, the Viking and I walked home.  Due to my severe foot pain I suggested we stop at a local dive bar for a drink.  Also, I had to go to the bathroom.  After one drink we made our way home.

My day began with breakfast in bed, then was extremely shitty in the middle, and then improved over dinner, and further improved.  The Viking makes my days so pleasant.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Bed for Four (Part 1)."]

The Brit and I chatted for a bit.  She asked if, perhaps, she could get another guy to join us, if I could host.  She had been in my place, she knew very well that I had it to myself that night.  I said I could host but I didn’t want to guarantee sex with just anyone.  She assured me the guy she had in mind was cute, that he had a big cock, and that he was a good fuck.

Mrs. Vet and her date took off.  They had been making out like teenagers and needed to continue their fun in a less public place.  That left the Vet, the Brit, and me to our own devices.

We went across the street to get some pizza.  While waiting for the food, we saw the acquaintance who had spoken at the Make-Out Room.  The Vet and I talked to her while the Brit met the new guy out front.  I had told the Vet some inside information about the acquaintance before we left my place.  I had not made it clear that the information was inside information, but I still didn’t think the Vet would tell the subject of said information that he knew the information.  Out of my earshot, though, that is exactly what the Vet did.

I was embarrassed that I looked like a gossip, especially considering the information I had was, according to the acquaintance, not accurate.  It was interesting to know that there were most definitely two sides to the story, and chances are the “truth” was somewhere in between.

We got our pizza and our foursome gathered on the sidewalk.  The Brit was right, the guy was cute.  The four of us stopped at a liquor store for provisions – vodka and soda for me, and gin and tonic for the Brit and the Irish.  The guy the Brit had join us was Irish.  Two people with sexy accents for sexy times?  Yes, please.

After some pizza and drinks the four of us made our way to my bedroom.  Then, because we all knew why we were there, we were naked and our bodies were writhing about each other.

It was a good combination of people for a foursome.  The Brit and I are both of curvy figure. Both the Vet and the Irish both had nice thick cocks.  It’s always good when there aren’t huge discrepancies amongst the naked bodies.  I had a foursome that I would not qualify as a success, partially because the guys’ cocks were of vastly different size.  I spent a lot of time in that threesome avoiding the guy with the tiny cock because I didn’t want it in me.

Not so with the Vet and the Irish.  They both had lovely cocks that I wanted in my pussy and in my mouth.  With the aid of the boxes of condoms I keep on either side of the bed, there was penis-in-vagina fucking.  There was cock sucking.  There was pussy licking.  There was watching.  The Vet likes to watch. 

When I’m in a fuck mood I can be pretty rough and like it pretty rough.  Both the Vet and the Irish throttled me whilst fucking me.  I like the feeling of getting my pussy pounded while feeling a bit lightheaded.  The Vet is often surprised he can be as rough with me as he can, but I can take a lot.

And because I can take a lot I sometimes forget that not everyone can – or wants to.  I’m a biter.  I like to bite as hard as I like to be bitten.  When I’m in the bitey mood it really is rather difficult to get me not to bite.  I left both the Brit and the Vet with bite-induced bruises.  The Brit has since told the Vet that she’d like to have another group situation so long as I promise not to bite.

Along with biting I also swallow.  I was lucky enough to get to swallow two loads of come – one from each of the gentlemen – that night.

Generally, my mouth was pretty busy.  I licked the Brit’s pussy.  I don’t get to lick enough pussy in my life.  I need to do something about that.

My mouth also found its way to the Vet’s ass when he was fucking the Brit.  That’s one of my specialties in group situations:  licking man ass while his cock is otherwise engaged.

The Brit and the Irish left, leaving the Vet and I to fuck once more before falling asleep.  The Vet left in the morning, but not until after taking Isis out.  He’s quite the gentleman.

I swear.  True story.